Author's disclaimer: The characters are only mine in my personal alternative universe.

Author's notes: This little pre-slash number comes with a matching slash epilogue.

My first Sentinel fic. Heartfelt thanks to Tipton, a/k/a Babs the Beta Trout, and merci beaucoup to my patron goddesses: MJ, Muse of Literature, and Vicky, Muse of Art.

I love italics...unfortunately, most browsers don't. Thoughts are enclosed by slash marks (no pun intended) \\like so\\, emphasis with asterisks like so. Hope it doesn't prove too distracting.

Acknowledgements to two favorite pro authors: Stephen White for the eclipse metaphor, and Homer Hickam, Jr., for his definition of a hero. Also the poet Rumi for the heartbeat/drumsound imagery. Oh, and George Carlin for the moose balls. :D

Feedback (including constructive criticism) is humbly begged for. Feedback feedback guaranteed.

The Last Experiment
By Marilyn

"When the wolf shows up, it is time to breathe new life into your life rituals. Find a new path, take a new journey, take control of your life. You are the governor of your life. You create it and direct it. Do so with harmony and discipline, and then you will know the true spirit of freedom." - Ted Andrews, "Animal Speak"

"HOLD THE ELEVATOR, DAMMIT!!!"

Jim Ellison stabbed at the "door open" button, allowing Lt. Jerome Jackson to squeeze past him into the crowded car. Jackson, cell phone to his ear, smacked the paneled door in frustration. "OK, honey. OK. Don't worry, I'm coming. Yes...NOW!" He punched the off key, and met Jim's inquiring gaze. "That was Trixie. She's having the baby a week early. Dammit."

Jim summoned up a smile for the agitated detective. "Congratulations, man. I'm sure everything will be OK. One week isn't too early."

"Yes, it is." Jackson extracted an envelope from his jacket pocket, and after a brief hesitation, extended it to Jim.

"Here, Ellison," he said with resignation. "Two center court tickets for tonight's game. "Three rows back," he added, voice catching as though he was the one having contractions. "All yours, courtesy of Jerry Jackson, Jr."

Jim looked from the envelope to the expectant father. "Thanks, but I can't make it."

Jackson stared at him in disbelief.

"My partner's having a dissertation," said Jim.

The Jags/Lakers game was set for an early tip-off, making the rush hour traffic even worse than usual. It was to be the first time the two teams had met since Coach Brianski left Cascade for Los Angeles. Brianski had joked at the press conference that LA was both warmer and safer. Jim just hoped the coach never had to put a semi-automatic in the hands of Dennis Rodman.

A car festooned with Lakers pennants suddenly veered across his lane to avoid missing the exit for the Coliseum. Jim swerved, cursed and laid on the horn.

Damn tourists...drive like maniacs...rent fucking cars...

He forced down his anger with difficulty, aware that the voice of reason was not his own.

Six months ago, an acquaintance at Alamo Rentals had asked Blair Sandburg to look at their operation to find ways to make renting a car more convenient for families - reasoning that, as a trained observer, an anthropologist could do the job just as well as an expensive market research firm. Blair had spent several weeks out at the airport, observing customers as they went through the rental process, and eventually turned in a list of recommendations that included diaper-changing stations, luggage lockers and a secure place for children to play while their parents were occupied. Jim teased Blair about his maternal instincts and grumbled about the time he didn't spend at the station - until he saw the size of Blair's paycheck. Alamo was delighted with the results and compensated Blair accordingly. Suddenly Jim had a new couch to replace the one he had not been comfortable on since Incacha's death, and Blair's Volvo was undergoing a slow transformation from a piece of junk to a classic car.

To Blair's surprise and delight, the innovative project was profiled in USA Today. Overnight, anthropology became the "hot" corporate major. At Rainier, five new sections of ANTRO 101 were added to accommodate the sudden demand. The R&D departments of every blue chip company were hot on the trail of trained observersand one Blair Jacob Sandburg in particular. Their answering machine was clogged with messages from hopeful recruiters. With only one Doctor of Anthropology for every 297 MBAs, Blair was not only flavor of the month, he was, as he cheerfully put it, "Cherry Garcia with whipped cream and sprinkles."

Which left only one problem. Blair did not yet have his doctorate.

Jim had a stop to make before heading home. Unaccustomed to leaving work on the dot, he did not realize the supermarket would be so crowded at that hour. Twenty minutes passed before he emerged from the Lombard Street Safeway, having gained new insight as to why formerly law-abiding citizens walked into crowded places and started shooting.

Jim realized he had no idea where he had parked the truck. Fortunately, that rarely posed a problem. Scanning the jammed lot, he spotted the familiar blue and white cab at the far end of the center aisle. Someone had anchored a flyer beneath the windshield wiper during his absence. He narrowed his eyes against the neon-pink brightness and read aloud:

"Repent, sinner. The end of the world is at hand."

Damn. Guess I shouldn't have gotten the twelve-roll package.

Jim stalked the length of the parking lot, quietly taking the Lord's name in vain all the way. Unlocking the door, he tossed his lightweight purchase onto the front seat and reached for the flyer. Spirits walking the earth? Been there. Prophetic visions? Done that. Doesn't make me fucking John the Baptist.

Blair Sandburg being offered a six-figure salary with a Fortune 500 company? Now there's indisputable proof that life as you know it is coming to an end.

The reverse side of the flyer held Sergeant Pepperoni coupons...with no expiration date.

Jim appreciated the irony, but he didn't want pizza for his last meal. Maybe he'd take Sandburg out for dinner. Get his mind off things. Get both their minds off it. Forget that the world was ending tomorrow.

Jim couldn't imagine Blair Sandburg driving off to the corporate wasteland in a rental car. And yet, he would not have believed that the quiet, driven man typing away on his dissertation night after night these past few months was the same free spirit who once refused to abandon the roller coaster for the merry-go-round.

Jim could not pinpoint the moment Blair had decided they were a lost cause. He had, to Jim's mingled relief and shame, initially rationalized his reaction to Alex Barnes as instinctive Sentinel behavior. In fact, Blair's first words following his near-fatal drowning had been to comfort and reassure Jim.

"You couldn't help yourself, man. You were operating on instinct. Marking your territory, as it were. If you start peeing on the furniture, though, I'm getting you fixed."

To Jim, the expression of understanding had sounded like an accusation.

"How can you be so forgiving? Rising from the dead give you a martyr complex?"

He'd regretted the harsh words almost immediately. Even now - even now - he was taking his self-anger out on his closest friend...and even from a hospital bed, Blair accepted and dissipated it. He did not deserve such loyalty; he had behaved no better than an animal.

He recalled Blair's cheerful demeanor in the days immediately following: his refusal to let Megan leave him behind in Cascade...his irrepressible midnight chatter in the church. He pictured Blair toasting the bride at the wedding reception they'd crashed in Sierra Verde, which had become an impromptu celebration of life for the four fugitives. And Jim was pretty sure that he and Megan had been conducting a little life-affirming ceremony of their own when he walked in on them at the hotel.

And yet Blair's exuberance had a manic edge, as though he was as easily intoxicated by the air he breathed as by champagne...and his nocturnal ramblings thinly disguised the fact that he was afraid to go to sleep...

And that was before Jim had betrayed his friend a second time with his mindless lust for Blair's would-be murderer.

"Blair...are you my Guide?"

The word had never been spoken between them before. Deeply troubled by Blair's sudden preoccupation, desperate for reassurance that their relationship was not damaged beyond repair, Jim had blurted out the question during the flight back from Mexico. After his vision in the temple pool, Jim was certain of Blair's place in his life. But it was not for him to say...the Guide was the seeker, and only the Guide could say when the search was over.

At first, Sandburg had closed up like a clam, saying only that he wouldn't have much business writing a supposedly objective scientific paper about Jim if he was. Then he suddenly began to elaborate, rapid-fire words laced with irony: "'Yes, Doctor Saunderson, my primary subject's senses are more acute at night because his spirit animal is a black panther. I know this because I'm the Shaman of the Great City of Cascade. Now on the other hand, a pink panther signifies that you're possessed by the ghost of Peter Sellers...'"

"Stop it, Blair..."

"'People with panther totems must learn to temper their responses, lest they unintentionally wound others more deeply than they mean to.' I know that Dr. Saunderson has a serious jones for me, but I could go in there bare-ass NAKED and not get away with shit like that, Jim! I mean, who'd believe it?"

"God, Blair...you know there's a direct correlation between how much I care for a person and how badly a fuck up a relationship."

"Know it? That's chapter fourteen. You must really love me, man." Blair pushed his seat back and closed his eyes, clearly signaling that the conversation was over - looking for the first time like a man who had nearly died.

The rejection cut like a knife, slicing Jim open, laying him bare.

Though he had forfeited the right to claim, he began to accept Blair's guidance unconditionally, hoping to convey his acceptance - his need - to his Guide without words. But his efforts were apparently too little, too late: at some point following his baptism in the fountain, Blair had lost his religion. The more Jim tried, the less receptive Blair became...and the harder he worked to finish his dissertation.

He'd finally acknowledged that Blair Sandburg held the light that illuminated the mysteries of his life. But now that Jim was ready to embark on that journey, it appeared that Blair had cashed in their tickets. After three years of unconditional friendship and loyalty and love, payment was due in full.

Jim had made a deal, and received far more than his due. How could he possibly renege on his promise? How could he deny his Guide...anything?

With his free hand, Jim dug into his jacket pocket and closed his fingers around a small piece of embossed metal, clutching it so tightly that the irregular edges cut into the flesh of his palm.

It was only as he turned the corner onto Prospect that Jim realized the pounding in his head was an external phenomenon. The beat intensified the further he drove, coalescing into music. He waited impatiently for a traffic light to change, forefingers unconsciously drumming a familiar rhythm on the steering wheel. A block more, and he was humming "Black Magic Woman" through clenched teeth.

Jim thought of poor Sandburg, who was no doubt trying to study or meditate or have a nice, quiet nervous breakdown or whatever the hell it is you do the night before your dissertation defense. Maybe he would pay an official visit on whoever was treating the neighborhood to this unscheduled public concert.

Perpendicular sunbeams poured between buildings and through intersections, bisecting the shadowy canyon of the street. The light strobed across Jim's face in a parody of one of Sandburg's more elaborate tests, and suddenly his need to get home before the light faded took on all the immediacy of a hypnotic suggestion.

So Jim dialed his hearing down all the way and listened instead to his sixth sense, the one he prized above all the others, because it was not a gift.

The stores fronting the loft were still open and his usual parking space was taken. Jim pulled instead into the alley behind the loft and gingerly squeezed the truck into a narrow space between Mrs. Ashe's Harley and two Chippendale chairs.

His neighbor Harve looked up from his work and waved cheerfully. A retired refinisher lacking either garage or basement, Harve simply adapted what little available space he had - the rear of his van, where he had built a narrow tool chest on one wall and a hinged workbench on the other. The far wall held a storage box adapted from the kitchen quarters of a 19th-century sailing ship. On Cascade's infrequent sunny days he pulled out and assembled sawhorses to set his current project on.

Harve was mouthing something inaudible, and Jim realized he still had his hearing turned down. He reached for the door handle and his mental dial at the same moment...and nearly fell out of the truck, buffeted by a tsunami of sound. He clamped his hands over his ears and stared up at the loft, where the windows rattled in their panes.

It seemed that he would be paying a visit on the music lover after all.

"Blood, Sweat and Tears?" Harve guessed.

"Probably," Jim groaned. He retrieved the grocery bag from the front seat and slammed the door hard.

Harve grinned broadly as he took in Jim's purchase. "Most people bring chips or beer to parties, Ellison," he yelled over the din. "And that must be one hell of a party going on at your place."

"Sorry for the racket, Harve," Jim said. "The kid must be blowing off steam."

"What...?!"

"I'M SORRY ABOUT THE NOISE!"

"No problem." Harve pointed to his ear. "Got plugs in. Between Old Gray and the power tools, I just leave 'em in all the time. Hey, Jimmy, tell Sandburg that I replaced the broken handle on his...whatsit...'spirit altar'. He wouldn't let me fix the other damage. Listen, he's not practicing some kind of voodoo up there, is he? I wouldn't want to be part of anything like that. It's dangerous enough living in the same building with you guys, without bringing the wrath of the Almighty down on my head."

Jim peered in the back of the back of the van, which held a battered military-issue trunk. "Spirit altar? That's just my old Army foot locker."

He saw no point in revealing that Blair had recently attended the black rites of a local coven. Afterwards, Blair had emptied the hot water tank twice trying to scrub himself clean, cooked vegan meals for a week and even accompanied Harve and Edna to synagogue the following Sabbath. Jim smiled unconsciously, remembering Sandburg's struggle to keep the borrowed yamika atop his unruly mane.

Blair had to try everything...and Jim was as awed by his partner's bravery as he was terrified by his foolishness. He no longer discouraged Blair from taking such risks, fearful of losing that vestige which remained of his friend's old persona; but he remained deeply conflicted, his fierce protectiveness for his friend at war with itself.

"Sandburg asked me for it last week. I figure...um...he wants to start packing up his stuff."

"Maybe," Harve said doubtfully. "He told me he was going to sacrifice virgins on it. Ha! 'Good luck finding one,' I says to him. You know the old saying...the day a virgin graduates from Rainier, the statue of Sacagawea will sprout wings and fly away."

"I'm sure Sandburg will do his very best to make sure that doesn't happen," Jim replied, edging away, impatient to get up to the loft.

"Ah...speaking of which, Jimmy...the kid's got a girl up there. They were out on the balcony earlier. He could be squeezing the Charmin, too, if you know what I mean. You might wanna knock. Not that they're likely to hear you."

Great. Just great. "Thanks for the warning. Listen, how much does he owe you?" Jim asked abruptly, pulling out his wallet.

"No, no, put that away. A little graduation present. Just think, our Blair's gonna be a doctor!"

"His mother and I are very proud," Jim said listlessly.

"Maybe the poor kid will finally have a couple of nickels to rub together. Tell him if he's feeling grateful, I'll take the usual." For once, Harve was disinclined to elaborate; and if his furtiveness sounded an alarm in Jim's mind, it was drowned out by the noise coming from his loft.

"Um...OK, thanks." Jim glanced toward the west. "You'd best be packing it up. The sun's going down."

"There's still a couple hours of daylight left, Jim. Plenty of time."

Yes. Jim looked toward the sunset with its proverbial rays of hope. Maybe this is just an eclipse, he thought. A celestial event. I'm not some clueless Neanderthal who doesn't know why it's so dark in the middle of the day. I don't have to rush out and start sacrificing virgins. I can wait it out.

He headed for the door, unaware that he was gripping the small object in his jacket pocket like a talisman.

Jim was reaching for the doorknob when he remembered Harve's warning. He dialed out the music...there...voices, like weak radio signals obscured by static...a woman's delighted laughter and Blair's voice crooning encouragement: "Oh, baby...do it...you've got all the moves, sweetheart...all of them!"

Jim hesitated until he got a vivid mental picture of himself, listening at his own door and clutching a package of toilet paper. He flung open the door, prepared to yell loud enough to be heard across a crowded club in a Vice raid. "WHAT THE...heck...is going on here...!?!", he sputtered ineffectually, expletive deleted when he spied his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Ashe, ensconced in the yellow chair, clapping her hands.

The coffee table had been moved aside and the carpet had been rolled up to create a makeshift dance floor. In the center of the room a barefoot young woman was dancing. With her abundant red hair, emerald eyes and pale skin, she looked like an escapee from the company of "Riverdance" - but there was nothing remotely schooled or precise about her movements. She twirled and skipped with the awkward grace of a child.

Blair was seated on the back of the new couch like a pasha on his throne, hair loose and earrings flashing, smiling benevolently at his odd harem. Jim stared at him with equal measures of horror and delight, transfixed by the extent of Blair's transformation. Not until that moment had he realized just how much Blair had changedand how very much he missed his friend's infectious exuberance.

Jim had only a split-second to take in the unlikely scene before the noise overwhelmed him. He clamped his hands over his ears, gasping in pain. The tiny noise was lost in the music, and yet Blair suddenly looked sharply towards the door. Shocked blue eyes locked with his.

Sandburg mouthed the words "Jim" and "omigod". Scrambling to cut the power to the stereo, Blair flung out his arm, overbalanced and fell backwards off the couch, knocking over the end table and its knick-knacks on his way down. The sound of his impact created little more than a discordant note in the melody.

The young woman danced on, oblivious.

Mrs. Ashe, displaying the same savvy self-preservation instinct that had enabled her to survive the bombing of Paris during WWII, beat a hasty retreat, pecking Jim on the cheek on her way out the door.

A disembodied arm snaked slowly upward from behind the couch to switch off the stereo before falling back out of sight.

The dancer did not notice anything was amiss until the music stopped. "Blair, what...oh!" She ran to the couch, knelt on the cushions and peered over the back.

"Are you OK?" all three asked simultaneously.

Having ascertained Jim's well-being, Blair began to fear for his own. He climbed to his feet and blinked uncertainly, apparently trying to decide whether it was more dangerous to walk barefoot across broken glass or break house rule #538 by climbing over the sofa. "Jim...I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be home this soon."

"Celebrating early, Chief?" Jim advanced on his roommate, intending to lift him clear of the glass.

Blair, unsure of Jim's intentions, flopped over the back of the couch. Taking the dancer by the shoulders, he pulled her up and turned her to face Jim. "Jim, this is Trina Williams. She's a biologist."

Jim took the hand Blair's human shield oh-so-tentatively extended. "Nice to meet you," Jim murmured. "Chief, this is an apartment building, not a dance club. You're gonna go deaf."

"Pardon me?" Trina asked politely.

He glared at the woman in irritation. She stared back in wide-eyed innocence.

"No! No, Jim...!!" Blair began to make frantic gestures behind Trina's back.

"I said, you're gonna go..."

Deaf, he processed belatedly.

"You clueless dork," said Blair. With a disgusted look at Jim, Blair moved forward into Trina's line of sight. "This is my roommate, Jim Ellison. His hearing is very acute," he explained, enunciating carefully. "But his comprehension needs some work."

"God, Trina, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were hearing-impaired. I mean, you weren't signing or anything."

"That's because I'm not very good at it," she said, looking up at him through thick, sooty lashes. "I say the most obscene things. Unintentionally, of course."

Jim almost smiled. Sometimes he felt he should write his own dissertation: "The Natural Defense Mechanisms of Rainier University Graduate Students."

"And you were dancing - "

"Blair is teaching me how to dance by feeling the vibrations of the music through the floor." She threw Blair an affectionate glance and he beamed at her in return. "I conveniently forgot to tell him that I couldn't dance before I lost my hearing."

"We had to turn the music up loud enough for Trina to feel the beat," said Blair.

"I'd book you both for creating a public disturbance," Jim said gruffly, "...but no one should ever be busted for playing Santana." He allowed the smile to surface as the pair breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Jim's a good dancer," Blair offered. "He could give you lessons."

"Uh, well...sure. I guess," Jim agreed slowly, caught off guard, wanting his friend to himself on this last night.

"All right...! You dial it down," Blair demanded of Jim. "Trina, you dial it up!" He crossed to the stereo.

"No, Blair," Trina said, picking up on Jim's reluctance. "Not tonight. Jim only just got home, and you have a big day tomorrow. Besides, I've already mashed your foot once...how will it look if you come hobbling in on crutches to defend your dissertation?"

Blair shrugged. "Maybe they'll have more sympathy for me."

"I'm serious, Blair. First impressions and all that. What are you going to wear?"

"What's wrong with what I have on?" Blair asked innocently, picking nonchalantly at a hole in his jeans.

Trina slapped his shoulder playfully. "You can't wear a plaid flannel shirt to your dissertation defense."

"You just eliminated his entire wardrobe," Jim said.

"Um...maybe a chambray dress shirt and jacket with Dockers or my Sunday-go-to-meetin' jeans? Hold on." Blair disappeared into his room, emerging after a moment holding the shirt under his chin for Trina's inspection.

"That's great. Brings out your eyes."

"I picture something in lime-green velvet with ruffles," Jim put in. Blair cheerfully flipped him off. "You been taking sign-language lessons from Trina, Chief?"

"Hair tied back, glasses firmly in place," Blair continued running down his checklist of sartorial necessities.

"Glasses," Trina said doubtfully. "Do you have to?"

"Umm, only if I want to actually see what I'm doing."

"Well, at least wear your hair loose."

"Trina...we're talking about my life's work. My hair has nothing to do with it."

"Of course not. You're absolutely right. No problem. But...isn't Doctor Saunderson on your dissertation committee?

Blair sighed. "Yes...so?"

"Just...wear it down, OK?" Her smile faded, and she suddenly looked tired and dispirited. "You still have to play the game, Blair. Play it better than they do, just like you told me." She toed on her shoes and picked up her bag. "It was nice meeting you, Jim. Rain check on the dancing?"

"Sure. At least let me drive you home," Jim offered, a strange mixture of guilt and irritation warring for possession. "Blair's car's being fixed."

"No, no...the buses are still running."

"Do you have the fare?" Trina, who was fumbling with the broken zipper of her jacket, was unaware of the question. "Trina," Blair emphasized, ducking his head to meet her downcast eyes. "Do you have the fare?"

She bristled. "Of course I have the..."

"Jim, lend her the money, will you?"

Jim automatically pulled out his wallet and contemplated its diminished contents glumly. "Will this cover it?" he asked, holding out his last five. "I, ah...had to stop at the grocery on my way home," he explained, surreptitiously pushing his forgotten purchase behind the kitchen counter with his foot.

"I couldn't..."

"Please. Take it." Hell, take it all. Jim considered giving her his ATM card. Just go.

"Thanks," Trina said softly. Blair walked her to the door.

"Don't you give up, Trina. If you do that, you really will be handicapped. The world is full of people who've abandoned their hopes and dreams. Let them have the primo parking spaces and the sympathy because the poor bastards can barely get out of bed in the morning. Don't let that happen to you."

Trina gave him a crooked smile. "I hope your dream comes true tomorrow, Blair."

"It will. Guaranteed." Blair's smile was so bright that Jim had to close his eyes. If the power of that smile could be harnessed, it would light up all of Cascade.

"Remember the Alamo!" The pair of grad students saluted each other with raised fists.

"Take care, sweetie. Thanks for coming. I'll see you Saturday, OK?" Blair closed the door behind Trina softly, turned to Jim and began to sing. "I'm picking up good vi-bra-tions...she's giving me excit-a-tions..." He leered companionably, making a little motion with his fist. "So, Jim...how would you like to donate your body to science?"

"I thought I already had," Jim muttered, his attention drawn to Blair's room. Through the open doors, he glimpsed half-empty drawers, cardboard boxes and bare shelves. The clutter spilled over into the loft, where Blair's possessions occupied the countertops and dining table, not to mention a sizable chunk of the floor.

"There was a time when everything that was important to me fit into a cigar box," Blair explained cheerfully. "Amazing what a person can accumulate when they stay in one place too long."

"How is it my statue was the one thing that broke when your shit is scattered all over the place?" Jim snapped.

Blair's eyes narrowed. "Now I know why you wanted the expensive toilet paper...something crawled up your ass and died."

Hell yes, he was mad. Mad because his personal hygiene was a topic of conversation. Mad because now he'd have that stupid Beach Boys song going through his head all evening. Mad that Blair was so fucking happy.

"Shouldn't you be getting out the dustpan, Crash Craddock?"

"Jim, you are anal-retentive. Literally." Blair gathered up broom and dustpan and began sweeping up the broken remains of a ceramic saxophonist. "There's a raftload of good dissertations to be had from you. Biology, medicine, psychology - a person could win the fucking Nobel Prize for that one. Think of all the unanswered questions..."

"The experiments are over, Chief." Jim straightened the rug and coffee table and checked their alignment with a critical eye.

"...like, if I were to poleax you with this broom handle, would the person who got your eyes have Sentinel vision?"

"What?" Jim asked defensively.

"I just want you to take Trina dancing, man. Not do the horizontal tango. She's had a hard time lately. She needs a life outside of academic work."

"And you're not up to it? That's got to be a first." He resented Blair's attempt to make provisions for him, when they both knew it was pointless.

"Jim, Trina and I are partnered in the Graduate Experience mentoring program. It wouldn't be ethical."

"You're her mentor?"

Blair shrugged. "Post-grad work can be tough, even without a physical handicap. There's never enough money. Not to mention the social isolation..."

"Sorry, Chief, but you're not exactly what I would call a solitary recluse."

"Not everyone is as lucky as I am."

Jim's jaw dropped. Sandburg was serious.

"I've got everything I need - well, except for a bed big enough for two people, but that's OK, I'm creative. Trina, on the other hand, will probably have to borrow a dress from the transvestite next door if you two go out."

"My God."

"Oh, he's got excellent fashion sense," Blair deadpanned. "Seriously, though - it's hard to focus on your work when your fingers are so stiff with cold that you can't reach the number keys or you're so hungry that the cockroaches start to look appetizing. One of our grad students committed suicide a couple of years ago. He was despondent because his fate was in the hands of a single advisor who had a fundamental problem with the premise of his work. I don't want the same thing to happen to Trina."

"Christ, Chief." I am a selfish bastard, Jim berated himself. Get it through your head, Ellison...Planet Sandburg doesn't revolve around you. You're one of many. Blair's friendship was too valuable to hoard.

"After that, we went out on strike," Blair said.

"Your idea," Jim said with certainty.

Blair shrugged. "Conditions are better now. We're paid salaries and benefits like other university employees. There are committees to review our work. And this mentoring program. I do it because...well, there but for the grace of God, you know? God and you."

"OK, OK, Norma Rae. Don't make me break out the hip waders. I'll let Trina analyze my performance."

"I meant it, Jim. Starting tomorrow...everything begins. And you made it all possible."

Blair's affectionate gaze was deep and blue, and Jim felt as though he was drowning in it, choking on it, unable to cry for help. "Just bring the kids over to see their Uncle Jim when I'm in the old Sentinels' home," he finally managed. "And smuggle in condoms and Wonderburgers and six-packs."

There, he thought with relief. I've said it out loud. Acknowledged that Blair has his own life to live.

Blair crossed to their old Kelvinator, giving it an absent kick to start the compressor, and returned with a bottle of Corona and a bowl of salsa. "Take your medicine, Uncle Jim."

"Thanks, Chief." Chief. Somehow, he'd known from the first who was really in charge. "Why is it I always do whatever the hell it is you want me to?" Jim asked.

Blair shrugged. "Just another manifestation of the famous Sandburg Charm, in and of itself worthy of a dissertation. Don't feel bad - you held out a lot longer than anyone else."

"So what's Trina's dissertation on?" he asked aloud.

"The effect of visual signals on the mating habits of male anurans."

"Hmm. Maybe I can help her out with that."

"I think you'd seriously skew her data."

"Because I'm a Sentinel?"

"No...because you're not a frog." Blair burst out laughing. "I didn't know the Rangers had an amphibious unit, man." He rummaged through his backpack and came up with a crumpled flyer. "She'll be here next Saturday." He tossed the flyer in Jim's general direction on his way back to the kitchen.

"Earth Knack," Jim read.

"A primitive skills gathering next weekend at the U. A workshop focusing on ancestral talents. Tanning hides with animal brains. Making clay pots over a cow-dung fire - like the one that salsa is in."

Jim paused in the act of raising a salsa-laden nacho to his lips and carefully laid it back down.

"You could do a crossbow demonstration. I'll even let you shoot an apple off my head."

Jim caught his breath, the innocent words instantly calling to mind the nightmare image of Blair lying dead on the jungle floor. "You couldn't stand still long enough."

If word got out about his abilities, the crowd of onlookers would be curious to see Blair's "Sentinel". Fuck that. I may be a genetic throwback, but I don't have to perform like a circus animal.

"Well then, why don't you whomp up a bucket of the world-famous Ellison secret sauce and come help us barbecue roadkill?"

"Dear Lord. Is that even legal?"

"Yep. Looked it up at the station. Highway deaths are the surest source of meat."

Jim was startled at the idea of making plans with Blair beyond tomorrow. He felt his spirits lifting. He won't know the committee's decision right away, he thought optimistically. I've got a few more days. And he would spend them doing whatever Blair wanted...even if it was pretty weird. Hell, weird shit was his life.

Jim studied the flyer, which included a small campus map indicating the location of the gathering. In the corner was a tiny square labeled "B.S. Mem Ftn". "Chief?" he asked quietly. "What is this?"

Blair came to stand behind the sofa, looking over Jim's shoulder. "Um. It's the fountain behind Hargrove Hall...some of the students call it the 'Blair Sandburg Memorial Fountain'. There's even a plaque."

Jim's rebelling stomach gave another turn. "That's sick."

"Maybe," Blair agreed, then smiled faintly. "Flattering, though. If you want to get laid, you throw a coin and make a wish."

Jim gaped. "And the University just lets them get away with it?"

"Are you kidding? They'll be able to finish constructing the new wing of the anthropology museum with the proceeds."

"To be named 'The Sandburg Gallery', presumably," said Jim, appetite waning.

"Yes. With you stuffed and mounted in the foyer." Blair paused, taking in Jim's expression. "C'mon, Jim. An permanently erect phallic symbol perpetually spewing the stuff of life into the ether...there are worse ways to be immortalized, right?"

There was an awkward silence. "Listen, Chief, why don't we go grab a bite to eat, while I still have some semblance of an appetite? My treat."

"Ah. Well. I fixed dinner earlier. It's in the fridge. Just have to heat it up." Blair shrugged. "It was something to do, you know?" he confided, betraying his first sign of nerves.

"I thought you'd have to study today or something."

"Jim, it's not like taking SATs or trying out for Jeopardy, for God's sake. You can't study for it," Blair replied testily.

"OK, OK...whatever works for you. We can chow down, watch the game..."

"Sounds great."

"So...you doing OK?"

"Yeah, OK, you know...still have butterflies in my stomach instead of bats."

"You'll wow 'em, Chief. Guaranteed. You're the smartest guy I've ever known. Not to mention your fascinating subject material."

"Yeah, well..."

"You know, my childhood heroes weren't the ones who could fly, or see through walls or do magic. My heroes won because they were smarter than the bad guys. They had more courage and they knew more about real stuff. Guys like you."

Blair laughed, embarrassed but clearly pleased. "You're not going to start singing 'The Wind Beneath My Wings', are you?"

Jim shook his head, smiling. "Nope."

"Thanks, man. Oh, ah...for the support. And for not singing," he and Jim finished simultaneously.

"So, Chief, what's for dinner? Deep dish moose balls?"

"How'd you guess? Actually, we're having pizza."

"Not Sergeant Pepperoni's?" asked Jim with alarm. Blair gave him a curious look.

"Nooo. Focaccia pizza with pears, walnuts and gorgonzola."

"Oh, great." Jim collapsed against the counter with a sigh. "I had a craving."

Blair waved dismissively in Jim's direction. "You'll love it, man. Trust me."

"A man who would put a piece of dried cow flop in his mouth?"

"Give it a rest, man. I thought it was a piece of bone. Bone sticks to the tongue. Perfectly acceptable field technique."

Blair switched on the oven and took the assembled pizza from the fridge. "I started to fix it before I realized we were out of gorgonzola. Luckily, Jean had some."

Jim sighed. Sandburg and Ashe were the only two people he knew who would consider gorgonzola a staple food item. "Can I at least have cheddar on my half?"

"Cheddar...?! That's vanilla cheese, Jim."

"At least it doesn't smell like dirty socks. Look, maybe I'll just polish off the leftover Thai, huh?"

"Y'know, it's an ironic fact of nature that some of the most toothsome, refined foods derive from molding, fermented, putrefied ingredients," Blair said conversationally as he moved around the kitchen. "A sweet, nutty chunk of gorgonzola cheese, for example. Or the fish sauce in good Thai food. I mean, who'd have believed that the yellow liquid tearing from a vat of salted, decomposing anchovies could be so tasty?"

"It's just getting more and more appetizing, Chief."

"There are brownies for dessert," Blair consoled.

"Just like mom used to make."

A sharp laugh. "Not my mom. Hers were laced with pot...not the ones she gave to me!" he added indignantly at Jim's shocked expression.

"By the way, Betty Crocker...Harve's fixed the trunk. We should probably go down and get it before we eat." Because I'm sure to be indisposed after this little feast.

"Great! I'll be able to get most of this stuff out of your way tonight."

Yeah. Great. "By the way, he said to tell you he wanted 'the usual'...?!"

"That dog! I just made him up a batch last week. Man," Blair laughed. "OK...um...you see my box of dried herbs anywhere?"

"On top of the TV."

"Thanks," Blair retrieved the box and rummaged through the contents, finally extracting a plastic zipper-lock bag. He poured the herbs into a mortar and to Jim's consternation topped it off with a generous portion of $10-a-quarter-ounce saffron from the spice rack.

"Hey!"

Blair waved aside his objection. "You know this jar's been sitting here untouched ever since the infamous Curry Incident of '98." Taking up the pestle, Blair began pulverizing the mixture energetically.

Jim sneezed. "What is that...the appetizer?"

"Ah...ha...for Harve, maybe."

"Get serious, Sandburg. What is that stuff?"

"Two parts rose petals, two parts hibiscus flower and one part saffron."

"Which makes...?"

"Homemade Viagra. An aphrodesiac, Jim," he elaborated. "Harve puts it in Edna's frozen yogurt."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope."

"Is it safe?"

Blair laughed. "For Edna. I personally think Harve's playing with fire."

"Don't take me there, Sandburg. Stuff really works?" Jim asked doubtfully.

"Don't get any ideas. God...with your senses? No man, woman or farm animal in Cascade would be safe. And here I'd be at Ground Zero." Blair deftly funneled the powdered mixture into a jar.

"Don't you have to perform some sort of ritual over it? You know...to connect with the spirit of the plant?"

Blair looked at him thoughtfully, took a deep breath and held his hands over the herbs. "Eeenie weenie, chili beanie...the spirits are about to speak..."

"I think the eeenie weenie is the real problem, Karnac."

Blair doubled over with laughter, then high-fived Jim, who grinned with pleasure. This was his Blair. These were the moments he wanted to remember.

"Hey, can you make homemade Propeicia?"

"Ah, God." Blair collapsed against the counter in mirth-induced exhaustion. "Don't worry, man, the ladies look a lee-tle bit lower than your hairline." He shoved the pizza in the oven and smacked Jim in the middle of the chest with the back of his hand. "C'mon, let's go get the trunk."

"...that is so cool, man!" Blair said, as he and Jim awkwardly guided the large trunk through the open door of the loft. "You can still hear "Oy Como Va" echoing off the elevator walls...?"

"Yep. Which way, Ollie?"

"Over here, Stan," said Blair, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the empty space under the stairs to the loft. "Why am I the one going backwards?"

"Ginger Rodgers did everything Fred Astaire did, wearing high heels and going backwards, you wuss."

Blair laughed. "Wrong movie. Hey, don't forget to tell Trina that. It's inspiring."

Jim dropped his side abruptly and reached to rub the back of his neck.

"You OK?"

"Yeah. Just Excedrin Headache Number 52."

"Would that be a 'Santana played at a zillion decibels headache'?"

"That would be the one."

Blair walked over and pulled a bottle of aspirin out of the kitchen cabinet. Shaking out two, he returned to Jim, who swallowed them dry.

"See, it's just that - " Blair hesitated.

"Spit it out, Sandburg."

"Well, it's like you're doing this 'good cop, bad cop' thing and playing both parts...are you sure you don't have a ''the whole world is about to find out I'm a Sentinel' headache? Because if you do..."

Jim looked up into Blair's troubled gaze. "No," Jim replied truthfully. "Although there may be elements of an 'I hope the whole world isn't about to learn the sad truth about my sex life' headache."

Blair smiled, clearly relieved. "Scout's honor. Y'know, Jim, if you were shagging supermodels every night, you'd have begged me to put it in." With that parting shot, Blair disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.

"Great comeback, Chief," Jim muttered to himself. He crossed to the answering machine and retrieved the messages. All four were for Blair. He played the last one twice. Then he reached for his leather jacket and withdrew the small object from the pocket. Blair breezed back in to peer at the baking pizza through the oven window. "I can see it now...Chapter 30 - Sentinel Pick-up Lines: 'Hey baby, did you know jaguars need 60 square feet to make love?' Anything good?" he asked, indicating the machine.

"IBM, Proctor & Gamble, Cascade Pharmaceuticals and another co-ed with incredibly bad eyesight trying to cage you into a private horizontal tutoring session."

"Sorry," said Blair insincerely, grinning.

"Don't be. Listening to your messages saves me the trouble of calling the phone sex line. Listen, Blair...have you decided what offer you're going to take?"

"Well, that last one sounded pretty good."

"Seriously."

"Aw, Jim, you know I'm holding out until Bill Gates calls me personally." Blair picked up his beer and gestured Jim to the couch. "OK, seriously. I just can't see myself working full-time for any corporation. Of course, the money's fantastic. I was thinking I could work as a private consultant on a case-by-case basis. Just as a sideline while I continue to teach. Lots of PhDs do that."

Encouraged, Jim forged ahead, ignoring the bats in his stomach. "Actually, Chief, there's another alternative." With that, he tossed the object in his hand to Blair, who caught it between his palms.

"This...this is a detective badge, Jim. I don't deserve this."

"Hear me out, Chief. When that Alamo thing went down, I cut out the USA Today article, clipped it to a print-out of our arrest record and laid it on Simon's desk. You know Simon, he moved right on it. The mayor loved the idea - hell, he was thrilled to find out he'd been doing something innovative without even realizing it. Called Simon a genius. They're already planning to pitch it to other police departments. There may be some publicity, but nothing we can't handle..."

"Jim, Jim, hold up. What idea?"

"Pairing a cop with an anthropologist. Officially...and permanently."

"Whoa, Jim." Blair got up and paced across the room to the windows. "You sure know how to pick your moments."

"You don't have to decide right away. I know you've got a lot of processing to do. I just wanted to put it out there on the table. I mean, it's not a six-figure salary, but I -"

"One time, I asked Henri to show me how to handle a weapon," said Blair abruptly, without turning around.

Jim blinked at the non-sequiter, but decided to go with it. "I don't get it, Chief. Why didn't you just ask me?"

"You were in the hospital," said Blair quietly, "and I didn't want you to find out, in case I couldn't do it." He turned slowly to face Jim, hands clenched in fists. "H. told me to pretend the target was the guy who shot youand I started shooting...and I-I just went berserk, man. Rambo personified. Didn't stop until I was out of ammo, and then some. Scared the shit out of poor H."

Jim was quiet for a moment, savoring this evidence of his Guide's continued loyalty...then realized this must have occurred just before Alex Barnes appeared on the scene.

"I hope you got the bastard," he said, the feeble joke masking his despair. God, we were so close.

Blair gave a nervous laugh. "Oh, yeah. Vengeance was mine." He stopped and turned to face Jim, suddenly very still. "That's when I knew I could never carry a gun."

"That's the beauty part, Chief. You don't have to. Don't you see...they want you precisely because you aren't a cop. No gun. No uniform. No haircut. You're free to be you, with no apologies or excuses."

"Jim...I...hah...I don't know what to say. I am seriously weirded out here. I'm - I'm not sure this is the best time for me to be contemplating employment with the Cascade P.D., you know?"

Jim swallowed. "I guess I shouldn't have brought it up tonight, when you've got so much else on your mind."

"Tomorrow, Jim. We'll talk tomorrow, OK? I promise." Blair shoved a nervous hand through his hair. "Look, you're tired. Have a sprawl and dial everything down but taste. Dinner will be ready in a few."

Jim collapsed on the new couch with a sigh, pushing back to a reclining position and switching on the heat control.

You took your one and only shot, Ellison. Only time will tell if you hit this mark.

His ears were ringing. He concentrated and identified the source - tiny bubbles rising to the surface of his beer. Fermented hops, he reminded himself with a grimace. If Sandburg decided to stay at Rainier, he was going to personally see to it that the B. S. Mem Ftn was filled with beer. That way Blair would just float to the top...or die happy.

Blair has had so many close calls...if he stays with you, his luck is bound to run out one day...ow...dammit!

How was he supposed to relax when Sandburg was making such a racket, anyway? It sounded like he was banging pot lids together. Jim focused with an effort and realized the noise was merely the clink of the metal tags on Blair's bracelet.

Oh, no.

"Sandburg," Jim whispered weakly. "Blair..." But Blair couldn't hear him, not over the noise of the bubbles and the charms and the echoes and the crowd cheering Orvelle's three-point shot inside the Coliseum and, oh God, the TV wasn't even on and the rain falling over the sound with a hiss like grilling steaks...

And then he zoned.

Sally was calling him for dinner, but he pretended not to hear...whatever she had prepared, it didn't smell very appetizing. Maybe one of those 1,000-year old eggs her family ate to celebrate Chinese New Year. He wrinkled his nose. Blair would say it was no different from eating gorgonzola cheese. Or fat Peruvian grubs. A cultural thing.

Blair...help me...

The opaque, colorless light split and refracted into a rainbow of colors which quickly melted away, leaving only a murky blue-green. It's just an eclipse, he thought. A celestial event.

But the light never returned.

He went in search of it, laboriously pulling his boots free of entangling jungle foliage with every faltering step. With nothing to indicate the way, he wandered in ever-smaller circles, until finally, exhausted, he spiraled down into the dark silence, certain he would never see the light again.

More and less evolved than other men, able to sense other planes of existence even as he himself remained firmly bound to the earth, unable to escape the consequences of his own primitive instincts...only through the eyes of his Guide had he caught a glimpse of a different reality...a paradise in which he was not cursed, but blessed.

That single, seductive glimpse would have to suffice. His Guide would not be tethered as well, a helpless and ready sacrifice. What happened at the fountain would never happen again...even if it meant letting go.

The Sentinel howled in anguish, once again wrenched from the other half of its soul, abandoned to the dark and featureless void of a solitary future...the stillness made all the more profound by the fading memories of color and music and laughter.

This time there would be no repression of his senses, no dulling of his pain...and every tear he shed would serve as a reminder of the moment of his damnation.

"...Jim, you sonovabitch, you are not getting out of dinner this way! Not even if I have to blend it up and give it to you intravenously...and I'll throw in some curry, that'll wake you up...and some algae powder...oh, and that can of Spam I bought to polish the furniture with...believe it, man..."

Thump - thump. Thump - thump. Thump - thump.

The ground beneath the fallen Sentinel resonated with the regular pulsing of a drumbeat.

The tribe, Jim thought, chest heaving. They're trying to show me the way home.

The deaf and blind Sentinel pushed himself up on trembling arms, pulled off his boots and rose painfully to his feet. A moment to distinguish between the subtle vibrations of the earth and the slight tremors that racked his own body, then he began to walk slowly toward his tribe and the soundless message of the drumsong - "I know you're tired, but come."

This is the way home.

His Guide was touching him, holding him, and no sound was ever sweeter than Blair's pounding heartbeat, no color more vivid than the blue of Blair's eyes. Jim blinked and stared, wondering muzzily if he'd acquired the ability to see colors outside of the normal spectrum.

"Thank God." Blair eased back, kneeling on the cushions beside him. "Shush...just breath. BREATH, dammit!", this last exhortation addressed to himself. "Your meditation technique sucks, man."

Jim relaxed under the touch of his Guide's hands, gliding thigh to knee, shoulder to elbow and back again, as though he feared Jim might have broken a bone or two while lying zoned in an overstuffed Barco-lounger.

"OK. You're back. You're good." Blair took a deep, shuddering breath. "This hasn't happened for a while. I didn't...I couldn't figure out what was causing it - "

"Beer," said Jim. "The bubbles. Loud."

Blair reached across Jim for the half-full glass and chugged the contents.

"My hero," said Jim, smiling faintly.

"The least I could do, man," grinned Blair, stifling a belch. "OK, your hearing must be completely shot...let's picture the dial..."

"I'm all right, Blair. Christ, I'm like a little kid." Jim swallowed. "Laying all my problems at your feet. Always looking to you to make things right. Not fair to you." God, had he zoned just to see if Blair would come for him?

Jim abruptly sat up, wanting away from the dual embrace of recliner and Guide. Both stubbornly refused to relinquish him, and he fell back to the cushions with a surprised huff. A small red and black book balanced on the edge of the coffee table clattered to the floor, pages fanning open.

It was a ledger. There, recorded in surprisingly neat script, was an accounting of every penny Blair owed to Jim. Every missed rent payment, every emergency loan, every meal spotted for, every twenty casually left behind on the kitchen counter when the grant money was late. The last entry, the ink barely dry, was for the five dollars he'd given Trina for bus fare. Grand total...

"$16,873," Jim read dully.

"And two cents," Blair added quietly.

Two cents. I'll give him two cents. "Hell, Sandburg. I can't even buy a decent truck for that."

Blair was at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "Maybe with the trade-in," he laughed nervously, "or, um, the salvage value, as the case may be." He gestured with his hands, palms out. "If you don't think it's fair, Jim, I'll be glad to..."

"I owe you my fucking life!" Jim exploded, cutting Blair off. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be in a fucking psyche ward, or a living in a fucking shack on the side of fucking Mt. Saint Helen's, or in a fucking monastery..."

"Now, there's a fate worse than death," Blair tried.

"...or any of the other fucking places you looked for me! Just because I don't have it written down in nice, neat columns doesn't mean I don't know exactly how much I owe you!"

"Jim - chill, man."

But Jim was glad to be angry, glad to have something to put inside of himself, something warm to fill the cold, empty place that would be left when Blair was gone. Something else to thank him for. Thank you, Chief, thank you so very fucking much for making me angry.

Jim snapped the ledger shut and tossed it aside. "You want to settle up, Chief? Fine. Forget this. After tomorrow, we're square. No matter what happens..." Jim faltered. "I...I got a hell of a bargain," he finished softly.

Blair looked at the discarded book with disbelief. "My God, Jim - I...look, there's nothing to worry about," Blair said, squeezing Jim's shoulder gingerly, like a lion-tamer petting a big cat. He went into his room, and returned with a slender spiral-bound volume. "I think it's way past time that you read this."

"I'll wait for the movie," said Jim.

"Just look at the title, Jim..."

"NO!" Jim shouted, knocking the dissertation from Blair's hand. "I don't want to. I don't need to. I trust you. That's right - you managed to pull this genetic throwback a few rungs up the evolutionary ladder, Chief. If there's anything in the diss that changes life as I know it, well...maybe that's the way things are supposed to be. Because I find I now believe in spirit and faith and destiny and goddamned aphrodisiacs. So don't screw with me when I'm having a religious experience, OK?"

Blair held up his hands, as if in surrender. "Then what's the problem, Jim - if not the diss? Clue me in. Let me help."

"Chief, I'm sorry - I don't want to need you..."

Blair looked even more shocked, as if the ground was suddenly crumbling away beneath his feet.

Dammit! His world was ending right now, a day too early - and the Sentinel, for all his abilities, was powerless to stop it. But Jim Ellison could, if only he could find the words. God...Blair had written a whole book about him, and he couldn't offer a few simple words in return? The Sentinel within screamed in helpless, incoherent fury.

"Not again...that's it, man," Blair said, reaching for his jacket.

"Wait...where are you going?"

"Out to get you some raw meat."

Jim swallowed. "You don't have any money."

"Yeah, well, with any luck I'll find a fresh kill out on I-9."

"You don't have a car."

"Oh, yeah...that's right. Guess 'dependence' goes both ways, huh?" Blair said bitterly. He stood by the door, fists clenched, like a child who has declared he is running away, only to realize that he has no where to run.

"Listen, Chief," Jim said desperately. "Truth is, I'm contemplating life outside the Sandburg Zone, and I don't much like the view. I've gotten kind of attached to you," Jim said, inwardly wincing at his inept description of a connection more binding than chain, yet so light there was no sense of being tethered at all. "I've discovered that I'm willing to risk more when I can rely on someone being around to pick up the pieces. It doesn't feel like dependence...it's more like...like..." " - freedom?" finished Blair. "The freedom to fly as high as you can, because you know there's someone to catch you if you fall...and a safe place to rest until you find the strength to try again? Is that the feeling, Jim?"

Jim nodded mutely.

Blair broke into a smile.

Apparently Doctor Sandburg did not intend to penalize him for grammatical errors or incomplete sentence structure. Jim heaved a shaky sigh of relief.

"I know that feeling," Blair said. He gestured around the loft. "You gave me a home. The first real home I ever had." He crossed back to the sofa and flopped down beside Jim.

"No, buddy...you gave me one. You helped me cope with the Sentinel thing - but the most important thing you taught me was to have a little humanity."

Blair snorted affectionately. "I didn't teach you that. You feel things in here," he said, touching the center of Jim's chest, "just as strongly as you sense things out here," he said, guiding Jim's hand over his own heart.

The exhausted Sentinel sensed his Guide's beating heart through all the layers of leather and flannel, and was lulled to a state of restfulness. Home.

"You're both very strong and extremely vulnerable. Your capacity to love is as great as your ability to feel betrayed," Blair added softly. "That's why you didn't want to need anybody, isn't it?"

Jim lowered his eyes, recognizing the truth of it. "Anything else, Doctor Freud?"

"You chose professions where you could serve and protect, while maintaining an emotional detachment. You valued structure and authority, then broke the rules at every opportunity. When you were separated from your Guide, you repressed any memory of your senses. You had amazing coping mechanisms, but you were at war with yourself, man. I just helped negotiate the truce."

Jim looked up at Blair. "I don't know what the future holds after tomorrow, or whether it will even be possible for us to continue on as we have in the past...but I just want you to know that I'll be...glad...if that's your decision. You're part of what - of who I am. I saw the black jaguar when I first started to trust my Sentinel abilities. That was in Peru - right before you turned down that offer to go to Borneo. And again when Incacha passed the way of the shaman to you..." Jim trailed off, distracted by thoughts of his first Guide, who'd made an improbable journey of thousands of miles to be reunited with his Sentinel, only to die in his arms.

"I'd theorized that Sentinels would have formidable defenses, so I knew from the get-go what I was getting into," said Blair easily. "But I confess, I was starting to wonder if you'd ever feel comfortable with your senses in this urban context - until you told me about the cat. It signified your kundalini - the reclaiming of your true power."

"I appreciate you sticking it out," said Jim, uncomfortable as always when Sandburg started to spout this mystical stuff. "But listen - I understand that it's not about me any more. It's your turn, now. Time to find your own path. It's not fair to expect you to commit any more time to this thing." But I'll never forget the past three years, Jim pledged silently. I'll never forget you...no matter what.

Blair nodded his agreement, smiling happily. "You're right. It's not about you any more. It's about us."

"Us - what...?!"

Blair got off the sofa ("ouch, ouch, ouch - my foot's asleep") and limped to the balcony doors, looking out over the city. Jim levered himself to a sitting position, watching intently.

"I can't sit back and observe my destiny. I have to LIVE it!" Blair proclaimed to Greater Cascade, arms flung wide. "After tomorrow, I can throw the pretense of objectivity out the window. After tomorrow, I'll never again have to deny what I am - " He turned to face Jim, seemingly in slow motion. " A shaman...and your Guide."

Jim closed his eyes. Oh, God...oh, God, thank you. He was...claimed.

"I came back from the dead for you, Jim. Why would you think I'd leave you now? Do I look like the kind of guy who'd leave a man as soon as he put him through school?" Blair asked with a grin, totally unaffected by the significance of the moment.

"You were packing," he answered, dazed.

"I'm not packing, man. Just reorganizing a little. Picking out things to put on my spirit altar."

"I - what the hell is a spirit altar, and what does my old footlocker have to do with it?"

"A place to assemble objects that symbolize the things you treasure most. A visual reminder of where you are and how you got there. The trunk represents you - the foundation for all the rest."

Jim rose unsteadily, reaching for his Guide, and was swiftly caught and held. He gave in to his emotions - finally, finally unafraid. For here was strength, strength enough to hold him together when he was coming apart; strength that would hold up under the onslaught of his fiercely powerful, potentially dangerous love and return it in equal measure.

"You were working so hard to finish your dissertation," he finally choked out.

"It had outlived its usefulness. I knew I had to get it out of the way. Sticking to the quantifiable is holding us back, man. Now we can explore the mystical aspect of all this."

"Only if we can find a way to make sure Jim Ellison stays in charge the next time my Sentinel instincts kick in. I can't risk it ever happening again. Can you really forgive me for letting it...letting her -"

"Sure. I've got a martyr complex, remember?" Blair teased gently. He began to rub Jim's back in small circles. "Jim...having a genetic mutation doesn't make you a Sentinel. You're a Sentinel because of your heart and soul and the kind of man you are. Your instincts are just fine."

He eased back to look Jim in the face and offered up an apology of his own. "When Alex turned up, I was still trying to convince myself that I was just an impartial researcher. But when I saw my spirit animal for the first time at the fountain," his voice taking on the timbre that resonated in Jim's soul, "and felt it merge with yours...I knew that I really was a shaman, born to be your Guide. It was my kundalini."

Jim looked into his Guide's wide, wondrous eyes, humbled to be the object of such devotion and determined to be worthy of it. It was sweet, heart-breakingly sweet to be the pot of gold at the end of Blair Sandburg's rainbow.

"This is going to mean more experiments, isn't it?" Jim said, trying to appear annoyed and failing miserably.

"Yep. There's all sorts of things I can't wait to find out. Like why you're afraid of water and I'm afraid of heights. Our psychic signals are definitely crossed there, man." He gazed at Jim a moment longer, then pulled away, smacking Jim on the arm. "Now...let's eat and catch what's left of the game."

"Yeah...this stuff can wait until tomorrow," Jim said, gesturing at the clutter. After all, he thought happily, tomorrow is just the beginning. "You should hit the sack early tonight."

"You too? What is this strange power I have that makes people want to get me into bed...?" Blair wondered.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, Chief."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Jim...I've just got to get some rest."

He watched as Blair sliced his culinary masterpiece into steaming wedges. Jim had to admit that it looked pretty good. Even if it did smell like old socks.

"Remember, I'll need extra time to get ready in the morning," said Blair.

"Need to make yourself gorgeous for the delectable Doctor Saunderson," he teased. "Don't worry, Sandburg, I can shower, shave, dress, have coffee, read the paper, cook breakfast and wash the dishes while you're still in the cream rinse cycle."

"Ah, Jim...? What would you say if I told you Doctor Saunderson isn't a woman?"

"Too much information, Chief," Jim said, and went to retrieve the plates.

Blair opened his eyes, laced his fingers and stretched. He unfolded his crossed legs, hissing softly as the old bullet wound made itself known. He glanced at his watch - a gift from Jim, who had grown tired of waiting on Blair when the "internal rhythms of the Earth" ran twenty minutes late. He took it off and held it close to his eyes.

4:10 am. Three hours...not bad, considering.

He rose to his knees before the spirit altar, contemplating the items he had assembled there. Beeswax candles flickered in multi-colored votives fashioned from beads and bits of glass, casting light and shadows over the odd assortment.

A photo of himself with Jim, taken by Simon during a fishing trip. A Mayan clay pipe, broken to pieces and painstakingly glued back together. An antique inkwell in the shape of a woman's hat. A worn copy of the Talmud resting atop "The Sentinels of Paraguay", with a poignant thank-you letter from one of his students tucked between the leaves. A pot of Peruvian cat's-claw nestled beside a pot of peppermint dug from his grandmother's yard. His Orvelle Wallace NBA card. A $100 bill.

Blair picked up a plastic keychain stamped "Souvenir of Coney Island" and held it to the light. Squinting to look through the peephole, he grinned at the photo inside - he and Naomi dressed like Bonnie and Clyde. He laid it back down next to a carved fetish in the shape of a wolf, letting his fingers trail over the stone. It was warm to his touch.

The centerpiece of the altar was a small fountain. Water flowed over a flat piece of slate suspended from a copper arch into a basin filled with the rocks he'd collected on his journeys. Naomi had frowned upon collections of material things, so Blair had scooped up rocks - which, after all, cost nothing and didn't take up much space. A bit of ancient brick from Jerusalem...cats-eye marbles won from a neighborhood bully in Queens...smooth grey stones from a trout stream.

Blair listened to the sound of the falling water, head tilted, eyes closed in concentration. Now and then he nodded. Later, he rearranged the stones and contemplated the new sound that was created. If he tried, he could hear the slate wearing away and the copper oxidizing to a verdigris patina.

At last, Blair drew back and picked up a delicate circlet of white feathers, found inside the pillow on which Incacha had died. He gazed though it for long minutes, watching the vision it framed. Above him, Jim stirred restlessly and moaned in his sleep.

Finally touching the death crown to the flame of his meditation candle, he consigned it to the heavens, bidding Incacha a safe passing in his broken Quechua.

Sighing, he added two last items to the collection...his Sentinel research...and his dissertation.

"Closed Ranks - The Social Structure of the Cascade Police Department."

He'd changed his research topic over two years ago, shortly after he and Jim returned from Peru...then dug in to wait for Jim to catch up. He was Guide to a Sentinel, and he would gladly spend the rest of his life learning all that entailed. He would not subject the study to artificial deadlines or superficial evaluation. They were only getting started, and there were volumes left to write.

I'm sorry, Jim, he apologized silently. But I had to know for sure.

Blair closed his eyes in regret, thinking of his neighbor, Jean Ashe, and all the other unbonded Sentinels and Guides who did not understand what had happened to them. "Someday," Blair promised, softer than a dreaming Sentinel could hear. "When we're both in the home. And we need the money for condoms and Wonderburgers and six-packs...and good toilet paper."

Long, damp tendrils of hair snaked across his face; soft full lips pressed insistently against his own. Jim moaned softly, curling his fingers over the edges of a woven sleeping mat. "Incacha...?" he murmured. Opening his eyes, he blinked at the dark head bent over him.

Jim tried to reach up to caress his Guide's hair, then realized with shock that he could not do so. He lay bound on a raised platform. He began to thrash back and forth, flexing his arms in an effort to free himself.

"Don't struggle," the shaman commanded. In English. Jim stilled immediately, blinking in confusion.

"You know, it's pretty tacky to call out your ex-Guide's name during a vision, man." The shaman straightened, and Jim found himself looking into Blair's unmistakable indigo eyes.

"Sandburg, what the hell...? You kissed me," Jim accused shakily. At that moment, he was glad to be lying down, restraints or no.

"Incacha asked me to say goodbye to you."

Jim's head fell back. "I have no sense of him," he realized with a sharp pang.

"No," confirmed Blair gently. "He's gone to join his tribal ancestors. Guess you're stuck with me, now."

Jim turned his head to assess his situation. He was clothed in torn and bloodstained jungle fatigues. "Why am I tied up?"

Blair shrugged. "Your vision, man. But at a guess, something in your subconscious has got you tied up in knots."

Jim took a closer look at Blair. He was clothed in a long loincloth that looked to be pieced together from chamois polishing cloths. Garish pink and green feathers were braided into his hair. His face was painted with a particularly radioactive shade of peach lipstick, which Jim assumed Blair had found underneath his bed. As if all that wasn't unsettling enough, he was also gripping Jim's best kitchen knife with both hands, brandishing it like a ceremonial dagger.

"Just relax," Blair said, holding the blade poised over Jim's chest. "I'll set you free."

"You'll ruin the blade," Jim complained, unintimidated. "Where's your Swiss Army knife?"

"Jim...do you see any pockets in this thing?"

Swallowing, Jim dragged his attention up and away from the generous expanse of well-proportioned, lightly furred leg displayed ankle to hip by the loincloth. "What the hell are you wearing around your neck? It looks like a sandwich board."

"Listen...when you're summoned to a vision without advance notice, you just have to make do. At least you let me have clothes, this time."

Jim flushed. "I'll bet you plucked those feathers out of the duster."

"Yeah...but you'll be glad when you see what I can do with them."

Jim tensed as Blair unexpectedly slid the blade beneath his tank shirt. Oh, God, he thought, suddenly recognizing which of his many inhibitions was responsible for his present predicament.

"Stop squirming." Holding his tongue between his teeth in concentration, Blair carefully ripped the seam from shoulder to hem, then pushed the ruined cloth back leisurely, exposing Jim's heaving chest.

"Sandburg...what the hell? You said you were going to cut me loose...!"

"I said I was going to set you free," Blair said, his voice gentle and laced with affectionate humor. He caressed Jim's chest, pausing to stroke the nipple repeatedly with his thumb. "I think there are one or two things you neglected to tell me when you were baring your soul earlier. Aren't there...?" Blair whispered into Jim's ear, letting his tongue trace the outer shell.

He heaved a sigh of relief when Blair laid the knife aside; the next moment, he was straining helplessly against his bindings as his Guide began to lay soft kisses down his jaw and throat. When he turned his head away, Blair licked a meandering trail down the back of his neck. Sensitive fingertips traced bone and muscle reverently, as though Jim was the most fragile and precious of artifacts. He gasped involuntarily as the feathers entwined into the shaman's hair ghosted over his nipples and down his flat belly.

"Chill, man," Blair murmured. "You're always complaining that I never do my share of the dusting." Then Blair's hand was slipping beneath his waistband, gradually working loose the buttons of his pants.

It was now obvious to Jim that his Guide intended to lay bare more than just his soul. He bucked in desperation and Blair gently pressed him back, murmuring reassurance.

"No," he breathed desperately, fingers straining. "No. Please. It hurts."

Blair straightened slightly to look Jim in the eyes. "I know," he soothed, fisting Jim's weeping cock and stroking upward firmly. "I'll make it better," he whispered.

Jim's perceptions began to run and merge, sound becoming touch becoming sight...Blair's voice drifted across his engorged flesh like the kiss of raw silk.

"I'll take care of you," Blair said. He nuzzled Jim's genitals. "Always take care of you."

"No," Jim writhed helplessly, skin burning from the salt of his own sweat. "Hurts inside."

Blair looked up with a puzzled frown.

"You'll do anything for that dissertation of yours, won't you...?!"

"No," answered Blair slowly. "But I'll do anything for you." His unoccupied hand slipped beneath Jim's bent legs, curving around a muscular thigh to hold it still; then he leaned forward and ran his tongue over Jim's cockhead.

"I...ah, God, Blair...please," Jim begged, shocked by the thin, reedy keening of his own voice. "You don't have to do this. For God's sake, I can just about manage to control myself."

But Blair continued to lick his flagging cock like a melting popsicle, while gently rolling his tight balls. His hand moved lower to massage Jim's perineum firmly, then lower still.

"Why are you afraid, Jim? Do you think you'll be less of a man?" Blair retrieved the knife and ran the blunt edge up the length of Jim's cock and down again. "I'll lay down for you. You can do anything you want to me..."

Desire stabbed through the Sentinel, more pain than pleasure, desire so intense that for a moment he believed himself impaled on the knife. No torture had ever been this excruciating.

"Does cultural conditioning transcend your territorial imperative? Where are we now, Jim? The jungle? The loft? Or inside your mind?"

"I am not an animal!" Jim screamed.

"Is the Sentinel the only part of you that wants me?"

Jim suddenly went limp. "No," he whispered.

"Then there's no reason to hold back, Jim. Turn up all the dials. There's no place you can go that I can't find you." Jim wondered hazily if that was a threat or a promise.

Then all conscious thought left him, as lush lips wet with pre-cum parted wide and engulfed him. His hips snapped up, driving him even further into Blair's mouth, and back down onto Blair's fingers. He pumped hard and fast, straining mindlessly at his bonds until one gave way with a sound like a gunshot.

Sensations washed over him, eroding his barriers like crashing waves on shifting sand - Blair's rapt expression; the pungent scent of their sex; the hot suction and burning pressure; the silky hair brushing his thighs; the sound of his own harsh breathing; the wet pop as his cock slipped free, dislodged from its warm prison by his frantic thrashing. He mewled his need and Blair took him in his mouth again. Three more hard thrusts and Jim came explosively, screaming his release and rage like a mortally wounded warrior at the gates of Valhalla.

He drifted, waiting for the killing blow; instead, he heard only soothing murmurs; felt only soft, comforting touches. He cracked open his eyes with an effort.

Blair was straddling Jim's legs, regarding him solemnly.

Jim drew a ragged breath, then another. "Does finding out who we are mean losing who I am?"

Blair was silent for several minutes. "Who are you?" he asked at last. "Man or Sentinel?"

Jim tried to gather his thoughts, distracted anew by the sensation of Blair's genitals rubbing gently against his own. "I'm Jim," he gasped finally, almost triumphantly.

"And what do you need, Jim?"

"I need you," he replied.

"Who do you need - man or shaman?"

"I need...Blair."

"Then you must accept all of me...and I must have all of you - for a soul can not be divided against itself. By denying yourself, you deny me."

"I'm...I'm afraid of what that knowledge will cost us."

"Knowledge doesn't destroy. Knowledge enriches." Blair toyed with a lock of his own hair, drawing a feather between Jim's balls and up the base of his cock, smiling as it jerked to life again. "Nothing will be sacrificed."

He had died, and an angel was promising him the afterlife. A blasphemous thought, considering the things Blair was whispering to him now.

"Too much. Too much," Jim gasped, tossing his head. "I can't."

"Jim, you were right about one thing. We can't stay where we are. We have to go either forward or back. Trust me. Trust yourself," he entreated, his voice soft and pleading. "To love me, you have to love yourself."

"Blair," Jim said, shivering violently, "set me free."

A dozen emotions flashed through Blair's eyes in a moment, too quickly for Jim to identify them all - doubt, fear, concern...and need.

"Don't you know that I love you?"

Jim's bonds fell away.

He looked up at Blair in wonder, taking in the abundant hair, rich skin tones of rose and apricot, pouting lips, and huge eyes that reflected emotion the way cut diamonds reflected light. Blair seemed the embodiment of life and laughter and love, and Jim's long-deprived soul yearned to experience it all.

"Keep your eyes open," he commanded, reaching for his Guide.

Blair's questioning murmur elongated into a monosyllabic hum of pleasure as Jim pulled him down...arms opening, fingers entwining, legs spreading, lips parting, barriers falling. And then Blair was filling his mouth as he did the empty spaces of Jim's soul.

Jim lingered over the kiss, imprinting Blair's taste - the last and most intimate of his heightened senses to have knowledge of his Guide. He traced the full lips with his tongue and worried the lower one gently with his teeth. Slipping inside, Jim fenced briefly with an eager tongue before seizing control and plunging deep.

Blair moaned against his lips and began to rock, humping his thigh.

"Oh, yeah," Jim encouraged, supporting his Guide's shifting weight as he began to speed up. "That's it. Give it to me, sweetheart."

The knotted leather cord dangling from Jim's wrist snaked across Blair's back and between the flexing mounds of his ass. Jim gathered it in his hand and pulled up slowly.

Blair suddenly gasped and trembled, shooting hot cum between them. He collapsed into his Sentinel's arms, insensible, murmuring breathless words of devotion and commitment and love.

"Am I that good, or are you that easy?" Jim smiled, rubbing Blair's shaking back.

"Both," Blair gusted. He finally sat up, swaying slightly and breathing hard, as though his strength had been sapped by a sacred ritual. Jim raised himself on his elbows, unconsciously trying to maintain contact.

Blair's arms encircled him, pulling him up easily. Draping his legs over Jim's and aligning their cocks, Blair leaned forward, inviting another kiss.

Jim tenderly pushed the younger man's tangled hair out of his eyes and cupped his face with one big palm. Blair's lips parted willingly for him...so soft...so sweet...love this...love you. Was he speaking out loud? No matter. Blair would read his mind.

The darkness and the light. The past and the future. The jungle and the city. Structure and chaos. Fear and courage. Pleasure and pain. The physical and the spiritual.

Man and Sentinel.

Sentinel and Shaman.

All corresponding parts of the same whole.

Blair Sandburg was literally the other half of his soul. And he finally believed that he, Jim Ellison, was the other half of Blair's.

"What are you thinking about?" Blair murmured against his throat, sucking hard to get Jim's attention.

"Keeping my balance," Jim smiled, trailing off to a moan as Blair encircled both their cocks and began pumping away enthusiastically.

His conscious mind had veered away from the knowledge of this love, as he would turn from a cliff before going over the edge. But now he stood on that prospect, contemplating a vista not of space, but of time - his future with Blair. And the view was breath-taking.

Jim opened his eyes, awakened by the sound of Blair climbing the stairs to the loft.

Finis -

Thank you for reading! Feedback humbly begged for.

Marilyn Martin
mmartin@eurekanet.com