Not mine; well duh. No harm, no foul.

This is what happens when you go see Minority Report with your husband, and then try to explain Phil Dick to him. The ladies at SenBetas deserve massive thanks for putting up with me through all the incarnations of this story, as does Christi. Kit, thanks aren't enough for your words of wisdom and I thank you. Any mistakes left are solely my own. The title is an hommage to Michael Bishop's wonderful "Philip K. Dick is Dead, Alas" which I highly recommend.

I truly hate warnings, I never read them, and it was only on 'advice of counsel' that I added the 'partner betrayal' up there, I don't believe there is. However, in this fandom, it appears I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't, so. WARNING: This fic contains many words. Some of them may be arranged in ways you do not like. If so, I apologize, and remind you that life sucks sometimes.

Phillip K. Dick is Alive and Well, Alas by MrsHamill

Three months, four days, some odd hours, and counting.

Blair Sandburg lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling of his tiny cubbyhole of a room. Used to be, he looked forward to days when he and Jim Ellison scored the same day off. Used to be, they'd plan on doing stuff together, like shopping, or going to the Y for a pickup game of shirts and skins. Used to be, Jim would get up first and Blair would wake up to the smell of coffee and Jim yelling at him from the kitchen. Jim would make them some heart-attack-on-a-plate breakfast, call him 'Chief' and toss out random, goofy insults about his ancestry. Used to be that Blair would wake up grinning, giving back as good as he got as he scarfed down the evil, fatty breakfast Jim would make for them.

Three months, four days and some odd hours after everything changed, Blair heard Jim's feet on the stairs as he came down to start his day. Since Blair didn't sleep very well any more, he was generally awake before Jim, but always stayed in his room until Jim woke. He told himself firmly this was just to keep from bothering Jim, and that there was no other reason -- like fear, maybe. Blair lay frozen in place, barely breathing, as he listened to Jim move around the loft in his morning routine, pouring himself cold cereal and milk before retrieving the paper from outside the front door. There was the sound of a chair being pulled away from the table, then a small sigh as Jim sat.

Silence. Blair closed his eyes, aware of stinging behind his lids as he fought with his emotions. Used to be, Jim would be monitoring him with his enhanced senses and would know when he felt bad, know when his heart rate spiked and his breathing hitched with the effort not to sob out loud. Used to be that Jim cared about stuff like that. Used to be, Blair would revel in how much he loved Jim and it used to be that he would hope Jim might some day love him back. But now, Blair wasn't sure if Jim had everything turned down or if he just didn't care to know. And Blair couldn't decide if he wanted to know which way it went.

Bleak. Blair's life had become completely, utterly bleak. It'd turned into some kind of a harebrained crossword puzzle -- what's a five letter word meaning your foreseeable future? Or maybe a demented game show.

The answer is: Bleak. "What does the rest of my life look like, Alex?"

Nah. Couldn't be a game show. With those, you got cash and prizes, and even when you lost, you still got a lovely parting gift. Blair had lost -- had lost it all, had given it all up, three months, four days, and some odd hours ago for the man sitting at the table in the kitchen -- and was getting nothing. Bupkis.

After a prolonged internal struggle, Blair crawled out of bed as quietly as he could and quickly moved into the bathroom. As he straightened from splashing water on his face, he wondered who the hell it was that looked back at him from the mirror -- it surely wasn't Naomi Sandburg's happy-go-lucky kid. This guy had short hair, going to gray a bit at the temples, and lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn't been there that long ago.

Jim was engrossed in the paper and didn't acknowledge his entrance to the room. Blair bit back another spike of disappointment and started coffee brewing, then pulled a carton of boysenberry yogurt out of the fridge. Rather than sitting at the table, he ate from it standing by the stove, out of Jim's sight, carefully studying the man he used to know so well. Nothing outward seemed to have changed with him, so when had their affectionate camaraderie become this cautious, silent, tip-toeing dance around one another?

Blair had thought, when Jim put him into a headlock and laughingly threatened to shave his head -- Jim Ellison's version of an apology -- that they were okay. That everything had settled, that life would return to normal. It had pretty much done that, too... until he'd had to start at the Academy. He'd been so busy trying to sort out his head over that trip he hadn't noticed that Jim was falling ever more silent. By the time he came back to the bullpen as a detective, the permafrost had settled in. The affection that used to be between them began to dry up until it was like a rain puddle in the Sahara -- it was almost as if Jim had grown to dislike him. As if a wall had grown between them.

As if Jim had grown to resent Blair.

When the coffee stopped dripping, he poured himself a cup -- then, on impulse, poured Jim one as well, fixing it the way he liked it. He took both to the table and sat tentatively across from Jim.

"Brought you a cup of coffee," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Jim grunted but didn't reach for it. Suddenly tired -- amazingly, devastatingly tired -- Blair sighed and said, "Can I have the want ads?" If he was going to live alone with a roommate, he might as well just live alone and save himself the heartache.

He looked up to find Jim's cold gaze on him. "Why?" Jim demanded, frowning.

Blair felt a spike of confused wariness go through him; what difference did it make to Jim? Except, of course, that it was Jim's paper. "Because the apartment ads are there," he said, trying not to snap with irritation. "Don't worry, I won't mark it up."

Jim didn't move, didn't take his eyes off Blair, and for one breathless, heart-stopping moment Blair thought Jim would say something. He caught just a fleeting glimpse of the old, warm Jim Ellison behind the Old Stone Face mask that he wore all the time now; the man who would have said, this is your home, Chief. Or, why would you want to move? Or, don't go.

Instead, Jim shoved the second part of the paper towards him, without speaking at all, and went back to reading.

Blair actually made it all the way to the want ads, going so far as to folding the section back at the proper spot before he broke. "What did I do?" he asked in a low voice, surprising himself. Jim folded his paper down again to look at him, his expression unchanged. "What did I do?" Blair repeated. Take the bull by the horns, oh, yeah.

"What are you talking about, Sandburg?" Jim said. His eyes narrowed fractionally and his voice had just a hint of the dangerous tone it often carried these days, but Blair didn't care any more.

"Why? Why are we like this? Why don't you care any more? What did I do?" Blair dropped back against the back of his chair and ran his hand through his curls. "You don't even give a fuck that I'm moving? What did I do, Jim?"

Jim's eyes glittered like hard, wet aggies as he stared across the table at Blair. "Don't be an idiot," he finally growled, turning back to his paper.

"Tell me, goddammit! I deserve to know!" Blair reached out and shoved the paper down so he could see Jim's face.

His eyes narrowing further, Jim glared at Blair. "This is a conversation I don't want to have right now, Sandburg," he said, his voice soft and dangerous and his jaw working.

"A conversation?" The volume in Blair's voice went up a notch. "We're having a conversation? Alert the media! We don't have any conversations any more, Ellison! We don't talk, we don't fight, we don't argue over who's turn it is to cook or who had the remote last--"

Jim stood. "I don't need this shit."

"Just tell me what the FUCK I DID!" Blair bellowed, and Jim paused, his back to Blair and the table. "Please, man, you owe me that much. Please." Blair hated how weak his voice sounded by that last word, but his sudden adrenaline spike had just about worn off.

After a moment, Jim half-turned. "I don't owe you shit, Sandburg," he said, his voice level and cold. "All debts have been paid up, in full. If you want to move, then move. If you want to stay, then stay. I don't care."

"The Sentinel thing--" Blair began, confusion in his voice and mind.

"The Sentinel thing is over, Sandburg," Jim interrupted him harshly. He stepped back and planted his fists on the table, leaning in and glaring at Blair, who quailed back in the chair -- to his disgust. "And you know why that is. I can't be that any more, not if I want to keep my job and my freedom. Everything is turned down, and I intend to keep it that way. Simon and I bailed you out of the mess you and Naomi made; we're even. All right? We're even. Now you do whatever you have to do."

Blair felt his jaw sag and his heart break. "What about our friendship? That's what I wanted -- what I really thought all this was about," he said softly. "Screw the Sentinel thing -- what about us?"

Jim swallowed, but his eyes maintained their frostiness. "I thought it was about friendship too," he said, finally. "Until -- until it was shoved in my face, until a mike was shoved into my face." He focused on something over Blair's shoulder and swallowed again. "You're asking me for something I can't give you, Sandburg. I can't do that, won't go there, all right? So quit asking me already." Stiffly, he straightened and turned, stalking back up the steps to his room.

Blair sagged, letting his head drop to the table with a soft thud while shrieking inside. It wasn't just friendship that Jim was talking about, in a voice colder than Blair had heard since -- since that awful night when Jim read the first chapter of the dissertation. Since Blair came home to find all his things in boxes. Since Jim had told him to go for the brass ring.

No, Jim wasn't ready to take that trip with him, and it looked now like he'd never be.

Numb, Blair pushed himself up and away from the table, grabbed the paper and walked into his room, closing the french doors behind him. He sat heavily on the futon and stared unseeing at the ads in his hand, until he heard Jim's heavy footfalls on the stairs again. Without hesitation, Jim walked to the front door, where Blair heard him grab his keys and leave quietly. Through the windows of his door, Blair caught a glimpse of Jim's gym bag.

Fine. He could do this, he could. So he'd lost four plus years of his life on something that was ruined. He was a cop now, and he was a good one -- he could be a good one. He had a steady paycheck. He could get his own place, make his own way, just like he'd been doing since he was sixteen. Maybe Earl Gaines had an opening in the gang unit, or he could move over to juvenile. Get the hell out of Major Crime and away from the faces that accused him every day. Hell, even the Feds seemed to show interest in him for their profiling program -- turns out even failed academics were in short supply. It was a good thing he'd been seeing that secretary at the Federal building.

He wouldn't be leaving much behind if he did leave. The bullpen was filled with new faces, faces that ignored him or worse. Between the combination of her mother's failing health and budget cuts, Megan Connor finally, reluctantly, returned home to Australia a week after Blair got his badge. Blair had thought the desperate, teary kiss she gave him before she boarded the plane meant she was going to miss him. Joel Taggart, finally admitting his burn-out, took a position at the academy just after that, giving up the frenzy and danger for a safer, boring nine-to-five life. Blair missed the big guy's gentle voice and goofy sense of humor -- and his friendship.

Simon tried to pair him up with Rafe or Brown whenever Ellison wasn't there, since when Blair went out on calls with others, things tended to happen. Things like backup not showing. Things like his position being exposed, which led to him having the highest rate of injury in Major Crime. Even though Simon had become Captain Banks, he still seemed to realize the stink that would rise should Sandburg get killed in the line of duty, but Sandburg wondered if that might not be preferable to what was actually happening.

But Blair Sandburg was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch. He'd hang on by his teeth and his toenails, trying like hell to act normally, to get through this -- positive (desperately hoping) (hoping desperately) that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Well, there was, apparently, but it looked to be an oncoming train.

Fine. Whatever. Train or no train, neither Gloria Gaynor nor Scarlet O'Hara had anything on Blair Sandburg -- tomorrow was another fucking day, and he would survive. He would goddamn thrive. He would. Somehow.

It was almost shockingly easy to find a good place, once he actually looked. Now that he was respectable -- a cop, earning good, steady money -- places he never thought about opened their arms to him. By mid-afternoon, he'd chosen a place and was in the process of signing a lease -- the landlord assured him he could move in by the middle of next month. It wasn't as big as the loft, didn't have as nice a view, but it was in a nice neighborhood and had two bedrooms. Okay, it had a bedroom and an overly large closet. It was still big enough for the futon and his planned purchase of a Sealy Posture-Pedic queen size bed, which was his next stop.

He'd have to talk to Simon and get his moving day off. Scratch that -- he'd have to talk to his captain and get the day off. Simon-the-friend had gradually died off about the same time Jim-the-best-buddy had. Maybe he could talk Brown into helping him; he knew Brown had a new SUV that would probably be big enough to move the futon and his dresser and Brown, at least, was still talking to him. Blair would be damned six ways to Sunday if he'd ask Ellison for help. He wasn't even planning on telling the man when he was moving.

His cell phone rang as he was wading through the paperwork, signing his life and the rights to his first born away. "Sandburg," he answered it, distracted.

"Sandburg, where the hell are you two?" Simon demanded.

Blair blinked. "Huh? I mean, I'm signing a lease. What? What's wrong? Today's my day off, isn't it?"

Simon spluttered. "You mean you're not with Ellison? I called him twenty minutes ago to get the two of you here, and he's not here yet."

"Here where, Captain?" Blair stood from the desk and absently checked for his gun, which he had, thank God, brought with him. "I'm not with Ellison. Where do you want me and when?"

"Here's Rainier," Simon growled. "And I need you yesterday. We've got a hostage situation here and -- shit. There's Ellison. I'm going to tear him a new one. What's your ETA, Sandburg?"

"I'll be there in ten," Blair replied, snapping his phone closed. He looked to the landlord, who was watching him, fascinated. "I'm sorry, can I return to finish this? I've got an emergency call."

"Sure! Sure, Detective, ah, Sandburg," the woman replied. "I'll just keep this, we're open tomorrow until one, just come on by. I'll hold it for you..." she called as Blair took off, waving at her in thanks.

Blair leapt into his used Toyota Corolla -- the car that had replaced his classic Volvo; the safe, reliable, economical, boring and utterly bland vehicle that he hated with every fiber of his being -- and tore out of the parking lot, slapping his bubble light on the dash as he did. He was actually at Rainier in just over five minutes, and had no trouble finding the problem.

Squad cars and SWAT vans had congregated around Wilder Hall, across the quad from Hargrove. It was one of the oldest buildings on campus, about the same age as Hargrove, actually. Blair jogged up to Simon's station, carrying the Kevlar he now kept in his trunk, and saw Jim turn and rake him over with a cold stare. "You made good time, Sandburg," Simon said grudgingly. "Sorry to pull you in on your day off, but you know the campus. We've got a hostage situation, two or three gunmen and an unknown amount of civilians. They've been firing randomly..."

As if to prove Simon's point, shots suddenly ripped out in the quiet air, and every cop around the makeshift barricade ducked. "Goddammit," Simon swore, crouched against his LeSabre and banging his head gently against the door. He frowned thunderously at Jim. "I need to hear what's going on in there!"

Jim peered over the hood of the car. "Yeah, it would be helpful," he said, and Blair gaped at him. Not even for this? Not even to maybe save a life? It just didn't...

Another few shots fired and a shriek half-heard from inside the building galvanized Blair. "Listen," he said, frantically remembering his undergrad days, "we can get in there. Without them knowing. There's tunnels, steam-tunnels and drainage tunnels, connecting Hargrove and Wilder -- they're all over the U. We need to get down there and get a team up into Wilder. Get behind them."

Nodding, as much at Blair's words as in welcome to Rafe and Brown who skittered in at that moment, Simon said, "Perfect, that's what I needed. Get a team, get some of the SWAT guys, hey, Delgado, Sandburg's got a plan, we need..." he moved away, talking rapidly to the SWAT commander.

Blair looked at Brown and Rafe. "You guys game? Got your Kevlar?"

"Yeah, Hairboy, lead on," Brown said, taking his vest from Rafe.

Ice blue eyes staring at him stopped Blair from turning away, from heading toward Hargrove. Jim made an abortive move towards him but stopped, looking almost like he wanted to say something. Blair wondered what he was waiting for -- because if it was an invitation to come with him it wasn't going to happen. Not on Blair's watch it wasn't -- if Jim was willing to put his pride or whatever fucking thing was eating him before saving lives, then as far as Blair was concerned, he wasn't Jim any more. Without a word to his so-called partner, Blair turned and gathered his team, heading for Hargrove and the half-remembered steam tunnels.

There were two gunmen, and they were young and stupid. They had five members of the Rainier cheerleading squad with them -- girls who wouldn't date them, apparently -- four bottles of Jack Daniels, about seven hundred rounds of semi-automatic ammunition and an arsenal which consisted of two surplus AK-47s, four pump-action shotguns, a hunting rifle and a handgun. Oh, and three paint-ball guns. Had the cops waited another half an hour, they would have passed out from the booze. Stupid bastards.

Blair and his team -- six in all, including one of the janitors from Rainier who had a master key -- came up behind the men while they were being distracted by Simon and the cops out front and took them out without a shot. The girls from the squad were released to various boyfriends and girlfriends, and Simon was congratulated for his quick thinking in getting a team to utilize the mostly forgotten steam tunnels. Blair sighed and stripped off the Kevlar, locking it away in his trunk again. He had some nasty oily gunk smeared on his pants and boots, and he wasn't sure if it would come off in the wash.

"Good work, Blair," Rafe said quietly, ignoring Simon. How Rafe managed to slog through tunnels filled with ancient, unused machinery, rancid storm water, and spider webs and still come out looking fabulous, no one could know.

"Thanks, man," Blair replied, flashing him a weak smile. "Hey, Brown!"

Brown looked more like Blair did. "Yeah?" Even his Kevlar was smeared with some weird shit.

"Man, I need your SUV," Blair told him. "Can you help me on the fifteenth of next month? I'll clear it with the Captain."

"Sure, Hairboy, what for?" Brown removed his vest and eyed it with distaste.

"I'm moving," Blair said, sounding as carefully nonchalant as he could. "Need help with a couple of the bigger things. You game? I'll buy you dinner after." He slammed the lid of his trunk on the vest and looked down at his shoes, wondering what might clean them.

The dead silence finally made Blair look up, to see Rafe and Brown staring at him. "What?" Brown looked almost sick; Rafe just looked sad and confused.

"Sure... Blair..." Brown finally said, and Rafe added, "Count me in, I'll help."

Blair smiled at them and looked away quickly. "Thanks, guys. Thanks a lot. Better get back to start the paperwork, I guess."

They chuckled half-heartedly and moved away, already bickering about the mess on Brown's shoes. Blair turned away from the partners to see Ellison still staring at him across the parking lot. "What?" he said, only loud enough to be heard by his stupid car. "What do you want from me, man?"

He swore he could almost hear Ellison's back teeth grind before he turned away, moving toward his battered truck and away from Blair.

The fifteenth was a Thursday and Simon gave him the day without asking why, doing his by-now normal, stoic brush-off. Rafe and Brown showed up in the early afternoon, and all of Blair's stuff fit into his car, Rafe's convertible and Brown's SUV, which was pitiful, actually. But the bed had been delivered to the new place that morning, and Blair bought a second-hand couch from a neighbor moving out the day he moved in. And what the hell did he need a TV for, anyway?

He thought the hardest part of leaving would be packing, trying to sort out what was his stuff from what was Jim's. And it was, but not in the way he'd figured. Because his stuff was pretty much already sorted, still separated from that awful time when Jim had packed it up. Blair thought they had re-integrated it back, but apparently not, not completely, anyway. Apparently, one or both of them were anticipating what was coming, because packing was absurdly easy. He did it over the course of the three weeks before he moved, and Jim didn't even say a word as his apartment was slowly turned back into the sterile space it had been when Blair moved in.

By dinner time, he was done, and pizza was on the way. They'd have to eat on the floor until Blair found a table, but he'd done worse. He still had his pots and pans, his chipped dinnerware (all three place settings!), his books, and his CDs. Of course, he had nothing to play his CDs on, but he would. Soon.

He had what he needed. And if it wasn't what he wanted, well, tough. Life sucked sometimes.

Once Brown and Rafe left, Blair set up his laptop and dialed into his ISP. Since he hadn't purchased a phone set yet -- but still had his cell -- he didn't have to worry about tying up the phone lines or anything else. In fact, he was seriously thinking about not getting a set at all, as long as he had a dial-up ISP. He could use his cell for everything else, if he wanted.

In the process of downloading his email, his cell rang, proving his point that it was more handy than a phone line. "Sandburg."

"Sandy?"

"Megan? Megan! My God, Megan!" Blair felt unbelievably pleased -- nearly to the point of tears -- to hear her voice. "What is it? Is everything okay? It must be the middle of the night..."

"It is the middle of the night," Megan laughed. "Nothing's wrong. Mum's doing well -- the checkup went smashingly and the cancer is in remission."

"Oh my God, Megan, that's -- I'm so glad," he said. He and Megan had been corresponding via email off-and-on since she left, and he knew that she had been concerned about this appointment.

"Listen, Sandy, I got your email about -- well, about you moving..."

"Yeah," he said brightly. "'Bout time, don't you think? I mean, it's not like I didn't need my own place for a while now..."

"Sandy." Blair couldn't read her voice well through the static of the long distance call or the cellular traffic, but she sounded sad. "What happened?"

He swallowed. "Nothing happened, Megan. Nothing at all. I -- I just thought it was about time, you know?"

"Did he pitch you out?" Now he could hear the strident anger in her voice. "Tell me, Sandy. Did he?"

"No, no, Megan," he said, sliding across the carpet to lean against the wall. "I just... look. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. You see? It was time."

He heard her sigh, although it could have been static. "Oh, Sandy."

"No worries, mate," he said, hoping his lousy Australian accent would cheer her up and divert her attention. "Got a nice place of my own, and an actual bedroom. I can even flush the toilet after ten, if I want," he added, choking slightly and hoping she didn't hear it.

"Listen to me, Sandy, I can't stay on long, but I need to tell you something," she said, after a brief pause. "While you were in the academy, things... there were some things that happened..."

Blair frowned. What? What happened while he was at the academy? He was only gone just over a week -- the rest of the time he was still in Cascade, still with Jim. Megan was still talking, but the static was increasing.

"Jim was... to Simon. But... we didn't hear any... trouble." Blair fought to understand her.

"Megan, you're breaking up," he said, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "Can you send me an email? What happened?" Why hadn't he heard about this sooner?

"Can't send... watched. Bad, this... to Joel. You need to talk... Please. Promise me?"

"Megan... Megan! What, do you want me to talk to Joel? Why?" There was a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, and Blair felt a headache growing behind his eyes.

"Yes, you need... to Joel. He knows. Blair... be careful. I miss you, mate." That part came through loud and clear, but then the connection was broken. Well, maybe having his cell as his primary phone wasn't such a good idea after all.

What could have happened while he was at the academy? He wasn't even supposed to have been there, he was only supposed to have had 'weapons training' before he got his shiny new badge. But somehow, for some reason that no one would discuss, that had turned into a week of classes, which turned into torture sessions disguised as physical education and 'testing out.' Blair handled the written tests, even the ones where the instructor made them up specifically for him. He also handled the hand-to-hand stuff -- lord knows he'd gotten enough practice at that over the years with Jim. But he realized early on that he really didn't like holding or firing a gun, except maybe at a paper target. His one and only attempt to bring that up with Jim -- when he returned from his camp-out at the academy -- resulted in Jim turning into Old Stone Face, his eyes blank as they focused anywhere but on Blair. No, Jim hadn't wanted to hear about Blair's problems, so Blair fell silent, and, as usual, dealt.

What could have happened? Had something occurred while he was away to cause Jim's withdrawal? Megan said to talk to Joel. Joel was now at the academy, which would require a road trip.

Well, that's what he had his stupid car for.

The police academy which served the entire Puget Sound area had been built between Snohomish and Cascade, less than an hour from either city; it was a sprawling, state-of-the-art building on a pastoral setting that was a local alderman's budgetary dream. Even Seattle and Tacoma sent their rookies to it for specialized training. It sat on seventeen lightly wooded acres and was the home to a driving range, technical buildings, laboratories and dormitories. Blair hated it desperately.

Blair's day off that week was Wednesday. He had told Simon he would be out of town -- and therefore out of range for emergencies -- via email, since that's how he'd been recently communicating with most of his fellow officers. When he had to communicate, that is. Wednesday morning, after his twice-weekly run to the local flea market (Blair was coming to really appreciate Cascade's wonderful flea market system; he had managed to purchase lamps, a kitchen table with chairs, a little stereo set, linens, towels, small kitchen gadgets and other small electronics cheap enough that he didn't go over budget), Blair made the trip to the academy one more time. One last time.

He timed it so that he'd get there just before the lunch period, and found Joel in his small office, going over paperwork. Well, some things never changed.

"Blair? Blair! Oh, man, it's good to see you!" Joel stood and came around his desk with his arms open, and Blair hugged him gratefully.

"Damn, Joel, you're a sight for sore eyes," he said, and Joel chuckled.

"Isn't that my line? What brings you back here?"

"What, I can't just show up to take my most favored ex-cop out to lunch?" Blair asked, grinning.

Joel's answering smile was blinding. "You sure can! And since I don't have class until 2:30, you can even take me someplace nice and spend some of that new money you're making on me."

"Your choice, man, your choice," Blair laughed, and let Joel lead the way out of the building.

They chatted all the way to the quiet restaurant -- well away from the academy -- that Joel chose. Joel wanted to know about everyone in the bullpen, and if Blair was a bit evasive on some of his replies, Joel didn't call him on it. He was thrilled to hear about Megan's mom, and made sure he got her email address.

Seated in a dim corner, they were looking at their menus when Joel said, "So, what really brings you out to see me, Blair?"

Blair gave him a mock-glare. "I'm wounded, Joel. Wounded that you would think I had a nefarious secret purpose in coming out to see you."

Joel's eyes twinkled. "Don't give me that bull, Blair, I know you better than anyone except maybe Ellison." He didn't miss the wince that Blair couldn't quite suppress at that name. "Ah." He cocked his head to one side and gave Blair a sympathetic look. "Is it bad, Blair?"

"Yeah," Blair said, after swallowing. No sense in trying to hide it. "It's pretty bad. I'm... I'm thinking about transferring to another unit. Earl Gaines has said he'd like to have me on his team."

Joel almost visibly deflated. "Oh, man. God, Blair, I'm sorry. I had hoped everything would settle down..."

"Yeah, well, I did too," Blair said thickly. "I mean, it helped when I moved out of the loft and got my own--"

"You moved out of the loft?" Joel looked thunderstruck. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"

Blair smacked himself on the head with one hand. "Oh, duh, I'm sorry. It was a couple weeks ago. I'm still settling in, you know, and I don't have a new number. I just use my cell phone. I'll write it down and make sure you have my address before I leave."

The waiter came and they ordered, then Joel leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table. "What happened? Ellison didn't throw you out, did he?"

Chuckling and shaking his head, Blair said, "You and Megan, man, you'd think I have three mothers. No, he didn't throw me out. Nothing happened." Blair swallowed and looked down, tracing the grain of the wooden table with one finger. "I -- I guess I just figured that if I was going to live alone with a roommate, I might as well live alone without one, you know? More room to spread out. Fewer house rules."

"Shit, Blair," Joel said, and Blair looked up in surprise. Joel rarely swore, he'd have to be pretty ticked off before he'd say something like that. "I can't believe what a lousy screw-up this has been for you. You've gotten the shaft every which way, haven't you."

"Joel," Blair said softly, insistently, "I was as much to blame for what happened as anybody. I should have seen the handwriting on the wall long before the shit hit the fan, you know? I knew I'd never be able to publish." He swallowed. "I just kept at it when I should have said stop."

"Stop it, Blair," Joel said fiercely. "I know what Ellison said to you. Simon told me about the fight he overheard, and I know what happened when you all hared off down to Mexico that time. Ellison has treated you like dirt, all along. You gave him every opportunity and he kicked you every time."

Before Blair could answer, the waiter came with their salads and they had to pause. "That's not true, Joel," Blair finally said when they were alone again. "Yeah, Jim said some lousy things, did some lousy things, but he wasn't alone in fucking up, man! I did my share. Believe me."

"Be that as it may," Joel said, viciously spearing a cherry tomato, "you paid for your mistakes. He hasn't."

"Oh, I don't know," Blair said softly. "At least I've got a job."

"Not the job you wanted. Not the job you deserved."

"Well, you can't always get what you want," Blair said, pasting a smile on his face and waving his fork. "But -- you know what they say -- if you try sometimes, you just might find..."

"You get what you need!" they chorused and chuckled, but the laughter died quickly.

"But you didn't even get what you need, did you, Blair?" Joel asked softly, his kind eyes shrewd as he studied Blair.

Blair couldn't meet those eyes, not and stay calm. They saw far too much, knew much more than even Blair was willing to admit. "Not gonna go there, Joel," he murmured. "Can't do that."

"It's all right, Blair, I understand." They ate their salads in peace for a few moments.

"Actually, we were talking about Megan earlier," Blair said, chasing a piece of cucumber, "when she called the other day, she said something peculiar." He finally speared the piece and ate it, then glanced at Joel. "She said I had to come see you. That something happened while I was at the academy, and I should talk to you about it."

Joel cocked his head to one side. "You mean... Ellison didn't tell you about it?"

Swallowing back his pain, Blair said, "I didn't hear about anything unusual, Joel. What the hell is everyone being so mysterious about?"

"Well, I'm not sure what happened either," Joel said slowly, pushing his empty bowl aside. "But I'm surprised Jim didn't mention it to you. 'Cause it started before you left, while Simon was still out on medical leave."

"While you were still acting captain," Blair said, and Joel nodded.

"Yeah. It was only a couple days after you -- well, after the whole disaster," Joel said. "Jim was on part-time, desk duty, and we had a slew of temp people in Major Crime, filling in. I was talking to Brown about something or other when this older guy came in to the bullpen, looked around, and then went over to Ellison before anyone could stop him."

"Older guy?" Blair asked.

"Yeah. About Jim's height, mustache, thick, gray hair. Maybe in his sixties, I'd guess. Nice clothes. I didn't recognize him, but Brown said he thought it was a relative of Jim's. His father?"

A sick feeling began to grow in the pit of Blair's stomach and he suddenly regretted ordering the fillet of sole. "Go on," he said.

Well, he walked right over to Jim's desk, and when Jim looked up and saw him, man, I've never seen such a look on the guy's face. It was like shock, then confusion, then anger, then... I don't know. He stood up and they talked quietly for a minute, then Jim called to me. Asked me if they could use Simon's office for a little bit. I told him sure."

"And Jim never said who the guy was," Blair asked carefully.

"Not to me, but then, I didn't get a chance to ask. But he did show back up, later, with Jim's brother. I remember him from the track. It was the day that Simon came back on full duty. I remember because they showed up with the Commissioner in tow, and they all -- including Simon and Jim -- met in Simon's office. There was shouting too, from both Jim and Simon." Joel looked a little sick. "It was right after that -- that I heard you had to go to the academy instead of just take a weapon's course."

If Joel looked a little sick, Blair felt worse. Their entrees came while they were quietly contemplating Joel's words, and Blair began to pick at his. It looked delicious; it was too bad that he couldn't taste it.

"Did either of them come back after that?" Blair asked, not looking up at Joel.

"Uh, I'm not sure," Joel said. "I know there were all sorts of meetings with all sorts of people while you were at the academy -- Ellison and Simon were always being called someplace and it got old pretty quick. I think it's one of the reasons why I just gave up on real police work, you know? The bureaucracy was just getting to me."

"Can't blame you there," Blair said, as lightly as he could.

They concentrated on their lunches for a while, and the table fell silent.

"So, I take it you hadn't heard any of this from Ellison," Joel finally said.

"Nope. Not a word." Blair put a small bite of the tasteless fish into his mouth and chewed. "I think I see why Megan wanted me to talk to you, though."

"Blair." The seriousness of Joel's tone made Blair look up to meet his eyes. "It was all true, wasn't it, the dissertation, all of it? You lied to protect him, didn't you."

Blair looked into the warm brown eyes of his good friend and found he couldn't even speak around the lump in his throat. After a moment, he managed a jerky nod, and Joel sighed. "I kinda put two and two together after you all came back from Mexico," he said softly. "I even asked Simon about it once, and he told me not to ask him, that I wouldn't want to know. That kind of confirmed it for me, you know?"

"Yeah." Odd that his voice sounded normal when his throat was so constricted.

"I wouldn't have said anything, but when this position here came up, Simon privately told me to go for it, and I was more than ready." He looked sadly at Blair. "I just hated to leave you behind."

From somewhere, Blair managed to dredge up a smile. "It's all right," he said, trying for reassuring. "I'm like a cat, man. I always land on my feet."

But Joel was shaking his head. "My aunt had a cat that fell out of a first floor window once," he said sadly. "Just a short fall, but it broke his back. I'm worried about you, Blair."

"I am too," Blair whispered, aware that his face was reflecting his pain.

It was raining by the time Blair made up his mind and left his apartment that evening. The rain made the darkness that much deeper as he made his way through Cascade to the small house in the suburbs. He parked across the street. The house was dark, but he didn't have long to wait before the long LeSabre pulled into the driveway and Simon got out, dashing for the front door.

Blair let him get settled for a bit before he started up his car and pulled into the driveway after Simon's car. Unlike Simon, Blair had an umbrella, and he used it as he waited at the door for Simon to answer his ring.

"Sandburg?" Simon looked flummoxed to find Blair on his front step. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to know what happened," Blair said without preamble.

Simon stared at him, frowning, for a few minutes, then sighed and stood away from the door. "You might as well come in."

Without comment, Blair entered, closing his umbrella as he left the rain behind. "Put your umbrella in the container there," Simon said, pointing to the brass urn. "You want something to drink?"

"No, I want some answers, Captain," Blair replied, his voice neutral. He followed Simon into the house, but stopped short of making himself comfortable.

Simon turned and glowered at him. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sandburg," he growled.

Blair had never been intimidated by Simon, and he wasn't about to start feeling that way now, just because Simon was apparently no longer his friend. He narrowed his eyes. "Yes you do. You know why Jim has been behaving like he has for the last -- God! -- the last three months! You know what happened and why I suddenly had to spend a week of hell at the academy. And you know the reason why I'm going to be giving you a request for transfer tomorrow morning." Simon's eyes widened at that, and Blair felt an obscure satisfaction. "Now, I want to know. Start talking."

Crossing his arms, Simon glared down at Blair. "You want to rephrase that question, Detective?" he asked tightly, softly.

"No, actually, I don't," Blair replied in kind. "I don't think there's a whole hell of a lot you could do to me any more, Captain, considering I've lost the man I -- I considered to be my best friend, the man I loved more than anyone except maybe my goddamn mother and I want to know what happened!"

At Blair's shout, Simon let his arms drop and his body slump. He looked down at the floor, then rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. "Goddammit, I am so tired of this shit," he muttered, then walked over to the sofa and leaned on the arm.

"I've been to talk to Joel today, Simon," Blair said, keeping his emotions in check -- barely. He realized too late he'd called Simon by his first name, but then decided to hell with it and carried on. "It was William Ellison who came to see Jim before you came back to work, wasn't it? And he returned later, with Jim's brother and the Commissioner. Am I right?"

Simon suddenly found the carpeting intensely fascinating. "Yeah, Blair, it was."

"He put pressure on Jim somehow, didn't he?" Blair asked, hugging Simon's use of his first name to himself tightly. He supposed he really should take his wet jacket off and try to make himself more comfortable, but he couldn't loosen his arms.

"He... well, no, he didn't exactly put pressure on Jim. He had... Look, I think you need to talk to Jim about this."

"JIM WON'T TALK TO ME!" Blair yelled, then swallowed and looked away as Simon flinched. "He doesn't care any more, Simon. He says the Sentinel thing is dead, that our friendship is dead, the bastard won't even acknowledge my existence."

"Oh, he acknowledges it," Simon disagreed softly. "More than you know. Look, Sandburg, a lot of things were said in those meetings. Jim's father-- "

"Jim's father thinks he's a freak, Simon. His own damn son! He's wanted to have something over Jim for, like, ever, and now he's driven this wedge between Jim and me and I--"

"No, you did that, Sandburg," Simon interrupted him harshly. "You drove the wedge by your incredible ineptitude with that damn dissertation! What were you thinking, how could you leave Jim's name all over it like that?"

Ah, here comes the truth finally, Blair thought, shaking with fury over Simon's words. "I paid for that mistake, Simon, I paid with goddamned interest," he growled. "You can't say I didn't."

"Yeah, you paid," Simon said, glaring at him. "And so did Jim! And Jim is still paying, Sandburg, still paying for your mistake. He won't use his senses any more, and everywhere he goes he gets questioned -- every case he's primary on gets questioned. I get questioned. You paid and you walked away, with a badge and a job. You got off easy for a mistake that incredible."

Closing his eyes and counting, so as not to be accused of punching his superior officer -- no matter how deserved -- Blair struggled to keep his voice low. "I was ready to give up anything and everything for him, Simon. Yes, I paid, and yes, I am still paying. Mainly because Jim has shut me out and won't trust me any more. Won't trust me to help him, won't trust me to think of some way to make it better." He glared at Simon and found his glare returned. "You know we're better when we're working together. You know there was nothing we couldn't have figured out -- together. That's gone to hell now."

Slowly, Simon straightened up and re-crossed his arms. "This has gone on far too long, and I, for one, have had enough of it. I think you'd better think long and hard over exactly who to blame this fiasco on. God knows I have." His jaw worked as he stared at Blair. "And I still am. I don't know what to think any more, Sandburg. But I'm tired of being in the middle between you two. Bring me your transfer papers in the morning. I'll sign them."

Trembling -- but whether from rage or hysteria, he didn't know -- Blair jerked his head into a nod and turned on his heel. He grabbed his umbrella and opened the door. "But if you want answers, Blair," Simon called out behind him, in a voice that sounded a lot less harsh -- Blair didn't turn back, but he hesitated -- "then you had better go see Ellison."

Blair was careful not to slam the door as he left.

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Simon had said that Sandburg was probably on his way over here -- well, yeah, he probably was. I felt bad for Simon, he was caught between being Sandburg's superior and not liking the little bastard -- it was a rough spot to be in. I knew if I sent out my hearing, I could have heard the heartbeat that haunted my dreams coming closer by the moment. I didn't send out my hearing.

Instead, I went to the fridge and got myself another beer, noting -- quite dispassionately, actually -- that I was almost out again. Maybe I should switch to the harder stuff, it would be a cheaper drunk anyway.

Funny, isn't it, how one little thing can totally destroy so much. A ten pound bomb. The lack of a phone call at an execution. One or two well-placed words. A beautifully-manicured finger pressing the 'enter' key on a laptop.

I don't know where Naomi Sandburg is, and I don't care to know, personally. She blew into Cascade and wreaked her havoc like a force ten typhoon and then blew out again, leaving her son behind to take the heat. Damn her. At the time, I wanted to kill her, just wrap my hands around that lovely little neck and snap it. I can't remember ever being so angry at a woman before -- well, except maybe my mother. At the time, the only thing stopping me from killing her was how much that would have hurt her son.

Maybe I should have killed her anyway.

Over the sound of the rain, I can hear a car making its way up Prospect, and I know it's his car. The car I helped him buy, after he finally traded in that ridiculous 'classic' Volvo. The Toyota runs smoothly and is quite safe and reliable -- I'm a Ford man myself. But it suited Sandburg, so I helped him get it. I know how much he hates it.

I wonder what this confrontation will be like -- if it'll be as nasty as the last one. As far as I'm concerned, there's no point in discussion. As long as we can still do the job, it really doesn't matter how we feel about each other, I guess. And as long as he's with me, even if he hates me as much as I hate him, I can do the job.

Even though I knew he was out there, I let him pound on the door -- let him take out some of his frustrations on the wood, the wood can handle it. By the time I let him in, though, he was red-faced and the fury was just radiating off him. I smelled his anger even through the door, and it made me reel back.

But I gritted my teeth and let him start, which he did, and at the top of his voice too.

"You fucking asshole!" Not a bad start, actually. "What the hell do you have to say for yourself? What did he tell you this time, that your freakish abilities were going to get you killed or worse -- disgraced? Why didn't you tell me he'd been to see you, and why didn't you tell me the goddamn truth about why I had to go the academy? What could he have told you that we haven't already gone over, that I haven't disproved to you over and over again? Well? What?!"

Those dials sure make it easy to hide things. I turned just about everything down to one or two when he started, so all I could hear was a pleasant buzz. My arms were crossed over my chest -- Sandburg would say it's a classic defense posture -- as I let him rant.

How much should I tell him? Oh, what the fuck -- can't hurt more now. "He told me about my mother," I said, and watched Sandburg's eyes widen.

"What?" Sandburg was floundering -- he didn't expect that. "I thought your mother was dead," he said. Oh, yeah, sure you did, Chief. I may be dialed down but I can smell it on you.

"Oh, you did?" Gee, is that my voice? Pretty cool. I wonder if I can get that icy tone to come back in the interrogation room. "Well, she isn't. She's in Conover, and has been since the government dumped her there after the 'academics' at Rainier tried to determine her 'limitations.' Sound familiar, Sandburg?"

"What?" His mouth dropped open and his eyes practically bugged out and for the first time in months, I felt a tiny little seed of doubt take root in my middle. "Your mother -- she -- she was a Sentinel? Is a Sentinel?"

This is ridiculous. I know what's going on, what he's trying to do, and I don't need any ifs to distract me. So I turned away from him and walked to the fridge to get another beer. "He told me all about her lover, all about the guy who tried to study her, who tried to bind her to him. About how the government got him to make her work for them. And how, when she went catatonic from whatever the hell they did to her, he split. Not, of course, that he didn't get what he wanted. No, he got his doctorate all right." I wrenched off the cap and downed about half the bottle in one big gulp. "He got his doctorate and his papers published and the government got a hard-working Sentinel for about two years and then my mother got a padded, white room. Real fair."

"I don't believe you," Sandburg said, and I whipped around, frowning. "Oh, I'm sure that's what your father told you," he said, and he spit out the word 'father' like it was a curse. The little prick. "I don't believe it. He would tell you anything, Jim, anything to get you back under his thumb. You should know that by now!"

"He took me to her, what's left of her anyway!" I shouted at him. "He showed me the papers, the letters they wrote back and forth, how he wanted to 'study' her abilities, how he was going to 'help' her!" I glared at him. "You can't tell me you didn't know about it, about his papers on my own mother's heightened senses!"

He paled. Well, good. Shock him a little; God knows I'd been shocked enough lately. Especially by what Mr. ABD Blair Sandburg knew and didn't know. "The Jensen Monograph," he whispered.

"Give the man a cigar," I sneered at him, thinking the old man got another one right and taking another swig from my bottle. Yeah, it was definitely time to switch to the harder stuff.

But he was shaking his head. "Yeah, I knew about that, but Jim, there was no evidence that his subject was even a woman, much less your mother! How was I supposed to know it was her? And he never, not once, mentioned true Sentinel abilities. So, yeah, I read it, and I dismissed it. They guy was obviously a flake and didn't even know what he had."

"Oh, he knew all right," I growled. "She was his ticket to success, his little breadbasket. I read those letters, Sandburg." Yeah, I read them, and the anger I'd always had at my mom for leaving turned into pain for her. For what she'd been through. "The government was going to pave the way for them, and pay them anything and everything they'd ever wanted. And they were going to get married once she left her husband and her two little boys behind!"

I glared at him, aware I was nearly shouting again in my anger. "Sound familiar? Sound anything like what told me? As in 'bang, Holy Grail time'? As in 'just one week man'? You think I can't smell it on you? You think I didn't know what you wanted from me, you little--"

I have to hand it to him, Sandburg has some muscle on him. I didn't even see the fist that connected with my chin and made me stumble back and fall right on my butt, cracking my head on the cabinet for good measure. I looked up and saw him standing over me, and it didn't help at all to see him shaking his hand from the sting on his knuckles. My head is pretty hard; he must have been hurting.

"Is that what all this was about?" he demanded, and I'll be damned, but he was shaking like a leaf. "Some kind of heterosexual freak out? Big, macho tough guy Jim Ellison couldn't take it that a long-haired hippy freak-out MALE was in love with him? You absolute fucking bastard!"

Well, duh. Like he couldn't figure that out. Lying here looking up at him, I never realized what a big guy Sandburg is. Short, yeah, but he's broad. And for a little -- well, a little guy, he's a hell of a lot stronger than he looks. My jaw can attest to that.

"You know," he said, not moving, but at least his voice began to come down, "I remember interviewing Carolyn about you, and wondering how the hell she could find you to be an unemotional, cold and stoic sonofabitch. 'Lights on, nobody home,' I think are the words she used. That doesn't fit with the Jim Ellison I know -- knew. The funny, intelligent, damaged guy, the guy who was afraid to love because of all the people that had left him in his life. Well, seeing it from her perspective, yeah, suddenly I can understand her frustration."

He took a step back, and I breathed a bit easier. "Yeah, Jim, I used to love you. In fact, I would have given up anything for you -- and well goddamn! I did! I gave up my whole fucking life for you, asshole. Hey! More than that, I fucking died for you! Not, of course, that you ever said thank you. Not, of course, that you could ever talk to me about what you felt, what you heard from your fucking father... Sometimes I wish you'd never brought me back, you selfish bastard."

Sandburg made this little noise -- I'm not even sure how to describe it -- and turned away, walked away from the spot in the kitchen where I was sprawled. He kept his back to me as he kept talking. "I'm a damn good cop, Ellison," he said, his voice sounding funny. "Not that that's what I wanted to be, but, well, shit. What we do for love. Seems that even fags have a weakness, huh?"

While I was struggling to get up -- I must have hit my head harder than I thought -- he suddenly whirled around and pointed his finger at me. I recoiled back, then realized... there were -- there were tear tracks on his face! Shit. He was crying? What the hell was he crying for? Over the fact that I wouldn't bend over for him? That I managed to avoid the trap he set for me with the Feds? I knew he'd gone to see them; after Dad clued me in I followed him for a couple of days to prove it to myself. And sure enough, he spent time every day at the Federal building.

"But not even you can take that away from me now, Ellison. I'm a good cop, and I'm gonna be even better. Better by far than you've ever been or ever will be. Because my heart isn't in storage somewhere remote and cold. You may have taught me how to be a cop, but I know how to care. How to love. Something I thought you knew how to do too. God, how wrong could I be?"

That little bit of doubt inside me was beginning to really hurt. There was no way -- no way! -- that I could be wrong, though, was there? Dad convinced me, and hell, I took a lot of convincing. When he said Sandburg had been to the Feds and the spooks and had fixed it all, I didn't believe him, not at first. But the evidence! I could smell it on him, and Stephen -- he knew Sandburg was gay. Well, bi. Whatever. He knew.

Sandburg had to know I'd fix it if he gave up academia, out of guilt if nothing else, and all his little comments about the merry-go-round just gave me further proof. He was in it to get what he wanted -- a big cop boyfriend and a glamorous, well-paying spy job where he'd never have to really work -- no, he'd have his pet Sentinel to do that. The pet Sentinel who bent over and barked whenever he asked and I'd be damned if I am ever gonna do that for anyone.

He was staring at me, and I couldn't figure out what the expression on his face meant. "Well, you won't have to worry about your precious heterosexual virtue any more, man," he said, and his voice was harsh. But what was on his face wasn't harsh. "I'm out of your apartment, and starting tomorrow, I'll be out of your face for good. Earl Gaines wants me to transfer down to his unit, and I'm going."

"You're what?" I couldn't have stopped that question if I'd tried, it just popped out. Why hadn't Simon said something? It wasn't possible...

"Hah. Surprised you, huh? That someone else could think me worthwhile, could think of me as a good cop?" Holy shit. Sandburg was -- leaving? I mean, I thought that maybe he'd quit if -- when -- he didn't get what he wanted, but really, I always figured he'd stick around. I knew -- I thought I knew -- he couldn't handle police work by himself... despite what the Commissioner said... "That's right, Skippy. I'm gone. Some place where I won't have a target on my back; some place where I'll have a partner who actually cares for me. I figure the gang unit will be a cakewalk after having lived through Major Crime these last few months."

He walked over to the door and opened it, but turned and gave me one last look. The expression on his face was frightening, and I didn't even know why. "So fuck you very much, Jim. It's been a hell of a ride, but the let-down was even worse. Oh, and do me a favor -- hell, do the world a favor -- get a vasectomy. You don't want to pass on those genes to anyone."

He was very careful not to slam the door when he left. I appreciated that.

I just sat on the floor of the loft's kitchen while the night grew old around me, alone with my ghosts and my doubts.

Epilogue: Ten Months Later

"Blair! Over here, Sandburg!" Blair saw Earl Gaines standing and waving in the crowded pub, and fought his way over.

"Earl! How are you, man? You look good!" They hugged and slapped backs then sat down at the small table. Blair caught the eye of a waitress and pointed to Earl's bottle.

"I look good? You look great!" Earl reached over and fingered the lapel of Blair's suit. "Looks like life as a Fed is doing you a world of good there, my man."

Blair made a face and laughed. "I'm not hurting. Of course, the 'real' bucks don't start coming in until after I graduate from the profiling program." He accepted a bottle from the waitress with a smile. "Can you say, minimum wage plus five percent?"

They laughed and clinked bottles. "Can't believe it, Blair. I always knew you'd go far, but a profiler? Way to go."

"Thanks, Earl, that means a lot to me." He took a long pull from his bottle then put it back on the table. "Tell me the news, man. What's the gossip like? Who's doing who? C'mon, it's been months!"

Earl grinned and leaned forward. "Not a lot to tell. Lessee... you remember Brown? He transferred down to my unit a couple of months ago."

"Excellent," Blair said, nodding and smiling. "Henri's a good man."

"Yeah, he is that," Earl said. "We finally got the funding to put together a real team, and I really appreciate his help. His old partner, Rafe, transferred to Vice a while back. Surprised us all." Earl took a drink then gave Blair a sly look. "There's a rumor that Banks is up for promotion, and that a certain, very good looking black man is being considered for his replacement."

"No! You're shitting me!" Blair laughed and smacked Earl on the shoulder. "You dog! Listen, you need a recommendation or anything, you let me know. I'll see if I can find someone in the FBI who doesn't know about all those women in your basement."

Earl laughed and returned the pop to the shoulder. He sat back and regarded Blair for a moment, then sobered. "By the way... you hear about Ellison?"

Blair looked away immediately, as though searching for the waitress. "You want another, Earl? On me."

"Blair." Reluctantly, Blair turned back and faced his friend. "I don't know what went down between the two of you, but he wasn't the same after you left. And then, well, you heard that he got shot?"

Beginning to carefully strip the label from his bottle, Blair said, "Something about a firefight at a refinery -- a disgruntled ex-employee?"

"Yeah, some moron who figured the best way to end it all was to take a rifle to one of the towers at Cyclops number seven and keep firing until someone got him." Earl shook his head. "Ellison was one of the ones who responded. He froze, or something, just stood there, and took one deep." Earl looked at Blair with sympathy. "He's paralyzed, Blair."

"Oh, yeah?" Blair's voice was soft and weak and he wouldn't meet Earl's eyes.

"Yeah. From the neck down. He took disability, and lives with his dad now."

Blair swallowed and nodded slowly. "Well." The little bubble of silence at their table stretched out until it became almost unbearable. "He was always good at turning to stone," Blair finally murmured. Earl wouldn't have heard him at all except for a lull in the noise level. "I'm sure he's happier now."

Earl's eyes and mouth opened wide, and he was about to snap at Blair until he saw Blair's eyes, and the desolation therein.

end

End Philip K. Dick is Alive and Well, Alas by MrsHamill: thamill@cox.net

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