With all the wonderful stories we've been deluged with lately, I simply had to add mine to the fray!

Many thanks to my beta readers: kerguelen (who I can't send mail to anymore or I swear I would have sent you the last few posts to this story!), Susan, Marcia, Roberta, and James). Thanks for the help, guys!

This story (endless and long-winded though it may be) is almost entirely from Jim's point of view. We might pop into Blair's head from time to time, but it's kind of a rarity. The sequel (swirling in my mind, though not on paper yet) will be from Blair's point of view, so we'll get inside his head eventually.

By now most of you know my penchant toward angst and shmaltz. I have taken both to new, and quite frankly, embarrassing heights. I shall say no more--I simply felt you all HAD to be warned!

"The Little Prince" is by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

This story is in no way affiliated with UPN or Pet Fly Productions. The characters are their property, and this story is not meant to infringe upon their copyrights.

Promise to Keep

Like he did every morning, Jim Ellison awoke precisely ten minutes before his alarm was due to sound. Blair always joked that he really shouldn't bother setting it in the first place-his own, internal clock was far more reliable than any man-made contraption. Jim shifted in bed, lying on his side and lifting up on an elbow so he could watch Blair sleep. He thought Blair looked a good deal younger than 25 as it was, but when he slept, he looked almost adolescent. Thank God for the stubble of beard or Jim would feel like a pedophile every time he woke up to gaze at the man.

Jim hadn't heard him come to bed last night, testament enough that it had been the early hours of the morning. Approaching finals meant crunch time for Blair as well as his students. That, added to the hours he worked on the Job, not to mention the time spent on his dissertation, and Blair was putting in 20 hour days.

Much to the vocal chagrin of an increasingly possessive lover.

"You are, like, *so* high maintenance," Blair said over a hurried dinner the night before.

"What do you mean?" Jim asked indignantly.

Blair grinned and in a whiny voice offered proof. "Chief, the bed's too cold without you....Chief, my back hurts, I need a massage....But yoooour lasagna's better than mine..." Blair looked up to gauge Jim's reaction. His grin widened at the man's sheepish self-recognition. "And let's not forget the ever popular 'if you spent half as much time thinking about me as you do your students'...."

Jim laughed and tossed his napkin at the younger man. "All right already," he said. He blinked innocently. "Is it so wrong to think all of your attention should be focused on me and only me?"

"You only want *certain* attention focused on you," Blair pointed out. "The minute I suggest a test or two, you suddenly have a thousand things you'd rather be doing."

"But they're all things I'd rather be doing with you," Jim said suggestively. He slid his bare foot up Blair's pant leg and grinned when Blair shooed him away.

Then Blair had promised Jim a long weekend as soon as the last exam was graded, and they'd made tentative plans to go up to a friend's cabin in the mountains. Until then, Jim would have to survive on brief snatches with the younger man. And times like this; not shared exactly, but special to him just the same.

He loved the way Blair looked as he slept. Jim smiled at the thought. Well, okay, if pressed on the issue, he'd admit he loved the way Blair looked period. But especially when he slept, his long hair splayed out across the pillow, his face pleasantly smoothed over. Jim resisted the urge to embrace him, knowing he was exhausted. He contented himself with watching Blair's chest rise and fall in deep and steady rhythm and daydreamed a little about their coming vacation. Blair swore he'd make up for lost time and now Jim grinned in anticipation. *There's a hell of a lot to make up,* he thought. He'd made Blair feel properly guilty when the grad student broke their coveted twice-a-day streak. When once-a-day went by the wayside, Blair had some fast talking to do to appease his disappointed lover.

Jim chuckled quietly and focused in on Blair's heart beat, a sound as familiar to him as his own voice. He could pick it out of a crowd-at the grocery store, in a bar, hell, in a stadium he'd be willing to bet. He frowned suddenly at what he heard. It was Blair's heartbeat sure enough, but there was something different about it. He tried to focus in even further, but finally gave up, rolling his eyes at himself. *Hell, I'm just going through withdrawal,* he thought. Too many days without his daily requirement of Blair, and now he was starting to hallucinate.

Several days passed, but, for some reason, Jim hadn't been able to shake his concern, and then he was noticing it all the time--there was something different in the way Blair slept, or perhaps it was in his breathing or his heart beat. Jim told himself he was being crazy and obsessive and continually talked himself out of mentioning anything.

Just a few days before their long-awaited vacation, Blair woke up when Jim's alarm went off. He rolled over with Jim when he reached around to turn it off, then snuggled into his arms. "Three days to go," Blair said with a yawn.

"I'll never make it," Jim groaned. "I might as well have spent the

last month at St. Sebastian's."

Blair laughed. "You're such a baby. Before we got together, you used to go *months* without getting any. Now let a few days go by, and you fall apart."

"Your semen has some kind of addictive substance in it," Jim said with a grin. "I've been meaning to run some tests."

Blair started laughing. "You're just looking for an excuse to bleed me dry."

"I don't need an excuse!" Jim rakishly replied. His hands started to

rove possessively over Blair's body, then stopped for a moment. "Jeez, Blair, I know you're busy, but you've got to eat."

"What are you talking about?"

"You keep losing weight, and you won't be allowed to sit in the front seat anymore," Jim replied.

"I don't look any different. What makes you think I've lost weight?" he asked, the research gleam glowing in his tired eyes.

Jim's smirk said, *Sorry I mentioned it,* but he shrugged good naturedly and rolled his eyes at the man's boundless curiosity. "I don't know, I can just tell," he said with a shrug. "Your skin feels

different or something--like the bones are closer to the surface...I don't know, it's kind of hard to explain."

"Cool," Blair said. He grinned and rolled over on to his back, pushing his arms overhead in a teasingly luxurious stretch. "You'll have to give me a full physical at the cabin," he said, kicking at the covers until they were tangled at his feet.

Jim hungrily eyed the naked body splayed out before him. Licking his lips, he reached for Blair's chest. "I'd better get back to that semen test," he said with mock seriousness. He skimmed over a shoulder, down Blair's arm and up the underside of that same arm. Blair's back arched as Jim's hand started down his side.

Jim tensed and stopped in mid-caress. "What's that?" he asked, face suddenly dark.

Blair opened his eyes. "What?"

"That!" Jim said, fingertips gingerly nudging the skin at his side.

Blair lifted an eyebrow. "That's my armpit," he said. "If you're looking for an erogenous zone, I gotta tell you, Mr. Romance, you're *way* off."

"Come on, Blair, don't you feel that?" He took Blair's right hand and placed it where his own had been. "It's like a....a bump or something," he said, worriedly searching the younger man's face.

Blair felt around for a moment before shrugging. "Sorry, I don't feel anything. It's probably a blood vessel or a pulled muscle."

"You need to get a physical," Jim said.

Blair grinned and scooted closer to his lover. "I *thought* that's what we were doing," he said, kissing Jim's shoulder, then following a meandering path across his chest.

Jim pulled away. "Blair, I'm serious," he said.

"No, you're overreacting," Blair answered, shaking his head at the big man. "I thought that was my job."

"Humor me," Jim said.

"That *is* my job," Blair agreed. The snooze alarm sounded on Jim's clock. "Tell you what, if you let me have First Shower this morning, I'll make a doctor's appointment for the Monday after we get back from the cabin. Deal?"

Jim had a different idea, but he shrugged his shoulders and nodded his okay for Blair to take the first shower. Hurrying in case Jim changed his mind, Blair took off for the bathroom while Jim looked at the clock and wondered if 7:30 was too early for a phone call. He knew Brad was an early riser, so he took a chance and looked up the phone number and placed the call.

By the time Blair came back upstairs, Jim was feeling a little embarrassed. He stood diffidently by the door and watched while Blair dressed. He always accomplished little tasks like dressing or cooking or reading with an air of pleased concentration that usually amused and often aroused Jim. Now wondering about Blair's reaction, Jim felt only hesitation. "Um, hey, Blair?"

"Yeah?"

Jim gruffly cleared his throat and studied the door jam, thinking vaguely that they really needed to restain the hard wood. "I made an appointment for you with Brad McVey."

Blair rolled his eyes at Jim. "I said I'd go," he said, exasperated.

"I made it for this afternoon," Jim finished.

Blair groaned. "Oh man, come on! I've got two classes worth of mid-terms to finish, Ronheim is breathing down my neck for that article and Simon is screaming for the paperwork on the Nelson case. I'll go see him next week. The week after at the latest."

Jim shook his head. "This afternoon," he said, in a voice that held no room for argument.

Blair sighed loudly. "You do this all the time!' he complained. "I'm not your kid, Jim."

"No," Jim agreed. "But you *are* mine. And if you won't take care of yourself...."

"Says the man who would eat nothing but bacon fat if I let him," Blair said indignantly.

Jim grinned. "Then we'll make a deal," he said happily. "I won't eat any more bacon fat, and you go get a physical. Sounds like a fair trade to me."

Another sigh from Blair, but it was pointless to complain. He'd learned early when Jim's mind could be changed and when it couldn't. He no longer wasted his 'puppy dog' eyes and doleful gazes when he knew they wouldn't work. Besides, even though unused to having someone worry over him, Blair kind of liked Jim's overprotective nature. He had been dragging lately. He hoped it wasn't mono. He'd had a serious case of it a few years ago and it had sucked big time.

Of course, now, he had someone to look after him, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

[Six weeks later]

Simon knew the moment he made the remark that it was a mistake. These days, clearing his throat in Jim's presence could very well set the detective off. He just wasn't thinking. He'd been on the phone all morning, first with the mayor, then several reporters, finally a representative of some citizen's group.

An initiative to legalize marijuana for medicinal purposes had made it on to the May ballot in Cascade and both the pros and cons were preparing for battle. Simon was against the initiative on the principal that it sent out the wrong message.

He hung up the phone after talking to a doctor who was in favor of the measure and mumbled something about inmates running the asylum.

Jim, who'd been going over some old case files with Simon, straightened abruptly. "Hey, Simon, there's some valid research out there that says it really helps people deal with the nausea and stuff."

Without thinking, Simon had started to argue his point of view, that the drug was an illegal substance, and legalizing it for medicinal purposes would make it more available to the street thugs and pushers who weren't looking to help anybody. Jim mentioned something one of the backers had said on the morning news, and Simon had looked at him like he was crazy. "Don't tell me you're buying into that load of crap!" he'd said.

Jim tossed the files in his hands on to Simon's desk and explosively rose from his chair. "Blair has chemo this morning," he said angrily. "Why don't you spend the day with us, then tell me what a load of crap it is!" He stormed out of Simon's office, slamming the door and glaring at the people who paused to stare.

He stalked to the truck and drove to the hospital like a maniac and had to sit in the parking lot for a good 10 minutes before he trusted himself to maintain a calm veneer. With several deep breaths, he got out of the truck and made his way to the outpatient center. Liddy was at the front desk. She smiled at Jim and said, "They're just getting started. Room 8."

Jim winked at her and continued in to the room. Blair was slouched on the couch, head phones around his neck, his left arm stretched out. Gwen was searching for a vein and admonishing the grad student for having none. "My veins were just fine before you ghouls got your hands on them." He looked up when the door opened and smiled at Jim.

"Hey," Jim said, bending down for a quick kiss on the top of his head. "Boy, a few minutes later and the fun would have started without me."

"Not the *real* fun part," Blair said sarcastically. "I always save that for when we get home."

Jim grimaced but said nothing at the dig in his direction. Blair hadn't wanted to pursue a conventional method of treating the lymphoma. Jim had never seen the kid take so much as an aspirin for a headache, but there was no way in hell he was going to trust Blair's recovery to some new age hocus pocus.

They'd had several unresolved arguments before coming to a shaky truce--as long as Blair agreed to keep up the treatment set out by the doctor, Jim would say nothing about the myriad of powders, potions, diets, chants and meditations the kid pursued on his own.

Gwen eventually found a vein and began the IV. There was a silver tray with three syringes on the coffee table. She administered them into the IV, then looked at her watch. "Okay, Blair, it's nine-thirty right now, I'll be back at twelve to disconnect. You know the drill, buzz us if anything is amiss."

Blair nodded and smiled, offering a quiet, "Thanks, Gwen," as the nurse left. He winced as the medication started to hit. It burned like hell where it entered his system at the back of his hand. He felt its heat all the way up his arm and began to fidget with growing discomfort. It was only bad for the first 20 minutes or so, after which he could concentrate on something other than the pain.

Jim had brought a new CD--songs of the humpback whale, which were supposed to be relaxing. He put it on the CD and they spent a few minutes giggling at the honks and bleats of the animals. "Relaxing for someone in a coma maybe!" Blair teased, when Jim finally jumped up to turn it off.

Jim shook his head. "It just seemed so perfect for you," he said with a shrug. "Guess I should have stuck to African drum beats and sounds of the rain forest, huh? He sat back down on the couch, careful not to jostle Blair.

Blair put his hand on top of Jim's. "Thanks for coming," he said softly. "You don't have to, you know."

Jim's jaw clenched at the thought of Blair sitting through this by himself. It wasn't the actual process of receiving chemotherapy that was so bad, it was sitting there knowing what the next few days would be like--fever, pain, sickness. Jim swallowed the lump in his throat and sighed at his inability to do anything to alleviate the coming barrage. His presence was the only thing he had to offer, and Blair didn't even expect that. "I know," he quietly replied. "That's what makes me such a great catch."

Blair grinned and laid his head back on the couch. With eyes closed, he squeezed Jim's hand. "Remind me of that the next time I'm taking a cold shower," he said.

"If you'd just drag your lazy ass out of bed a few minutes earlier, you could shower with me and plenty of hot water."

"That's the only time I can get my share of the covers," Blair said, opening one eye a slit to gauge Jim's reaction.

"There's a line a mile long of people *begging* for me to steal their covers," Jim said with false bravado.

"I don't have to beg you for anything," Blair replied with mock superiority.

Jim grinned. "No, but you have to ask nice," he said.

"Since when?" Blair asked and smiled when Jim chuckled.

Jim moved quietly around the living room, knowing how noise was often painful to Blair when the sickness was at its worst. He grimaced and looked at his watch. Four o'clock. Blair had been going at if for almost three hours straight. Jim sure as hell didn't need Sentinel senses to hear him retching in the bathroom.

*God, this is torture,* he thought. Listening to him, knowing the kid felt shitty and scared, and here he was totally, utterly helpless to do anything about it. Jim swallowed against the rising tide of rage, clenching fists and jaw as he restlessly paced in front of the windows.

"Can I have some water?" Blair rasped. He knew Jim's hearing was focused in on him so there was no need to raise his voice.

Jim filled a glass with cold water from the fridge, grabbed a straw and hesitantly entered the bathroom. The stench of vomit made him wince, but he was careful not to recoil. Blair's pretty blue eyes looked bloodshot and sore. He had taken off his clothes and was shivering on the cold linoleum floor. His skin was always extra sensitive the day of chemo, itching and burning as his temperature rose and the drugs mercilessly worked their way through his system. Jim was careful not to touch him, though it took every ounce of his self control not to yank the younger man into a protective embrace.

Blair smiled knowingly at Jim's tense demeanor. "It's not so bad," he whispered, but already he knew he had the easy part of it. He couldn't imagine having to watch Jim go through this, and even when he felt sickest, there was a part of him that was thankful their roles were playing out this way. Which seemed selfish somehow.

"You ready to come back to bed?" Jim asked hopefully.

Blair just barely shook his head. "Blanket?" he said, closing his eyes against a sudden onslaught of nausea.

Jim went to fetch a comforter and heard Blair start vomiting again. He waited for a lull before returning to the bathroom. Kneeling on the floor, he gently draped the blanket over Blair's shoulders. Blair winced, but pushed himself into Jim's embrace. Jim's throat tightened at the utter fatigue he felt in the younger man. He simply couldn't understand how drugs that were supposed to make Blair well could make him so terribly ill.

Blair was on a twelve day chemo rotation. This was his fourth treatment. Each subsequent dose had harsher and harsher side effects. Blair's doctor had told them to expect it, but it didn't make it any easier.

The first time Blair had a bad reaction, the loft seemed to assault him. The lights were too bright, every noise thundered in his head. Jim found him, naked, curled up on the floor of the bathroom, with his hands covering his ears. He was moaning, "Jim, make it stop! Make it stop!"

Jim had frantically searched the bathroom for whatever was distressing the younger man, and finally realized it was the bathroom fan. He had quickly flipped the switch off, but Blair still rocked in discomfort. Jim had gone upstairs to prepare the bedroom for him, and when he'd come back down, Blair was sitting up, knees drawn tight against his chest. He was rocking on the heels of his feet and tears were streaming down his cheeks.

"Blair?" Jim whispered, at a loss as to what to do.

Blair had looked up at him his face stark with pain. "Is this what it's like for you?" he asked, horrified at the expected answer. "Is this what you go through every day?"

Jim gave a sudden, shocked intake of air, touched to his core that after everything Blair had gone through, his first thought was of him. It was one of those times when realized how amazing it was that Blair was with him; had chosen him. Usually he just didn't let himself think about how he hardly deserved someone like Blair in his life. Blair could have anyone he wanted and certainly deserved someone as brilliant and beautiful and...open as he was. Jim was none of those things.

"Is that why you're crying?" Jim had asked, squatting down in front of Blair and very, very gently brushing away the tears on his cheek.

Blair nodded slowly. "I don't want it to be like this for you," he'd whispered, letting Jim help him to stand and then lead him upstairs.

"It's not, Sweetheart," Jim promised. "Not since I found you."

Jim remembered getting Blair settled under the covers and the way the younger man had grinned at him in relief. "Man, now I know why you were so cranky back then," he'd teased, his face still wet with tears. "It really sucks."

Jim had smiled, but couldn't really manage to joke about it. He had leaned down and kissed Blair's forehead and said, "Now you know why I love you so much." And Blair had smiled then, gently, knowingly, and drifted off to sleep.

Now, Jim sighed once again, pushing away his growing sense of inadequacy. Blair was going to leave him. One way or another, he would end up alone, because that's simply the way it was.

Still huddled on the bathroom floor, Blair shifted in Jim's arms. "Talk to me," he whispered, his voice raspy from the abuse.

Jim took a shaky breath and kissed the top of Blair's head. "I was thinking," he said softly, "When you're in remission and Dr. Weber says it's okay, that maybe we could head down to Carver Point. Do some camping, kayaking. Sleep under the stars. How does that sound?"

"Nice," Blair whispered. "Remember the first time we went? Well, not the first time. But the first time after we got together?"

"I'm still limping," Jim teased, looking down to see if Blair would smile. He did, and Jim's heart fluttered. "I don't know, Chief. There's something about you and the great outdoors that sends my libido in to overdrive."

"There's something about me and *air* that sends you into overdrive," Blair said, his voice growing slow with drowsiness.

"You're not complaining, are you?" Jim asked.

Blair grinned to himself. "Just making an observation," he said. "That's my job." He shifted again and said, "I think I want to go back to bed now."

"Okay, then," Jim said. "Up we go, nice and slow now." He helped Blair stand, keeping his hands on his waist while he splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth. Then he helped settle Blair into bed. The kid nodded tiredly when Jim asked if he wanted covers.

"Mmm," Blair murmured. "Is it okay to get sick?"

Jim winced. He'd filled a dishpan half full with warm water and placed it on the floor right beside the bed. "Yeah, it's okay. Don't worry, though. Just try to sleep for awhile."

"It'll be better tomorrow," Blair promised.

Jim was careful not to sigh. "I know," he said. "You don't mind if I sit here a little while, do you?"

Blair smiled. "Not much," he whispered.

"Smart ass," Jim said with a chuckle.

"Sit close," Blair said as sleep finally came for him. "So I can touch you."

Jim scooted his chair closer and slid his hand under Blair's. "I'm right here," he said, though Blair couldn't hear him. "Always will be." And then he silently, and somewhat resentfully added, *I'm not the one going anywhere, Chief.*

It was a couple of days before Blair felt up to joining Jim at the station. The university had been amenable to his rearranging his schedule to fit with the chemotherapy. He was only teaching one class that semester and had dropped most of his other extra curricular activities. He wanted to be able to ride with Jim as much as possible, even though the big man pressured him to stay home and rest on the days he didn't have to teach.

The thing of it was, he only felt bad for the two or three days following the chemo. After that, he was kind of tired, but hey, that had been his normal state of being for the last ten years anyway. Sure chemo was a bitch, but except for that, he didn't really feel sick, so Jim's overprotectiveness was more an annoyance than anything else. Still, he was trying to go easy on Jim.

Blair knew Jim wasn't dealing real well with any of this, though he tried to hide it. If there was one thing Jim Ellison craved in his life, it was control, and it was the one thing he didn't have in this situation. Jim didn't do helpless, and it was starting to show.

Riding up in the elevator to the seventh floor, Blair sighed, but quickly shrugged and grinned when Jim shot him a look of concern. The detective reached out and touched the ends of the black, silk bandanna tied around Blair's head.

They'd joked that morning about Blair looking like a covert ops operative, but after the younger man had bounded downstairs to start breakfast, Jim sat motionless on the bed, hugging a pillow and coaching himself out of the crushing despair he'd felt. Blair was starting to lose his hair. His beautiful, beautiful hair.

Mike Beaumont walked past them and gave Blair an odd look. "You trying out for a new pirate movie, Sandburg?" he asked.

Blair laughed and gave Jim a hard push forward before the big man could rattle off a threat. "Easy, Mad Dog," Blair muttered under his breath, feeling the tension of a man ready to spring.

Simon was the only one at the station who knew Blair was ill, and the grad student planned on keeping it that way for as long as he could. With Jim flying off the handle every time the wind changed direction, it probably wouldn't be much longer.

Jim glared at Blair who grinned brattily. "Why don't you ever stick up for yourself?" Jim asked irritably.

"Jim, the guy was kidding," Blair said. "You have *got* to relax, man. You're wound tighter than....*you,* which believe me, is NOT a pretty sight."

Jim smirked at the younger man. "Sandburg, the only thing that's tight around here is...."

"Ellison, Sandburg, my office," Simon called.

Blair's eyes widened. "Ooo, like, I can't *wait* for you to complete *that* thought," he mumbled, following behind Jim.

Simon shut the door behind them and motioned for them to sit. "How you doin', Sandburg?" he asked, settling himself behind his desk.

"Fine, thanks," Blair answered easily and pretended not to notice how Simon's eyes bounced from his face, to the bandanna, over to Jim and back to him again.

Simon gruffly cleared his throat and shot a glance over toward Jim, surreptitiously trying to gauge the detective's frame of mind. Blair pulled at the corners of his mouth to keep from smiling. Whatever it was, Jim wasn't going to like it, and Simon knew it. *Hmm, this could be interesting.*

Opening a thick file on his desk, Simon looked over some papers. "We've got 25 dead bodies, stretching from LA to Cascade, mostly runaways. Causes of death are anything from strangulation, to pneumonia, to gunshot wounds. There was nothing to suggest a serial killer, but several months ago, a pathologist in San Francisco noticed that two of the dead kids found there had recently been bone marrow donors. Three more bodies later turned up, all of them recent donors. The Feds are convinced we've got some kind of rogue medical operation, selling bone marrow to the highest bidders."

"Here in the States?" Blair asked, eyes wide. "Come on, that's impossible."

"Is it?" Simon asked, raising a dubious eyebrow. "You could go out this afternoon and buy a baby for $50,000, Sandburg. Is it so hard to believe you could pick up some bone marrow on the way?"

"Yeah, but, it's not like you can inject it yourself," Blair pointed out. "A hospital would *have* to know something was up, wouldn't they?"

"Apparently not," Simon said. "Bone marrow can be donated then stored indefinitely until it's needed. Someone coming in to the hospital for a transplant might have received the donation from a sibling or parent in another town or state."

"So someone is kidnapping these runaways, draining their bone marrow, then killing them to cover it up?" Blair asked. He shivered at Simon's nod. "Cold, man. That is *way* cold."

"Yeah, cold," Simon agreed. "The Feds think our guys have gotten greedy-hence the pile of bodies adding up. Either that or demand has gotten away from them. In any case, the Feds are ready to start an undercover op to draw these people out."

Blair looked at Jim's stony face and instantly understood Simon's discomfort. Oh yeah, this would *definitely* be interesting. Simon waited for Jim or Blair to say something, but when no one did, he diffidently continued.

"With Blair....with his condition, we have an opportunity to send him in as a potential bone marrow recipient and draw out...."

Jim stared incredulously at Simon, the angry disbelief in his face the closest he had ever come to outright insubordination. "No," he said, surprising Simon a little with his calm. "Out of the question."

Blair arched an eyebrow in his direction.

"Jim, I know I'm asking a lot here," Simon said, tossing an embarrassed glance toward Blair.

"You're asking the impossible, Sir," Jim said, struggling to maintain his composure. "The answer is no."

"Just hear me out," Simon tried again. "The odds of us finding a cover this perfect are astronomical. We've got over 25 dead bodies, Jim. Most of them kids. And now we're in a position to finally do something about it. Blair will be under constant surveillance. We won't even involve him in the actual arrest. All he'll be doing is building the case against them."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but the answer is no," Jim said.

"Twenty-five dead people, and that's all you can say?" Simon asked. "No? Just....no?"

Jim shifted in his chair, a flush of anger creeping up his neck. "Look, sir, Blair's in no condition to go undercover and there's no way I'm letting those butchers touch him! Blair can't just...."

"*Blair* is in the room!" the grad student finally burst out. "And he's an adult capable of making his own decisions-not that either one of you seem to be aware of that."

"This is *not* an open discussion," Jim said darkly. "And there is no decision for you to make, Blair."

"Fine, *Pops,* maybe I should just go sit in the car like a good little boy, huh?"

Jim's eyes narrowed dangerously. "This is not negotiable," he said.

"Nothing is with you," Blair muttered. He stood up. "Simon, Jim and I will talk about this. Can we get back to you?"

Simon nodded. "First thing in the morning," he said. Blair nodded his understanding and left the office without looking over at Jim.

Simon winced inwardly and steeled himself for Jim's ire. "You had no right ambushing me like that," the detective said quietly. "You knew if you asked us both, Blair would want to help."

"And I knew if I spoke to you alone, you wouldn't even consider it,"

Simon acknowledged.

"That's a pretty rotten thing to do, Sir," Jim said, struggling to hold his temper.

Simon agreed. "Twenty-five dead kids will make a man do some pretty rotten things if he thinks it might help put an end to it."

"Sir, I understand that these people need to be stopped, and *I'm* willing to do whatever it takes to stop them. But that doesn't mean offering Blair up as some kind of sacrificial lamb."

"Jim, we have a golden opportunity to break this ring up. We're not going to get another chance like this."

"You're not getting one now, Sir," Jim said tersely.

Simon looked out at the squad room where Blair was standing rigidly, his eyes clouded with anger. "I think Sandburg may have other ideas," he said mildly.

Jim shrugged dismissively. "It's not his call."

Simon tried a different track. "Jim, I need you on this one. I need you both." The detective impassively shook his head. "Look, Jim, I know the tendency here is to treat the kid like he's made of glass, but that's the last thing he needs..."

"You have no idea what he needs!" Jim said. "Jesus, Simon, maybe I can't protect him from cancer, but I can sure as hell keep him out of a dangerous criminal investigation!"

Simon sighed explosively. "At least talk to him, Jim! Discuss it!"

"You've made sure of that much, Sir," Jim said grimly, then took his leave.

Blair glared at Jim as he approached his desk. "Coffee," said the detective and followed Blair out of the bullpen.

They were silent in the elevator, leaving Jim to reflect that he could count on one hand the number of times Blair had been truly angry at him. He didn't like this. He felt like a reprimanded school boy-- embarrassed, chagrined, dreading having to face the music. He felt even worse when Blair started talking in a calm, reasonable voice, like a parent trying to explain why their child had disappointed them.

They walked around the corner to a coffee shop and took a table at the back.

"That's the one thing you promised me you'd never do," Blair said.

"When we got together, you promised me you wouldn't pull anything like that in front of Simon or anyone else."

"Blair, when I made that promise...."

"The fact that I have this shit flowing through my bloodstream doesn't excuse you," Blair said quietly. "I know this is hard for you, Jim, and I'm sorry for that. You have no idea how sorry I am. But Simon needs me on this one." Blair slumped back in his seat, staring at the ceiling and shaking his head in disbelief. "God, do you know what it means to me, his asking for my help? Hell, it's like, maybe there's a good reason I'm sick, you know?"

"Don't say that!" Jim shouted, oblivious to the stares of the other patrons. "Don't ever say that! Nothing good can come out of this, Blair. Nothing!"

Blair pursed his lips and struggled to keep his voice calm. "Maybe I need to find some meaning here, Jim. Maybe I need to know I'm not going through this *shit* for nothing!"

Looking bitter and angry, Jim shook his head. "No."

Blair shrugged vaguely. Jim obviously wasn't in the mood for a philosophical discussion. "I need to do this," he said finally.

"You need to rest!" Jim said in a hissing whisper. "You need to conserve your strength so you can get over this, and we can get on with your life!"

"Jim, this isn't your call...."

"It *is* my call!" Jim argued. "Dammit, Blair, I'm the cop here, not you!"

Blair leaned in and as gently as he could, said, "But Jim, I'm the one with lymphoma."

"So you mean to tell me that if I was sitting where you were..."

Blair wouldn't even let him finish that argument. "If you were sitting where I was, we wouldn't even be discussing this, and you know it," he said sternly. "I'm not your kid. You can't forbid me to do something just because you don't think I should. I'm doing this, Jim. It's the right thing for me to do, and you know it."

"It's not like I have a say in anything that goes on around here anyway," Jim said bitterly. "Do what you want, Blair. You always do."

Blair blinked hard and leaned back in his seat. "That's not fair."

Tears sprang without warning in Jim's eyes and he blinked them away in surprise. Jesus, he was so fucking emotional these days. "You promised me you'd never leave me!" he said. "You promised you were in this for the long haul!"

"I am," Blair said, eyes wide with sudden insight into Jim's real fears.

Jim was comforted by the understanding in Blair's eyes. He took a deep shuddering breath of air. "Tell me again," he whispered, head bowed.

Blair smiled and surreptitiously ran his fingers over Jim's hand. "I'm here for the duration, Jim."

"Promise me."

With an uncomfortable shrug, Blair sighed and said, "You know I...."

"Say the words, Chief! Say you promise."

"I promise, Jim. I love you and I always will."

Momentarily calmed, Jim smiled, the tension draining from his body as if carried out on a sudden gust of wind. He leaned across the table and licked his lips. "Tell me I'm the only man you'll ever love," he whispered daringly.

Blair grinned. "You're the only one, Jim"

"Tell me I'm the air you breathe and the food you eat."

The grin widened. "You're the only thing keeping me tethered to mother earth," Blair easily obliged.

"Tell me you need me."

"I need you."

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Tell me you're fixing those little potatoes I love so much for dinner."

Blair raised an eyebrow then looked at his watch. "Hey, man, I love you and all, but you are NOT conning me into fixing dinner on your night!"

Head back, eyes dancing, Jim laughed. "Can't blame me for trying," he said, standing up to head back to the station.

Blair grimaced at his lover and sighed in exasperation. "Nope, Big Guy, the thing of it is, I can't blame you for anything."

Jim sent Blair into Simon's office alone to tell the Captain they would participate in the investigation. "Not that there was ever any question, right Simon?" Blair said, eyes innocent, but the unspoken reproach was there in his tone.

Blair wasn't the only one who could feign innocence. Simon pursed his lips and pretended to be very interested in the budget report he'd just received. "Mm, I'd like to think I know the men and women under my command," he said absently.

Blair nodded slowly and started to leave. He stopped when Simon, still perusing the report, asked, "So, Sandburg, you really doing okay?"

"I'm fine," he said.

Simon smirked up at him. "Sandburg, pretend for a minute that I'm your *boss,* and I'm about to send you out on a case, and I asked you if you're really doing okay."

"I can't do that, Simon," Blair said seriously. "If you were my boss, I would have quit a long time ago."

"Sandburg!"

Blair laughed, knowing Simon was blustering for his benefit. "I'm really okay, Simon. Chemo sucks, but I'm only down a few days from it."

Simon scrutinized the younger man for a long minute. "It's important for you to know your limits, Blair," he said seriously. "You're head strong and have a tendency to act before you think." Simon rarely spoke to Blair like an equal, and the grad student knew better than to interrupt with a flip response. He leaned forward and nodded his understanding. "In an undercover situation," Simon continued, "your actions have repercussions on a lot of officers. If you can't handle something, or if you don't feel up

to a meet, I expect you to let me know, you got that?"

Blair nodded again, but a wry gleam was already back in his eyes. "Simon, if Jim isn't completely sure I'm up to it, he'll probably shackle me to the bed, so there's not much risk of me lousing anything up."

Simon held up a large hand and turned his head. "I don't want to hear about your depraved sexual activities, Sandburg," he warned. "You just be sure you keep me informed about your... condition. Got it?"

"Got it, Simon," Blair said.

Simon grew serious again. "Jim says they caught it early, that's good."

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "I was like Display Boy at the hospital. None of the doctors had ever seen it diagnosed so early. Lucky for me Jim could feel that...."

Simon shook his finger at the younger man. "Sandburg, what did I say I didn't want to hear?"

Blair grinned. "I thought it was just the *depraved* stuff you didn't

want to hear about," he said innocently.

"Out!" Simon ordered, pointing at the door.

"I'm going," Blair said, arms held up in surrender. "I'm going!"

Jim was putting on his jacket at his desk, his mood still surly. "Come on, we're going home until three thirty."

"What happens at three thirty?" Blair asked.

"Meeting with the Feds," was Jim's clipped response.

Blair looked surprised. "Simon didn't say anything about a meeting," he said.

Jim smirked. "I know. He sent an e-mail this morning. *Before* he talked to us."

Blair grinned up at his disgruntled lover. "Really? Man, he does know the people under his command, doesn't he?"

Jim wanted Blair to take a nap until time to get ready for the meeting with the Feds. Blair thought that was pretty funny and said as much while he fired up his laptop.

"Blair, you have got to start taking care of yourself," Jim began.

Blair rolled his eyes and double clicked on the file he needed. "Tell you what, Pops, you find my footy pajamas, then make some yummy hot chocolate, and I'll get ready for a bedtime story."

Jim's glare said he was less than amused. With a sigh, the big man went upstairs and changed into workout clothes. Back downstairs, he retrieved the set of free weights from under the stairs and began a series of reps. He clanged the weights together with noisy precision, huffing and grunting loudly.

Blair was sitting on the couch, his back to Jim, a smile on his lips. He picked up the remote to the CD player and clicked it on, pleased it was one of his African tribal groups. He thumbed up the volume until it was just loud enough to drown out the sounds of Jim lifting.

Jim finished his rep then dropped the weights to the floor from enough height that the CD skipped a drum beat or two. Hands on hips, he turned back to the exercise equipment. Nothing caught his eye, so he opened the closet and pulled out his power drill. With an evil grin to the back of Blair's head, he sauntered over to kitchen and began drilling the cabinet door in need of repair.

Trying not to burst out laughing, Blair nudged the volume of the stereo higher, but lost it when Jim turned around and started the disposal. "All right! I give! I give!" Blair shouted, turning the CD player off and holding his arms up in surrender.

Jim laid the drill on the counter and shut off the disposal, laughing demonically. "The winner!" he called, arms victoriously outstretched overhead. With a superior grin, he removed the earplugs that generated white noise.

"Oh man, that is *so* not fair!" Blair said, setting his laptop on the coffee table and standing up. "I demand a rematch!" He reached for the remote, but Jim swooped in and threw him over his shoulder. He headed upstairs with his lover, who squirmed provocatively against him. "If you think I'm crawling into bed with your sweaty ass, you are sorely mistaken," Blair warned.

Jim gently deposited him on the bed and pulled off his T-shirt. "I'll be sweating again in a minute anyway, what difference does it make?"

Blair looked as if he was giving the matter some thought. In truth, he wasn't about to say anything that might make Jim reconsider. Jim had only initiated sex two or three times since Blair got sick. He was more than happy to participate when Blair instigated, but even then he tended to be hesitant and unsure, afraid of hurting the younger man. The grad student bruised easily because of the chemo, and it unnerved Jim to find that even being as gentle as he knew how, he still left marks all over his lover.

Blair sighed in defeat, spreading his arms wide. "Oh all right," he said. "Ravage me if that's what you want."

Jim slid out of his shorts then straddled Blair, careful that none of his weight was on his lover. "It's not that I *want* to," he said. "It's that I have to. The spoils of war and all."

"Are you still on the clock?" Blair asked curiously, shrinking into his shoulders as Jim began kissing behind his ear.

"I've been paid to do worse," Jim replied.

Blair snorted his agreement to that. "Simon would hardly approve," he pointed out.

"*Simon* is not in a position to do anything about it, is he?"

"Ahh," Blair said knowingly. "This'll fix him, huh?"

Jim sat back on his haunches, still straddling Blair. He lifted an annoyed brow at his talkative lover. "You want to go back to the office?" he asked.

Blair grinned and squirmed out of his pants, no mean feat with a 200 pound man on top of him. He offered his erection to the detective. "Do I *look* like I want to go back to the office?"

Jim caressed the offering and smiled at Blair's sharp intake of air. "You look like you want to be ravaged," he said in a husky voice.

With a dreamy smile, Blair arched into the next caress. "Mmm, and I always get what I want, don't I, Big Guy?"

It was one instance where Jim was more than happy to prove him right.

Simon met Jim and Blair outside of a nondescript office building that faded in with the rest of a nondescript business park. Jim's jaw was still firmly set in a picture of disapproval, but Simon could tell he had already mellowed considerably. In the bright afternoon sunshine, the dark circles under Blair's eyes were more pronounced, and his skin looked shiny and gray. Simon swallowed and shook his head against the rash of second thoughts. Blair would be fine. Probably just a sense of self-preservation flooding him--anything happened to the kid and Jim would have his head-- and just about every other piece of his anatomy--on a platter.

Jim got out of the truck, but made no move to walk in the building. "They know about me and Sandburg?" he asked gruffly.

Simon knew precisely what he meant. "You think you'd be here if they did?" Simon replied. No way the Feds would let Jim tag along after his *lover* on a case.

"You hear that?" Jim said seriously to Blair, who rolled his eyes at the unspoken warning.

"I'll try to refrain from calling you Honey Dumpling in the meeting," he said dryly, prompting a glare from Jim and a startled cough from Simon. "Oops, sorry Simon," Blair said with a grin. "I know how you hate for me to air our depravities in front of you."

"Walk, Sandburg," Simon said, pointing toward the door.

They took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked into an office with the name Roth, Inc. on the door. Without asking their names, a secretary buzzed them through a security door and a tall man, as amorphous as his surroundings, was waiting for them.

"Special Agent Robert Benton," he said, holding his hand out to Simon. They made their introductions, then Agent Benton led them into a conference room where three other agents were waiting for them. "This is Dr. Kathryn Thomas," he said of the lone woman in the group. "This is Special Agent Marcus Livingston and Special Agent Michael Yeager."

Agent Yeager was in his fifties, his dark hair starting to gray at the temples. Blue eyes joking, he smiled as he offered his hand to Blair. "Call me Dad," he said to the grad student.

Blair chuckled. "Oh man, this is going to be weird," he said.

Benton motioned for everyone to sit, then he began to lay out the way the case would work. "Okay, the way we see it, Agent Yeager is Blair's father, a widower. He's a wealthy investment banker. Blair is an only child, adopted. We might possibly hint that the adoption was not entirely on the up and up to put our... uh ... health brokers more at ease. As Blair's father, Agent Yeager will be involving his 'son' as little as possible in these negotiations, ostensibly because he doesn't want him held responsible for any wrongdoing. We're dealing with an organization called Medical Solutions. We also know them as FirstMed, Turner Labs, and MedOne. We've never gotten close to these guys before, so we're playing it slow and careful." Benton looked down at his notes and wrote something in the margin. "Blair, Dr. Thomas is a hematologist. If you don't mind, I'd like her to run some tests that will verify the stage of your lymphoma. If you're not sick enough, Medical Solutions won't consider you, and if you're *too* sick we won't."

Looking displeased at the idea, Blair reluctantly nodded his permission and rose to follow the doctor. Agent Yeager stood as well. "I'll tag along," he said amiably. "Give me a chance to get to know my boy better." He grinned and winked at Blair, who laughed. Jim was not amused.

While Blair was submitting to tests, Jim, Simon and Agents Benton and Livingston went over what was known about Medical Solutions. It didn't take long. The Fed had been introduced to the organization through a murky connection with an agent whose wife's mother's friend's daughter had received some kind of miracle medical treatment from them. By the time the story reached the appropriate department, it seemed closer to an urban legend than a possible case. Then a doctor in LA turned up dead and the name MedOne was offered as his place of employment, but no such organization could be found. Friends insisted that was indeed the name of his organization, so investigating agents dove in deeper and found the names of several dummy corporations. Some names of former clients were discovered, but all of them--former cancer patients now in remission--denied ever hearing of MedOne, Medical Solutions or any of the other names the investigators had found.

Jim didn't like what he was hearing. The case was too murky, too unformed. Too much could happen. He remained silent, though, and let Simon ask the tough questions. He focused his Sentinel hearing, listening in on Blair and Agent Yeager. The two men talked about cars and baseball, praising classic cars and disparaging the influence of too much money in the pros. Yeager had a quick sense of humor, and Blair seemed to enjoy talking to him. Yeager apparently enjoyed talking to Blair. Jim was not enjoying himself at all.

When the meeting at last concluded with a 'we'll be in touch' from Agent Benton, Jim nodded his farewell and made a beeline for the conference room where Blair and Yeager were talking. Benton watched him with a shocked look on his face, obviously surprised that Jim knew precisely where the two men were.

Simon noticed the look and quickly asked, "So, uh, you think we're talking a two month set-up here?"

Benton nodded absent-mindedly, eyes still on Jim, who stood at the door, arms crossed, lips drawn and waited for Blair to put his jacket on. Yeager walked out behind Blair, his hand on the younger man's neck. "'61 Yankee's huh?" he was saying. "Well, my boy, good thing I've got a couple of months to turn you into a Dodger fan."

"Not gonna happen, my friend," Blair said with a grin. He shook Yeager's hand, nodded at the other agents and followed Jim to the truck. He pulled himself into the cab, suppressing a groan. Man, he was tired. Jeez, he hated being poked and prodded by doctors. Still, this was going to be pretty fun. He almost voiced his opinion out loud, but the grim set of Jim's jaw made him think otherwise. Fun probably wasn't the right adjective anyway. Criminal investigations were *not* supposed to be fun. Interesting, then. Better than sitting on a couch and wondering if the end was coming soon.

Blair felt guilty for that thought, and he sneaked a peek at Jim, as if suspecting the Sentinel of reading his mind. Apparently not. Blair slowly breathed out and turned on the heat, for once refraining from fiddling with the radio. He settled back in his seat and enjoyed the warmth now flooding the cab.

Unused to riding in silence, Jim looked over at Blair and grimaced as the younger man's head drooped with drowsiness. *Damn, it was too soon after the chemo for this,* Jim thought angrily. *Yeah, well, fucking him this afternoon didn't help either, Ellison,* he said to himself, and eased off the gas to make the ride a little smoother.

After parking the truck in front of the loft, Jim gently shook Blair's shoulder. "We're home," he said quietly. Blair started and shook his head like he hadn't really been asleep. He came around the side of the truck and picked up Jim's hand, shrugging at the questioning look from the detective. Jim shrugged back and squeezed Blair's hand, swinging it companionably as they walked up to the loft. Once inside, Jim started to drop the hand he held, but Blair instead pulled him close and wrapped his arms around the taller man.

Jim chuckled and returned the hug. He kissed the top of Blair's head and wondered what brought on the sudden affectionate gesture. He frowned slightly. Had the doctor said something to upset him? Had she told Blair something they didn't already know about his illness? Was it Yeager? There was something about that guy--way too friendly and jovial for a fed. He started to press Blair for a reason, but stopped himself at the sound of Blair's happy sigh. Hell, maybe the kid just needed a hug for Christ's sake.

"Hey, what do you want for dinner?" Jim finally asked.

Blair pulled back to look up at him. He thought for a minute, then said, "Grilled cheese and tomato soup?"

Jim made a face. "How come when you cook, it's always something like Vermicelli a' la Greque or Fettucini Rustica, but when I cook you ask for things like grilled cheese?"

Encircling the detective's neck with his arms, Blair kissed Jim's cheek. "It's called self-preservation, Big Guy," he said, dancing out of Jim's arms to avoid a cuff. "I'm gonna change. I'll be down in a sec."

"Yeah, with a new attitude I suggest," Jim grumbled, but grinned at Blair's laughter.

Jim rummaged through the cabinets for the soup and pulled the bread from the bread box. Whistling under his breath, he unhooked the frying pan and set it on the stove. Realizing it was awfully quiet upstairs, he focused his hearing on the bedroom. No sounds of clothes being changed, just Blair's even breathing. Jim went upstairs to check on him.

Blair had managed to remove one shoe, but that's as far as he got. Legs still hanging off the bed, he was sound asleep on top of the covers. Jim grinned fondly and finished what Blair had started, taking off the other shoe and both socks, sliding his blue jeans from his thin hips. When he removed the younger man's shirt, Jim winced at the bruises on his arms and torso, repeating to himself that they were from the chemo, not him. Blair didn't stir until Jim was settling him on the pillows and under the covers.

"I never had a dad before," he mumbled.

Jim leaned down and kissed his forehead. "You don't need a dad," he whispered and selfishly continued, "I'm all you need, Baby. You just need me."

"Hmm...my hero," Blair said weakly, eyes still closed.

"Damn straight," Jim whispered. "Now go to sleep, Sweetheart."

Blair obliged with one long, drawn out sigh. Jim perched on the edge of the bed and watched him sleep. Some of his scalp was starting to show, Jim realized with a painful stab in his gut. The next thought came to him out of the blue. It always did. He was just sitting there watching Blair's deep inhales and exhales, thinking of nothing in particular when it crept into his brain. *How could you do this to me? How could you make me love you, make me give myself over to you and then do this to me? You promised you wouldn't leave me. You promised you'd stick it out with me no matter what. So why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me?*

The thoughts were so ugly, so selfish that they always horrified Jim once he was aware of them. Now he rose quickly from the bed, carelessly enough that Blair mumbled and shifted slightly. With a muttered, "Shit!" Jim changed into workout clothes and hurried downstairs to punish the weights in earnest.

He tried to concentrate on the reps and the motion; on the feel of his muscles as the weights stretched and toned. What he really wanted to do was heave the fucking barbell through the floor-to- ceiling window and watch it shatter into a thousand tiny shards.

When Blair got sick, Jim expected to be upset and sad and worried, even fearful. What he hadn't expected were these overwhelming feelings of betrayal and rage. Some days he felt positively outraged that Blair was doing this to him. As if his Guide had some sort of *choice* in the matter. It didn't help that Blair had accepted the doctor's diagnosis as if it was a stubbed toe. 'Oh, cancer? I see. Well, I have a class to teach, so I guess I'll be on my way.'

Jim set down the weights and walked off a cramp. Not only was he wrestling with an intense anger, he was going overboard in the Blessed Protector department. He was possessive before, but in a kind of sheepish, joking sort of way. Half the time he played it up because it seemed to make Blair happy to finally belong to someone who wasn't about to let him go. But now...Jesus, he'd wanted to rip Yeager's arm off for touching Blair like that. If someone looked at the kid with anything but adoration in their eyes, he was ready to get in their face about it.

Jim just didn't want the world near his beautiful lover. It had shit on him too much already and he wanted Blair tucked away somewhere safe. Some mornings when Blair was getting ready to leave the loft, Jim was ready to order him, *order* him, to stay home. Lay down. Go back to bed. Suddenly the world was too unpredictable, too dangerous for his lover. It was so irrational, because he knew full well he was too late. Too late to help. Too late to protect. Too late to make a difference.

Even though Jim heard Blair coming from the moment he parked his car, the detective still jumped when Blair kicked open the door to the loft and burst inside.

Blair rarely came home without a flourish. Either he was excited about some new discovery, a breakthrough with Jim's senses or, hell, because of some song he heard on the radio, or he was railing against the bureaucracy at the University or the unfairness of the universe at large.

Either way, it was something Jim looked forward to, so he sat back on the couch and watched with interest as Blair flung his backpack off his shoulder and sent it sailing across the floor. *Ooo, hope the laptop's not in there,* Jim thought.

"Okay, so here's how my day starts. Blakely, head of the department, right? Sends me an e-mail and tells me the funding I was supposed to get is going to Ed Granger. Says apes have more cache. I kid you not, that's what he said. Apes have more cache- like they're gonna be inviting 'em to a fucking dinner party! Not that I'd put that past the media hungry bastard. Good-bye hundred grand. Hello apes! Am I so crazy to think we can learn a hell of a lot more about society by studying its MEMBERS than its wildlife! Spilled milk, my friend. Done deal. The money is gone." Blair was pacing by the front door, waving his hands and ignoring his bemused lover. "Okay, fine, I can deal with that, I'll just have to spend the next eight weeks sucking up to the grant committee, but hey, I've done worse, right? That's just the start of my day. I'm leaving for lunch and there's a giant ding in the Corvair. Okay, okay, you're saying 'how can I tell,' oh, I can tell, thank you very much. I know where every scrape, peal, ding and dent is on that car, and I can assure you there wasn't a fucking crater in the passenger door when I parked this morning. Is there a note on the windshield? Did some RESPONSIBLE citizen own up to their destruction? Of course not. God FORBID somebody take responsibility for their actions on that campus. Am I the only one who thinks the youth of this country have just gone to pot? What in the hell is so hard about leaving a little note that says, 'Sorry for the dent, buddy. No hard feelings.' Acknowledgment is all I'm after, Jim. Am I asking too much?"

Jim shrugged and foolishly tried to say something.

Blair held up a hand in warning. "I know, I know, they're just kids, but that is no excuse. But hey, I can deal. You know, breathe deep, let the bitterness go, I'm there, man. So Eric Forrester is waiting for me when I get back." Jim wondered if he was supposed to recognize the name, but he didn't. "The departments pretty much buzzing these days. I mean, I haven't sent out a memo to the field, but everyone knows something's up with me, and I've told a couple of people, but it's not like I'm broadcasting anything from the rooftops. So Eric's waiting for me and he's all like "Hey man, what's the deal. We're worried about you, buddy," and I know he's not worried about me, because, let's face it, Eric Forrester is not capable of caring about anybody but himself, but I'm like, "It's no biggie man," and he gets this look on his face and goes off on me about how I should have told him since we used to screw around and I'm thinking, 'What they hell right do you have to know?'"

*Screwed around?* Jim thought with a jolt. *Who the hell is Eric Forrester and when did he *screw around* with Blair?*

"So then it dawns on me that he thinks it's AIDS. So I set him straight-ha, ha, no jokes, please--you know, tell him it's lymphoma and you know what he says? You know what Mr. Sensitivity says to me? He says, 'Lymphoma? Whoa Blair, way to go." Way. To. Go. Like, he's congratulating me for being smart enough to get a disease they can actually cure. Then it dawns on me, he's like, the third person to do that. To kind of slap me on the back, like I'm the last gay man in America to catch some disease that's *not* AIDS! I mean, how am I supposed to respond to that? Thanks? It's nothing? What the fuck?!" Blair looked beseechingly at the detective, who wasn't sure if it was safe to venture a comment. He shrugged at Blair who sighed explosively and yanked open the refrigerator then let loose with a loud moan. "Oh, *MAN!* Do NOT tell me you drank the last of the orange juice! All I want in the entire world is a glass of OJ!"

Jim slipped the empty glass with pulp stuck to the sides to the floor behind the end table. "Uh, orange juice?" he said weakly. "I'll run down to the bakery and grab a bottle for you."

"Don't bother!" Blair muttered, slamming the door shut. He flounced over to the couch and collapsed in a heap next to Jim. "Maybe I should just go to bed."

"You want a head rub?" Jim valiantly offered.

Blair glared at him. "Head rubs make *you* feel better. They don't do anything for me."

"Well...." Jim feigned deep thought, then brightened. "You wanna rub *my* head?"

"How's that going to help me out?"

"The way I figure it, If *I'm* happy, then *you're* happy, right?" Jim said, stretching out on the couch with his head in Blair's lap.

A smile started to curl at the corner of Blair's lips, but he tried to school his features back into a dark scowl. "How is this fair?" he grumbled. "I have a shitty day, you drink the last of the orange juice *which* I've been craving since about 25 blocks ago, and now *I'm* the one slaving away here."

"Mmmmm," Jim purred under his lover's skillful hands. "I can tell, you're relaxing already," he said, mimicking the hypnotic tone Blair used when he was trying to soothe Jim before using his Sentinel senses. Jim's head bobbed at Blair's chuckle and a grin spread across his face. He felt Blair sigh in surrender.

A little later, Blair leaned down and gently kissed Jim's forehead. "Hi," he said quietly.

"Mm, hi," Jim said, reaching behind Blair's neck and pulling his lips to meet his own. They necked for a few minutes. "And how was *your* day?" Blair asked.

Jim grinned up at his lover. "Lame compared to yours, Chief. That was some performance. I give it an 8.5 on the Sandburg Scale of Outrage."

"Are you taking into account the degree of difficulty?"

"I always do," Jim said, acting hurt that Blair would suggesting otherwise. He snuggled down into Blair's lap with a grateful sigh. "Oh yeah, this is great, Chief. Don't you feel better now?"

"Swell," Blair said wryly. He kissed Jim again, teasing open the older man's mouth and slipping his tongue into its warmth. "Hey, you know what would *really* make me feel good?" he asked, his lips brushing against Jim's as he spoke.

"If you gave me a back rub?" Jim guessed.

Blair pinched his ear and laughed when he yelped. "Your luck may just well be running out."

Jim brushed his fingertip across Blair's smooth cheek. It would normally be rough with five o'clock shadow this time of day. "No way, Chief. I've got an endless supply." Wishful thinking.

"You may be right," Blair agreed.

He slipped out from under Jim and rolled on top of him, laughing at Jim's exaggerated, "Oomph!"

"Why, I might be willing to call this your lucky day....or rather, the day you get lucky."

Jim started laughing, bouncing Blair up and down. "You romantic, you!" Jim teased, necking and nipping playfully with the younger man.

Clothes began littering the floor, a shirt here, some socks there. First Jim's trousers, then Blair's. A little wiggling from both parties and two pairs of boxers went flying.

Blair worked Jim's erection with his knee, alternately biting his neck and sucking on his tongue. He grabbed the older man's hand and coaxed it back toward his ass, guiding Jim's finger into the crevice. His eyes were wide with invitation.

"Come on, you know we can't do that," Jim said, chest heaving.

Blair squirmed even more determinedly against the older man. "Why?" he asked plaintively.

"Blair, honey, you know why."

"Ugh!" Blair grunted, pushing up to a sitting position. "God, the only thing worse than 'Sweetheart,' is 'Blair, honey.'"

"Fine. You know why, *Mr. Sandburg.* Is that better?"

Blair made a face at the smartass beneath him. He bounced a couple of times in punishment, grinning in satisfaction at Jim's groans. "Come on, Jim, I need this. I need it, man!"

"You get a nosebleed that doesn't clot for three hours when you *think* too hard!" Jim argued. "No way we're doing this."

"If we're careful, nothing will happen."

"That's too big an if," Jim said. "I tear some tissue and you could fucking bleed to death!"

Blair rolled his eyes at such melodrama. "If I'm willing to risk it, I don't see why you..."

"Well of *course* you're willing to risk it!" Jim blustered. "You're not the one who has to explain to everybody that you fucked your lover to death!"

Blair coughed in surprised delight. "Jim Ellison, did you just *joke* about our dire straits?!" he squeaked.

Jim raised an eyebrow. "I believe I did," he said, then grinned proudly.

Blair laughed and bounced a few more times. "Does that mean you're mellow enough to give this a try?"

"No way," Jim said firmly.

"Come on, Man. Worst case scenario, I bleed out on the way to the hospital. Think about it, Jim! What a way to go!"

"It was one joke, Sandburg," Jim said warningly. "I'm not ready for the black humor brigade just yet."

Blair slid back down to recline on his lover, his face a picture of ingratiating innocence. "You finish me off that way and I guarantee it will *greatly* increase your cache in certain circles."

"Is that right?" Jim said dryly.

Blair grinned. "Put you right up there with Granger's apes, my man."

With a growl, Jim wrapped Blair tightly in his arms and rolled to his side so Blair was pushed into the sofa cushions. "You've got a lot to learn about foreplay, Sandburg," he said, biting his lover's shoulder.

"The thing about foreplay is that is *leads* to something," Blair said pointedly. "I think *you're* the one who needs to go back to Sexuality 101."

"I hear a challenge in there somewhere," Jim said, eyes glinting competitively.

Blair gave a final squirm and pushed himself up off of his lover, who threw him a hurt look. Blair smirked at him. "Come on, Romeo, we both know nothing's going to happen on your precious sofa cushions."

"Why am I ragged on for wanting one room in the house that that looks presentable?" Jim asked, picking up the discarded clothes decorating the living area.

"Yeah, one room," Blair scoffed, but any further reply was lost in the ringing of the phone. He snatched the cradle from Jim, and blinked innocently at the older man. "Hello?" His face brightened. "Hi, Michael....Yeah, right, Dad." Jim made a face as he continued to gather the clothes. "Right. You got the results then?...Okay, cool, man, sounds good. Hey, what am I supposed to tell my doctor? Yeah, I was wondering about....No, I can tell him. Nine- thirty. You want Simon there too?....Okay good. See it? Oh man, the ball was so in! Come on, if the paint on the third base line was still wet, the ball would have been covered. The ump blew it, man!" Blair laughed and shook his head, shyly twirling the phone cord around a finger. "No way, man....Lunch? You buying, Dad?...Okay, sounds good. Right. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Later."

Blair turned, his expression immediately growing wary at the sight of Jim's displeasure. Hands behind his back, the grad student bounced on his heels, not the least bit inhibited by the fact that he was still naked.

"Michael Yeager," Jim said. Blair nodded. "What'd he say?" It was understood that Jim wouldn't use his Sentinel hearing to eavesdrop on Blair's phone conversations.

"The game's afoot," Blair said with a grin. "He wants us back at Roth tomorrow at 9:30. Simon doesn't have to be there if he doesn't want to. Michael's buying lunch afterward."

"Mm, out of the watchful eye of one overprotective partner, no doubt," Jim grumbled.

Blair closed the distance between them, slipping his arms around the resistant detective. "That's my lover talking, not my partner,"

Blair said in a low voice. "Usually I'm the one who has to walk the line between lover and partner and friend and Guide. It's not so hard, Jim. You just have to know when to play what role, you know?"

"I'm not as talented as you are at changing hats," Jim admitted, his arms reluctantly encircling Blair and drawing him close. He kissed the top of Blair's head, nuzzling the soft fabric of his bandanna.

"You're doing great," Blair said, kissing the cavern of the big man's chest. Jim sighed dejectedly and shrugged. Blair smiled up at him, head back as if Jim was as tall as a tree. "Want me to give you a head rub?" he asked innocently.

Jim ground his returning erection against the grinning younger man. "Hell no, Sandburg. I want you to give me head!"

Blair would have laughed, but it was next to impossible with his mouth full.

Jim walked through the conference room door first, looking left, then right, before moving forward enough to allow Blair entrance. Amused, Blair wondered if the big guy knew what he was looking for or if it was just some subconscious need that screamed "protect!" These days, it seemed to be the latter.

Blair noticed immediately that these meetings were vastly different than the ones he and Jim had with Simon. Those sessions were extremely give and take, all of them throwing out ideas and comments. Working with Federal agents was decidedly different- heavy on the give, light on the take.

Benton wanted Blair to start attending a support group for people with lymphoma. "Oh, man, that's not really my style," he started to say, looking at Jim for help.

"It's not a question of style," Benton said. "It's a question of first contact, and that's where you'll most likely be approached. We won't have you wired until after contact has been made. With an initial offer to visit their clinic, you'll decline, saying you're pleased with your doctors and the progress you're making and leave it at that. We'll send you in wired from then on. At the second contact, you'll show interest. We'll go over the script when the time comes."

It obviously wasn't up for discussion, so, with a final uneasy look at Jim, Blair nodded.

"Agent Yeager will also be attending a support group for parents of children with cancer." Blair made a face at the word children, but it was lost on Agent Benton. Both Jim and Michael Yeager grinned. "It's actually more likely that Agent Yeager will be contacted about the clinic. He's the man with the money and the survivors are generally the more desperate to find a cure."

Jim winced at the term survivors, his mouth drawing in displeasure.

As Benton droned on, Jim felt himself growing more and more unhappy. Benton just assumed Blair was going to get worse before he got better. He kept talking about the time when Blair fell into Stage III of the disease, as if it was a given. Dr. Weber had felt it was entirely possible for Blair to go into remission without ever experiencing Stage III.

Jim kept his tongue, urged on by Blair's increasingly frequent glances his way. Could he sense Jim's mounting tension or was it simply that he knew the detective well enough to know he wouldn't like the way Benton was handling things so far?

Benton looked through his notes again. "On an unrelated piece of business, Blair, Dr. Thomas would like to have all of your prospective bone marrow donors tested as soon as possible. This would include any siblings and both of your parents."

Blair nodded slowly. "I'm an only child," he said, suddenly avoiding Jim's eyes. "And it's, uh, just my mom, but, um, she doesn't exactly....I mean, I haven't actually *told* her about the lymphoma yet."

"Haven't told her?" Jim said incredulously. "Blair, are you..."

Blair glared fiercely at his lover, stopping Jim in mid-sentence. "She's been traveling," the grad student said to the impassive Agent Benton. "I'll, uh, see about getting Dr. Thomas the information she needs, okay?"

Benton nodded, then handed Blair a sheet of paper with the address of the support group he was to attend. With a business- like nod to the rest of the team, he left.

Jim waited for Blair to say something, to try and explain why in the hell he hadn't told Naomi that he was sick, but he had that stubborn set to his chin that said he wasn't going to explain anything.

With an exasperated sigh, Jim glanced at his watch. "I'd better get on to the station," he said. "Simon's waiting for me to fill him in. I guess you're going to lunch?"

Blair looked over to Michael for confirmation. The agent nodded. Nervously passing his coat back and forth between his hands, Jim was reluctant to leave. He wanted to know what Michael Yeager was going to talk about at lunch. More of this doom and gloom like Benton?

Jim didn't want Blair any more worried about what might happen than he had to be. It certainly couldn't be comforting to have these know-it-all agents acting like he was definitely going to get sicker. Maybe he could convince Blair to blow off lunch and ride with him to the station....

As if reading his mind, Blair lifted a pointed eyebrow at his lover, his meaning unmistakable--OUT!

Jim smirked and muttered, "Yeah, yeah, I'm going. See you later, Sandburg."

Michael Yeager drove them to a nice, Italian restaurant near the university. They talked more about cars and the Mariner/ Yankee game from the other night.

After they sat down and ordered, Blair asked Michael about his family. His "real" family. The agent promptly brought out his wallet and flipped to the photographs.

"My oldest David is a photographer for the AP," he said with a proud smile. "Boy lives a far more dangerous life than his G-man father. He just got back from Albania. He'll win a Pulitzer before he's 40, guaranteed." Michael chuckled at his audacity, and shrugged unapologetically. "My daughter Kathryn is just starting her surgical residency at the Cleveland Clinic. Nancy, my wife, and I are counting on Kath for our retirement." He winked at the grad student.

"Oh man, these overachievers!" Blair said with mock horror. "I'm,

like, the family black sheep!"

Michael laughed as he dubiously shook his head. "I don't know, Blair. That honor might be sewn up by my youngest, Will. He's 17, a junior at Pike. Utterly unmotivated by anything except sports and girls."

Remembering his own adolescence, Blair grinned. "*Is* there anything else?" he asked.

Michael gave him a discerning look. "Hmm, you'll have to come to the house after we get this mess cleared up. Maybe you can talk some sense into the little hellion."

"Why me?" Blair asked, raising an interested brow. "For all you know sports and girls might still be my motivation!"

With his best 'don't-kid-a-kidder' look, Michael took the intro he'd been looking for. "Well, I *know* the girl part isn't a concern," he said evenly.

Blair felt himself blush, all too evident given his pale coloring. He concentrated on spearing an errant piece of lettuce and said. "Huh. Yeah. I, uh, didn't think it was that obvious. Have we been under surveillance or something?"

Yeager shrugged casually. "Obvious isn't the right word. Noticeable is more like it. To me at least. My son David is gay."

Blair wondered what that had to do with anything. He nodded, but didn't know what to say. Why did he suddenly feel like a school kid brought before the principal? "Have you shared your suspicions with everyone else on the case?"

Michael shook his head, but Blair was still staring at his plate, so he missed it. "No," the agent said. "Not yet. Thought I'd talk to you about it first. Do you know why most law enforcement agencies forbid couples who are involved from partnering with one another?"

"Yes, 'Dad,' I think I do," Blair said. "Emotional detachment is key to keeping your head in a tight situation. Romantic involvement can only serve to disrupt that detachment. But Michael, we both know a hell of a lot of cops are closer to their partners than they are to their spouses. I can't think of a single set of partners at the station who *aren't* emotionally dependent on one another."

Michael nodded his agreement, smiling at Blair with something resembling pride. "Hm, you really *are* an anthropologist, aren't you," he said. Blair shrugged and nodded. "Which brings me to my next question. Why are you even working with Jim? I can't get a straight answer out of Simon Banks or anyone else I've talked to."

"I'm researching crime detection in modern society," Blair offered. "I kind of, um, happened upon Jim when he was working on a case and...sort of, ingratiated myself into working with him. Maybe let him think it was *way* temporary, you know?"

"I can just imagine," Michael said, laughing and shaking his head. "Something tells me Detective Ellison never saw what hit him."

Blair's smile let Michael know they shared the hunch. "Jim hadn't worked with a partner in, like, four years, but we just clicked. I mean, with me, Jim can still be independent, which is how he works best, but there's still someone there to watch his back, you know?"

Michael nodded thoughtfully.

"So is everything cool?" Blair asked. "You're not going to try to get Jim off the case or anything, are you?"

"Well, Blair, sending a civilian undercover on a case is enough of a rule breaker that I'm not sure we're in any position to speak, so no, I'm not going to mention anything."

With a sigh of relief, Blair relaxed his tensed shoulders and energetically dug into his pasta. "You won't be sorry about that!" he

said excitedly. "Jim's the best cop there is. You know, he's the reason they finally caught Bill Petrie, that car thief guy? You guys were trying for years to nail him, but couldn't!" He went on to tell the story, in humorous detail, of Jim dragging him into the case because he could drive the rig, and how even his *mother* ended up involved. "This isn't the first time a civilian Sandburg has gone undercover!" he joked.

Michael shook his head, still laughing, as he pocketed his credit card and signed the bill. "She sounds like a character!" he said of Blair's mom. "How does she feel about you and Jim?"

"Are you kidding?" Blair said, eyes wide that Michael could even ask. "She may not be too high on the police work part of it, but, every mother dreams of her kid finding someone like Jim Ellison!"

Jim wasn't quite so dreamy when Blair returned to the loft that evening. "So what happened?" he barked before Blair's jacket was on the coat rack.

"I'm fine, my dearest love, and how was your day?" Blair said.

Jim smirked, but welcomed Blair into a hug. They kissed, then Jim pulled back. "So, what happened?" he asked more softly this time.

Blair shrugged on his way to the kitchen. He grinned at the gallon jug of orange juice on the shelf before pulling it out and pouring himself a glass. "Well it started with Michael asking me if I knew why law enforcement organizations refused to let *involved* couples work together."

Jim's eyes bugged. "No way!"

"Way," Blair said.

"Shit, I thought we were pretty good..."

"Michael says his son is gay," Blair said with a shrug. It didn't seem to make any more sense to Jim than it did to him. "I don't know, maybe we give of some sort of vibe, man."

"They gonna try to get me off the case?" Jim asked, eyes narrowing, his mouth already drawn as if he was preparing for a fight.

"Down, Tiger," Blair eased. "Michael said using me on the case in the first place is so off the books, they can hardly raise a stink about us. Besides, I told him it wouldn't be a problem."

That made Jim grin. "Oh, you told him, huh? And that was all he needed to hear?"

Blair circled Jim's waist with his arms and kissed the big man's cheek. "Mm, I might have said something about your being the best cop there is..."

Flushed with pleasure, Jim pulled Blair close, and inwardly shook his head at how comments like that sent him sailing blissfully out of this world. "Objectively speaking, of course," he teased.

"I'm a trained observer," Blair said. "I'm just reporting what I see." He smiled up and Jim and was rewarded for his admiration with a loving kiss. When they broke apart, Blair squinted at the older man. "Speaking of what I see-or what I don't, where's dinner?"

"I work all day long and that's all you think about!" Jim said with a tragic sigh. It was Blair's turn to smirk. "All right then. Dinner is in a delivery truck on its way here. Pizza from Rizzo's."

"Oo, yum." Blair said, with a final kiss to Jim's cheek.

He went into his office to retrieve his laptop and set it up on the kitchen table, then dug through his backpack and pulled out several notebooks and a loose stack of papers. He put on his glasses then started organizing his notes.

Jim watched him for a few minutes, waiting for him to speak, but he was already engrossed in his paper. "Hey, Blair, are we going to talk about this not telling Naomi business?"

"Um...no?" Blair tried.

Jim sat down across from the grad student. "It was kind of a rhetorical question."

"Is it that hard to understand?" Blair finally asked. "I don't want her to worry. I don't want to hurt her. There's nothing she can do, Jim, but she'll stop traveling, move to Cascade, and just... wither away here taking care of me."

"Isn't that her choice to make?" Jim asked gently.

"It's not a choice, it's a done deal. I just...I want to shield her from this for as long as I can. She'll probably pass through town before long anyway. I'll have to tell her then. I just want to hold off for now."

Jim covered Blair's hand with his. "I understand what you're saying, Chief. I just think she's going to be really hurt when she finds out you didn't tell her right away."

"Look Jim, don't press it, okay? I mean, you think I made a fuss about not going to conventional doctors? Naomi would have a fit if she knew I was taking chemotherapy. She'd have us to every acupuncturist, holisitic healer, and soothsayer within a thousand mile radius. You have enough trouble with just me, you know?"

"I could handle it," Jim said, then grinned at Blair's look of total disbelief. "I just think she should know Blair. It would kill me to think of you going through this without my help. I'm sure Naomi would feel the same."

Blair shrugged at the thought. He entwined his fingers with Jim's and squeezed hard. "When I was 10 or 11, Naomi was with this guy, kind of older, real nice though. His daughter was killed in a car accident. I remember Naomi saying that having to outlive a child was, like, the hugest fear a parent had, that it was the most terrible thing she could imagine. I just keep hearing that in my mind over and over..."

Jim snatched his fingers from Blair and shoved his chair away from the table, looking at the younger man as though he just proposed knocking over a bank. "You're talking like you think... so what, you think you're... you are *not* going to die, Blair!" he sputtered.

"I know, I know," Blair said quickly. "I'm just saying..."

Jumping out of his chair, Jim paced the kitchen like a caged animal. "You're saying you think you're going to die and Naomi's already told you she can't handle..."

"Jim, calm down," Blair soothed, his voice soft and lilting. "I meant that..."

"You're going to be fine!" Jim said angrily. "Fine!"

"Hey man, I'm convinced," Blair said, holding up his arms in surrender. "Look, that's why I don't feel bad about keeping Naomi out of the loop. I mean, I'm going to be fine, so why worry her, you know? Hell, Jim, if I could have kept this from *you,* I would have. I hate worrying you...sticking you with this shit. I hate it."

"It's just temporary," Jim said. He looked up sharply. "Not *your* kind of temporary, Sandburg," he said with a faint grin, "Webster's dictionary kind."

"I know," Blair repeated. "You're preaching to the choir, man."

Jim tiredly rubbed his hand across his forehead and slumped against the kitchen counter. "Guess I'm wound a little tight, huh," he said.

"*Tighter*," Blair corrected with a bratty grin.

Jim's smile was sad. He studied the floor for a minute, pulling on the front of his shirt. "If you...if the doctors say you need a bone marrow transplant, then...then you'll tell her, right? We'll ...we'll make sure she's a match and...and we'll have it, right?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course," Blair said, hoping it never came to that if it meant all of those needles and pokes and prods for Naomi.

"But it's not....that's not going to happen," Jim said, head still bowed. "You're going to be in remission long before we'd need that." He looked over at Blair with the neediest, most un-Jim like look on his face Blair could imagine.

"That's right," the grad student said, his voice quiet and gentle, like he was trying to calm a spooked horse. "I'm going to be fine, Jim."

"You promise, right?" his voice was the barest whisper.

Blair walked over and tightly hugged his lover. "Right," he whispered back. "I promise."

Blair's first group session met three days after his chemo treatment. Usually he was feeling pretty much back to normal by then, but it was starting to take longer to bounce back after it.

Jim had asked Liddy, one of the oncology nurses, to come to the loft and baby-sit him the day of. Jim said it was because he heard he bellyaching about needing some extra cash, and he figured this was a nice way to thank her for being so kind and thoughtful. Blair said Jim was more transparent than air and left it at that.

He woke up that morning still feeling nauseous and a little shaky. He heard Jim downstairs putting on the coffee. He hadn't disturbed Blair when he got out of bed, because he'd started sleeping on a futon next to the bed, just the day or two following chemo since any kind of movement of the bed made Blair sick.

Blair sighed, remembering the look on Jim's face the night before when he'd asked the big man if he'd mind spending one more night on the futon. You'd have thought he just told Jim he was moving out or something. He'd looked...betrayed. He'd quickly covered it up, diving into protector mode with a vengeance, puffing Blair's pillows, offering him orange juice and to put on the CD of his choice.

Blair pushed himself out of bed, then had to wait a moment before he felt steady enough to head to the bathroom. He took the stairs slow, holding tight to the banister and pretending he didn't notice the sadness etched in his lover's eyes as he watched him.

"Morning, babe," Jim said with false cheer. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah, better," Blair answered.

Jim smiled and nodded. "What sounds good for breakfast?" he asked next.

It would be a day of pretending, Blair thought, closing the door as if he hadn't heard the question. He stepped into the shower and wondered for the umpteenth time what in the hell he was supposed to say in the group session.

Benton had told him to be as honest as possible, since it was much easier to keep up with the truth than a thousand little lies. Jim had coughed into his coffee at that remark. Blair smiled at the memory.

It was hard to imagine being honest, though, given that he'd eventually be wired and someone, probably Jim, would be on the other end of the wire, listening to everything he said.

The idea of talking to someone had some appeal though. It would probably be liberating to admit he was terrified of dying. Death didn't bother him all that much, but dying...well, that part wasn't so easy. It wasn't even that he really thought he was dying. Most of the time, he was confident he'd be cured, but sometimes, like the days he spent heaving into a toilet, when his temperature was spiking and he couldn't move without help, well, then he wasn't so sure.

And he simply couldn't talk about it with Jim. The merest suggestion that he wasn't 100 percent sure he was going to get better met with such fierce denial, he always felt too guilty to press the matter.

Not for the first time, Blair thought about what it would have been like had he been diagnosed before he met Jim. Who would have held his hair from his face as he retched? Who would have stroked his arm and told funny stories about when they were a kid to help him fall asleep when the sickness finally passed? Who would have tucked the blankets around him and nuzzled his neck and told him he was beautiful, even though he knew 'grotesque' was probably closer to the truth? Who would have made him feel safe and loved?

Blair felt tears in his eyes. Oh God, it was too awful to think about, he thought with a shudder. He swallowed hard, letting the spray of water wash away his momentary melancholy.

Of course, it was really a double edged sword, Blair thought. Yes, he was thankful Jim was here for him, but it made everything a lot more complicated. If he was alone, there would be no immense guilt resting on his shoulders every minute of every day. Every time he realized how much he was worrying Jim, there was part of him that wanted to just take off--head out toward the plains or the mountains, leave Jim now before it got messier and uglier and...harder.

Blair knew it was harder being the one watching. He knew because usually it was *him* on the outside, standing there with the cell phone, calling for back-up, then watching and waiting and waiting and waiting for Jim to come back to him. He knew what it was like to wonder how he would ever eat or sleep or laugh or move if the person who made his world bearable was suddenly taken from him.

Blair knew what it was like to be the one left behind, and he knew it sucked.

Jim scrubbed the shining kitchen sink with a sponge, eyeing a particularly stubborn stain he *knew* would have easily come up if Blair had only cleaned it when it first appeared. How many times did he have to explain to the kid that if you let a stain set it was twenty times harder to clean than if you take five minutes and clean it up right away. It was like the kid was genetically predisposed against neatness. His research was so amazing meticulously, Jim never could understand how he approached that aspect of his life with such organization, yet at home chaos reigned. Jim once told Blair he'd have ten extra hours every week if he didn't spend so much of it running around to pick up after the grad student. Blair had said something snide about the only reason Jim ran around after him was to leer at his ass.

The big man chuckled now, but the smile quickly faded. He threw the sponge down in the sink and roamed over to the kitchen table, sitting down with a thud. Blair was supposed to feel better by the third day. He was supposed to bound down the stairs and wolf down a big breakfast because he was finally hungry again. He shouldn't still be moving in slow motion and holding on to tables and walls for support as he walked...He wasn't supposed to want to sleep by himself in the big bed.

Jim shook his head, trying to physically remove the thoughts from his brain. Why did it fucking hurt so much? Christ, he *hated* the idea that being close to Blair, that touching him and holding him couldn't, or wouldn't, help. It was as if the sicker Blair got, the less Jim was able to help him. That didn't seem right; it didn't seem fair.

Fair. The word made Jim want to spit. Nothing was fair about this. It was fucking shitty and that's all there was to say on the matter. Jim felt the familiar heat of anger burning in his stomach. Why them? Why now?

Blair came out of the bathroom then, looking steadier than when he'd gone in. He grinned at Jim and walked upstairs to change, still holding the banister, but taking the stairs with more confidence.

"How about some toast?" Jim called up. "No ignoring me this time! I can hear your stomach grumbling from here"

He heard Blair chuckle. "Sentinel lovers suck!" he replied.

"Yeah, yeah, put it on a bumper sticker," Jim answered, grinning.

Blair finally joined Jim in the kitchen. Jim kissed him good morning, then handed him a glass of juice. "You feel up to this?" the big man asked. "You still have a temperature."

"How high?" Blair asked with a grin. He nibbled at the toast Jim pushed in front of him, but it didn't feel like it was going to sit well.

"Blair, come on," Jim started to say.

Blair's eyes widened innocently. "You come on," he said. "How high."

It was a game they played. It took him a few tries, but now Jim could guess Blair's temperature within a tenth of a degree. Like an old parlor trick, it never failed to amuse the kid, even when he felt the worst.

Jim sighed, but grinned when Blair happily bounced on his heels knowing the Sentinel would comply. Jim felt Blair's forehead, first with the front of his hand, then with the back. He concentrated for a second, then said, "Hundred and one. Point two."

Blair found the thermometer and popped it in his mouth. He started laughing when the digital read-out displayed 101.2. "Oh man, right on the money this time! You know, we ever get tired of the menial pay of police detectives and teaching fellows, we're heading for the state fair circuit. We'll make a killing at those 'guess your weight booths.'"

Jim pointed at Blair's breakfast and nodded expectantly. Blair rolled his eyes, but dutifully sat down and sipped the juice. "Maybe we should call Benton and postpone," Jim suggested.

Blair shook his head. "No way, man. I'd just sit around here all day. Might as well sit around at therapy." He grinned mischievously at the detective. "Besides, I've got a lot of issues to work through," he teased. "I mean, I've got this lover, see? So anal, you shove a lump of coal up his ass..."

Jim leaned over and shut Blair up with a kiss. It was really the only effective means. "Your lover is your ride, smart ass," he warned.

"You let me drive the truck, and I promise to put in a good word for you when everyone tells me to dump you."

Jim raised an eyebrow, giving Blair his most classic, 'Quit Annoying Me, Sandburg! looks. It seemed to make Blair happy to the extreme. "You really up for a 30 mile hike, buddy?"

To Jim , the most beautiful sound in the universe was not a piece of music, a singing bird, or the sound of wind whispering through trees. It was his lover's laughter. It made him feel warm and hopeful and happy, and he would never tire of it. Especially since it was always accompanied by the most beautiful sight in the world-- Blair's smile.

Thankfully, Agent Yeager was contacted at his second meeting. Thankfully, because Jim was driving Blair crazy. The grad student had only gone to two sessions himself, but the little teasing bit he'd pulled on the big guy before the first meeting really did a number on the man.

He kept pestering Blair to tell him what he'd talked about in the session. Specifically, what he'd said about Jim.

For all of Jim's self-confidence, there was something boyishly charming about his anxiety with the relationship. Made him seem damn human.

Actually, Blair had rather enjoyed torturing the guy. He was just so easy.

"Just one thing," Jim was saying that morning. "Just tell me one thing. Doesn't even have to be major."

"Don't you have to be at work?" Blair asked, scooping scrambled eggs on to Jim's plate. He sliced a cantaloupe, then cubed it since Jim liked it better that way, then he cut two pieces of toast--in triangles--and set the plate in front of Jim who grinned his thanks.

"I always have time for you, my love," he said around a gigantic mouthful of eggs and toast.

"Lucky me," Blair said wryly.

"You tell me one thing you said about me in your meeting and... and I'll tell you..."

"See, you don't *know* anything," Blair joked.

"How did I end up with such a heartless lover?" Jim sighed. "It's not that I don't know anything, it's just that I already tell you everything. See, I'm a generous, giving kind of guy. I just want to make sure the people in your session are getting the full picture."

Blair looked like he was thinking about what Jim had said, but he finally shook his head anyway. "Nah, we're really not supposed to talk about it with outsiders, Jim."

"Outsiders?" Jim echoed. "I'm as inside as you can get! Come on Baby, one thing. Just tell me one thing!" He tried to do that innocent, wide-eyed puppy dog trick of Blair's, but it only made the kid laugh. Damn, he was going to have to perfect that one of these days.

"All right," Blair said, with a sigh of exasperation. "I might have said something about your tendency to beat a dead horse and how you won't take no for an answer."

Jim's indignant denial was cut short by the ringing of his cell phone. "Ellison," he said, immediately all business. He listened for a few minutes, eyebrows raised with interest. He gave a few affirmative grunts, then said, "Thanks for calling, Agent Benton." He looked over at Blair, eyes shining with malice. "We'll see you in an hour." He flipped the cell phone shut and returned to his breakfast.

"What was that about?" Blair asked, taking his plate to the sink. He started to leave it, but a look from Jim made him roll his eyes before he rinsed the plate and put it in the dishwasher.

"Mm, I'm not really supposed to talk about it with outsiders," Jim said, the very picture of innocence.

Blair nonchalantly leaned against the counter. "I bet you money you're a hell of a lot more interested in what I said about you than I am in your phone call," he taunted.

Knowing he was beat, Jim started laughing, shrugging his surrender. "Jeez, Sandburg, you could have played along for a minute or two," he said. "That was Benton. Yeager was contacted at his session this morning. We have a meeting in an hour."

Blair raised his hands over his head and shouted, "The winner!"

[Ten Days Later]

Michael Yeager put out a hand to steady Blair's bouncing leg. They were sitting in the plush waiting room of Medical Solutions' impressive clinic.

Blair winced apologetically. He was supposed to be the slightly surly, apathetic son, not some high strung, play acting grad student. Through his shirt, he touched the necklace that hung around his neck. It was actually a listening device. It looked like a charm hanging on a leather strap. "Hey, just like the Man from U.N.C.L.E.!" he'd joked, but no one else seemed amused.

With a shaking hand, Blair wiped the sweat from his forehead and shifted in the chair, trying to find a position that might somehow lessen the nausea. He'd had chemo the day before and felt like shit.

Benton had originally wanted to schedule this interview for the day before. When Blair mentioned he had chemo, Benton simply told him to push the chemo session back a day. Blair's heart nearly stopped. He didn't even have to look over at Jim to know the detective was livid.

"No," Jim had said calmly. "Push back the meet."

Benton looked surprised. "Look, Detective, this is a federal case we're working on here...."

"Blair is on a 12 day chemo rotation," Jim said, as if explaining elementary math to the agent. "That means chemo, every 12 days. Not every 13 days."

"We'll make an exception this time," Benton said dismissively and turned to his next order of business.

"Agent Benton, I don't believe you understand," Jim said. Blair uncomfortably fidgeted in his chair. The calmer and quieter Jim got the angrier he was. He hoped they'd get out of there without some embarrassing explosion. "We're not changing Blair's chemo. The issue is non-negotiable."

"Detective, you're the one who doesn't understand," Benton said, obviously annoyed now. "I'm the case leader, and I've decided..."

"I don't care if God Almighty is the case leader," Jim said, blue eyes blazing with enough intensity to heat the room. "We're not changing the chemo."

Benton had backed down then, no less annoyed, but Blair figured he was a man to pick and choose his battles.

*Man, chemo was a bitch yesterday,* Blair though. He barely remembered getting home from the hospital. He knew Liddy had been there, but he didn't remember talking to her. Usually they spent the day talking and watching TV. Blair couldn't even remember lying on the couch. He'd fallen asleep curled around the toilet on the bathroom floor, only vaguely waking when Jim carried him upstairs. The bed had seemed too soft and even the futon was sickeningly pliant. Jim finally spread out a comforter on the floor, and Blair spent the rest of the night there.

Jim had looked haunted this morning. His face was lined, and there were dark circles of sleeplessness under his eyes. He couldn't even pretend it hadn't been awful, but when Blair started to apologize, Jim angrily cut him off. "Don't you *ever* take responsibility for this shit!" he said. "This isn't your fault, Blair, and I don't want to hear you talking like it is!" Then he'd stormed upstairs to dress.

He didn't think anything of it then, but now Blair was suddenly struck by the idea that Jim hadn't suggested they postpone this meeting.

Blair had refused breakfast, and his temperature was over a hundred and two. Jim had barely said two words to him the whole morning, except to hurry him to the truck when it was time to go.

Blair shrugged and chalked it up to a sleepless night. Man, this was crappy for Jim too. He could hardly expect the guy to dance around like he didn't have a care in the world.

Noticing that Blair was fiddling with the listening device, Michael reached over and put Blair's hand in his lap. His eyes told Blair everything was okay. Out loud, in the voice of an annoyed parent, he said, "Would you settle down?"

"Sorry, Dad. I'm late to meet some friends. I thought you said this would only take a minute."

"We're lucky to be here at all. They normally have a six month waiting list to get through the door. Just sit still and be patient."

It was another twenty minutes before a doctor came out to greet them. "I'm Anthony Gray," said the tall, smiling doctor.

Blair wasn't sure what he was expecting, but Dr. Gray definitely wasn't it. He was so...normal looking. He certainly didn't look like a man who would condone the murder of 25 innocent people, much less orchestrate it. His touch to Blair's back as he motioned the two of them to his office was gentle. He had the hands of a doctor, Blair thought, watching the man sit at his desk and look through his chart.

"You were diagnosed early, Blair, that's a definite bonus," Dr. Gray said. He smiled knowingly at the younger man. "You're probably tired of hearing that, aren't you. If it's such a bonus, why aren't you in remission, that's what you're wondering, right?"

Blair shrugged and glanced at Michael and nodded. "They keep telling me it's going to take time," he said.

Dr. Gray nodded, eyes radiating sympathy. "Yes and that there are no guarantees that once you're in remission it will stick." He leaned forward, his voice hushed with emotion. "What if I told you that in a matter of months, I can guarantee that not only will you be in remission, but it will be permanent?"

"Guarantee?" Blair said dubiously. "I guess I wouldn't believe you."

Dr. Gray laughed. "You said he was skeptical," he said to Michael.

The agent lifted his brow. "I believe I said 'obstinate,'" he said wryly.

"Well believe it, Blair." Dr. Gray stood up and walked over to a cabinet beside his desk. He unlocked the door and took out a vial filled with a murky yellow liquid. He presented the test tube to the younger man. "There it is, Blair. Unbelievably simple isn't it? You get one shot, spend two, maybe three days in the hospital and it's over. No more chemo, no more radiation. No more sickness."

Blair frowned, turning the tube over in his hands. He had to concentrate to keep from shooting a confused look at Michael. What in the hell was Gray talking about. As far as they knew, this was just some kind of macabre bone marrow bank, right?

Blair tried to calm his thundering heart beat, fearing the guys on the other end of the mike wouldn't be able to pick up anything over the deafening sound. Blair swallowed and looked up at Dr. Gray. "Yeah, right," he said, sounding bored. "The cure to cancer, right here in a test tube. How come it's not on the news, then? How come my other doctors never heard of it."

"Not the cure to cancer," Gray said, looking amused and not the least insulted by Blair's indifference. "Just the cure to lymphoma."

"I get it," Blair said with a snort. "My dad pays you a ton of money and you give me this shot and suddenly I'm cured! Then by the time I go to a real doctor and they tell me I'm not, you're sailing in the Caribbean or something."

Gray laughed, shaking his head at Michael's disapproving glare. "It does cost a lot of money, Blair," he said earnestly. "You see, we run you through a battery of tests, then we have to formulate the serum so that it's a precise match to your blood chemistry. That part can take some time, because we might not have any specimens on hand that match your specifications. That's why I say a matter of months. If we have the specimens on hand, you could be entirely cured by this time next month."

Knowing exactly what those 'specimens,' were, Blair felt his stomach lurch. He cleared his throat and moved uncomfortably in his chair.

"Are you okay?" Gray asked.

"Chemo yesterday," Blair answered succinctly. "So how come I've never heard about this?" Blair asked. "How come my other doctors don't know about it."

Gray started to answer, but Michael interrupted. "Enough with the questions, Blair," he said in an irritated voice. "I thought you had some friends you wanted to meet. Let's just have them run the necessary tests and we'll talk later, all right?"

"Yeah, whatever," Blair said with a shrug.

Gray smiled victoriously and punched a buzzer on his phone. "Blair is ready for the tests," he announced. A pretty nurse came to the door then, and motioned for Blair to follow her into an examination room.

He'd been through the routine a hundred times, but sitting in the sterile room, knowing what these people were doing to make their little serum made Blair increasingly uncomfortable. He shivered, hearing in his mind the wails and cries of the dying.

The nurse, her name was Cindy according to her name tag, had just drawn a third vial full of blood. Blair watched her label the sample and put it in the stand with the others. He wondered how many vials of blood that stand had held, blood from people who were no longer here, people who'd had no chance... Uh oh.

Blair scrambled down from the table. "Bathroom!" he said urgently. Cindy pointed to the only other door in the room.

Blair vomited violently. It wasn't until he stood up on shaking legs to rinse out his mouth that he remembered the listening device around his neck. "Aw, jeez guys, sorry," he said softly.

Man, if this thing ever went to trial, he sure as hell hoped they'd edit out that part of the tape.

Jim couldn't help but grin when Benton got the earful of Blair throwing up. He was listening in to Yeager's conversation with the doctor, keeping one Sentinel ear tuned to the sounds from Benton's earphones. *Serves you right, you prickly bastard,* Jim thought smugly, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Ever since he heard Gray utter the word "cure," Jim had wanted to shout with joy. Everything was going to be okay now. They had an out. Sure, they'd keep up with the chemo for now, try to go about getting a remission the legitimate way, but if it didn't take, it would still be okay, because there was a cure.

It was a last straw to be sure. He'd have to work around the feds to get at it--they had no intentions of letting Blair actually *take* the serum. Knowing Blair, he'd refuse it anyway on the grounds that it was unethical. Well, knowing Blair, he'd refuse because of the bad karma or some other such nonsence. No, Jim was simply going to file this away. If only the fates would smile on them, they wouldn't even need it.

As soon as Blair had left the room, Yeager got down to business. "Dr. Gray, I'm not an innocent," he said calmly. "I know why you've kept this quiet. I mean, it takes 15 government forms and a six month waiting period to bring a fruit basket into this country. I know how long it takes to get medication approved. I just...I want your guarantee that no matter what happens, Blair won't get into any trouble."

"Mr. Sanders, I can assure you that what we're doing here is perfectly safe."

"I know it's safe, Doctor," Yeager said. "I also know it's illegal. I want to know that Blair won't be held accountable for anything that happens here."

Careful not to utter anything incriminating, Gray appeared to put 'Mr. Sanders' at ease.

Jim listened with growing elation as the meeting came to a close. Just a few more minutes and Blair was out of this mess for good.

The meeting concluded and while Yeager waited for Blair to finish with the tests, Jim and Benton headed back to Roth. Forty-five minutes later, Yeager and Blair drove up.

Jim's welcoming smile faded when he saw Yeager walk around to the passenger door and give Blair a hand out. The detective got out of the truck and jogged over. "Everything okay?" he asked, possessively drawing Blair out of Yeager's grasp.

"He got a little sick on the way over," Yeager said.

"A little," Blair rasped, rolling his eyes at Yeager's generosity.

"You're okay, aren't you, Blair?" Jim said, smiling encouragingly and tweaking Blair's ear.

Embarrassed, Blair nodded. "Nothing a clean blood supply won't cure," he said dryly. "Let's go home, man, okay?" He shrugged out of Jim's hold, said good-bye to Michael and shuffled off toward the truck.

Jim smiled politely and started to follow. "Uh, Jim, he was pretty sick there for awhile. Maybe you should take him by the hospital."

The smile was not so polite anymore. "He's fine," Jim said. "Day after chemo, he's still a little shaky, but it's nothing."

"Nothing?" Michael echoed dubiously. "Jim, I don't even think he knew he was kneeling by the side of the road. I really think..."

"I know you mean well, Michael," Jim said, struggling to remain civil. "But *I'm* the one who knows what Blair needs, okay? That position is filled, so just...back off, all right?"

Michael spread his arms wide in surrender. "All right, Jim," he said. He turned to go, but not without firing a parting shot. "You tell Blair I'll be by to visit him in a few days, all right?"

Jim said nothing, but he watched Michael walk into the building with a sour look on his face. He walked back to the truck, wincing at the sight of Blair fast asleep, head resting on the window pane. Not even the sound of the slamming car door woke him up.

Jim sighed and leaned over to gently kiss Blair's cheek. "You're okay," he whispered. "You're just tired, that's all. You'll go home and sleep some and you'll feel fine by tomorrow."

Jim felt like the silence that met his statement was mocking him. He gunned the motor and pulled out of the parking lot and told himself that it would be easier now. One more meeting with Benton and Simon, and Blair was off the case. Now he could concentrate on getting better. It was just a matter of time until he was in remission. That's what the doctor had said yesterday.

But there was more than that promise to set his mind at ease. There was a cure to lymphoma. One shot. Two, maybe three days in the hospital, and then it was over. The ethics of it were hazy; Blair would loathe the idea, but it was there, a comforting parachute just waiting for the cord to be pulled.

[Five Days Later]

Jim looked at the clock and grimaced in annoyance. "Blair? Hey Blair! Get you ass down here-taxi's pulling out in 30 minutes!" There was no response from upstairs. Jim had been calling for Blair since he put the coffee on, to little avail. They were supposed to meet with Benton and Simon in less than an hour. With an exasperated sigh, Jim trudged up the stairs to find Blair still buried under the covers. He'd had chemo six days earlier and should have been fine by then. Well, better anyway.

Jim nudged his shoulder. "Rise and shine, Sandburg," he said.

"Hm mm," Blair mumbled.

"Come on," Jim said. "We've gotta be out the door in a half hour."

"You go," huffed Blair, shivering even though he'd spread out the two extra blankets they now kept at the foot of the bed.

Jim swallowed hard and told himself it was just Blair's typical aversion to early morning. "You're the one who wanted to play junior G-man," he said pointedly. "It's not all glamour, babe."

Eyes still closed, Blair smirked. "What happened to 'You should be resting, Blair Honey'?"

"Every time I say it, you end up wanting to go bunge jumping or something," Jim said dryly. "I'm starting to think you don't listen to me."

Blair smiled and snuggled into his pillow. "Then it won't come as any surprise that I'm not going."

Jim huffed in annoyance. "Blair, for Christ's sake..."

Blair's smile faded and he opened his eyes. He didn't look so much hurt as sorry. "Jim," he said with an apologetic shrug. "I'm not going, okay? You guys don't need me there."

Jim backed away as if the younger man had shouted at him. He shrugged and mumbled, "Fine. I'll go by myself then." Jim headed for the stairs, but stopped and turned back around. "At least...at least come downstairs and have some breakfast, okay?"

Blair bit back a frustrated sigh. Jeez, all he wanted in the world was to go back to sleep. Was he really asking that much? "No thanks," he said.

"Then just come down and keep me company," Jim said, his heart fluttering with a strange desperation that made his voice waver.

Blair wanted to pull the covers up over his head and disappear. He hated the lost helplessness he heard in Jim's tone, hated that he was reducing the strong, steady man to a constant state of fear and frustration. Blair felt tears well up in his eyes but he willed them away, managing to whisper, "Jim, *please!*" without a quiver in his own voice.

Jim backed away again, nodding quickly. "Okay, then, okay!" he said, speaking as if Blair was hysterical and needed to be calmed. "You're just...you're probably just tired, right? You sleep, and you'll feel better later." He stepped forward, eyes brightening. "Hey, we'll go out to dinner. Haven't done that in awhile, have we? We'll go to Moretti's. That sounds good, right?"

At that moment, Blair would have promised to eat fried worms if it meant Jim would leave him alone and let him go back to sleep. "Mm, okay," he muttered. He felt his body relax from head to toe at the blessed sound of Jim descending the stairs. *Oh, man, thank you, thank you, thank you!* he thought and was asleep before he could feel guilty for the sentiment.

Jim swallowed against the lump in his throat and told himself the sick feeling in his stomach was from this morning's runny eggs. He didn't say he *couldn't* go, just that he wouldn't. That meant he was okay, but he just didn't feel like going. He was okay. Tonight, they'd go out to dinner and joke around and come back home and snuggle together on the couch and maybe, if the kid wasn't too tired, they'd mess around a little bit. Nothing major, just a little fun and then they'd turn in kind of early and everything would be back to normal tomorrow.

"Where's Blair?" Simon asked, getting out of his car and walking to the door with Jim.

"He had some work for school he had to finish, Sir," Jim said. He hadn't known he was going to lie to the Captain until the words were out of his mouth. He felt his face flush, whether from shame or shock, he wasn't sure.

"He doing okay?" Simon asked gruffly.

"Oh, yeah, Sir. He's doing great," Jim said eagerly. Simon looked at him strangely, and Jim quickly amended his words. "Well, you know, considering. He's really close to a remission now, just a matter of time. Any day now really."

"Well that's great," Simon said. "Look, I've got a couple of extra tickets to the hockey game tonight. I wasn't going to say anything if the kid was feeling lousy, but you're welcome to them. Taggart and Brown will be there."

Jim enthusiastically agreed. "That sounds terrific, Simon. We were going out later anyway. We've been trying to get tickets for weeks. How'd you get them?"

"You know the mayor during an election year," Simon said with a shrug. "I figure we'll have front row seats to all the big games, at least until November."

Jim laughed, his step a little jauntier as they joined Benton in the conference room. This was going to be like old times-- meeting the guys at a game, hollering and stomping at the teams, joking around with the kid, exchanging secret looks over the other guys' heads, knowing they'd laugh about it later, anticipating what would happen when they were alone again... Oh yeah, this would be great.

For a moment, Jim thought about giving Blair a call and telling him of the change in plans, but then he decided against it. Nope, he'd wait and surprise him when he got home from work. After all, the kid was a sucker for surprises.

Blair was lying on the couch and he winced as the door slammed shut. "Hey, Chief!" Jim said excitedly. "Guess what? Forget Moretti's--Simon's got tickets to tonight's hockey game. The hottest game in town!"

Blair squinted at Jim. "Yeah? Have fun," he said dispiritedly.

"What do you mean?" Jim asked. "We're meeting Simon and Joel and Eddie."

Blair shook his head. "No thanks," he said.

"Come on," Jim coaxed. "Simon went to a lot of trouble to get these tickets!"

"I don't feel like it," Blair said with a shrug.

"We were going out anyway!" Jim reminded him. "You change while I take a shower," Jim said, making his way to the bathroom. "We don't have to leave for another few hours. You'll feel up to it by then."

"Jim, no," Blair said, carefully pushing himself up to a sitting position.

"Come *on,*" Jim said, his ebullient mood quickly waning. "Jesus Blair we never do anything anymore. Let's just go out for a few hours...."

"Look, you want to go, go," Blair said reasonably. "I don't want to, okay?"

Jim walked back to the couch. "No! It's not okay!" he said irritably. "Is it so wrong to want to go out? Am I being that unreasonable?"

"I'm not trying to be difficult," Blair said with a small cough of disbelief. "I don't feel like going out!"

"You never feel like doing *anything*!" Jim muttered, storming upstairs.

Blair sighed. He could hear Jim banging dresser drawers as he searched for a change of clothes. He didn't have the energy to deal with his anger today. He was exhausted, and he felt like shit and there was no way he was going to stand around an ice rink for a few hours. Not even for Jim.

Jim came down the stairs, obviously trying to reign in his emotions. "Look," he began. "We can take separate cars. If you want to duck out early...."

"I *want* to stay here," Blair said.

"Can't you even try?" Jim asked in disbelief. "Don't you even *want* to try?"

"That's the whole point!" Blair said, his voice finally raised a few decibels. "No, I don't!"

"It's just a couple of hours," Jim said, his eyes pleading. "It'll be fun, Blair. Remember fun? Remember doing something besides fucking sitting here on your ass all day?"

Blair rolled his eyes in frustration, but even as he did, he was thinking more of how shitty Jim was going to feel once he calmed down. It would be a hell of a lot easier if Jim would learn to dole out his feelings in easy-to-manage doses instead of having them tumble out in periodic breakdowns.

"I'm not going," Blair said, with an air of finality he hoped would end the conversation.

"Just...can't you come along, Blair? For me? Can't you just do this one thing for me? You don't feel that bad, I know you don't."

Blair just shook his head.

"Well what the fuck am I supposed to tell Simon?" Jim asked, more control slipping away.

"Tell him I didn't feel like going," Blair said slowly, carefully, feeling his own frayed nerves starting to give way.

"Why don't I tell him the truth?" Jim said angrily. "Like two hours without being the center of attention would probably do you in!"

Blair shook his head, doing little to cover up the look of disgust on his face. "Yeah Jim, tell him that," he said, the unspoken "whatever" in his voice making Jim see red.

"Why can't you do this for me?!" Jim yelled. "Why can't you just do this? You're not that sick, Blair. You're not!"

Blair sighed, still shaking his head. He couldn't talk to Jim when he was like this. All he could do was wait for the storm to pass. He couldn't even work up a healthy sense of anger to move the scene along. There was nothing to do but wait. The story of his life of late.

"You're coming with me," Jim said. Ordered. "I don't ask a hell of a lot from you, Blair. Now go change your clothes."

If he wasn't so tired, Blair would have rolled with laughter at Jim's intimidation technique. As it was he simply lifted an amused eyebrow and said, "Sir, no sir."

"Fuck you!" Jim suddenly yelled, his face reddening with rage. "I fucking work my ass off all day and all I want is for us to go out and have some fun! What the fuck do I tell my *boss* Blair? My fucking little self-absorbed boyfriend doesn't *feel* like going out?! Maybe you're afraid that the cold will mess up your beautiful complexion! Maybe I oughta tell him that!"

Blair shakily rose to his feet, his own frustration boiling over. "Why don't you tell him your fucking boyfriend has cancer!" he yelled back. "Why don't you tell him I lost half my blood supply from a bloody nose that wouldn't clot? Tell him I spent *my* day throwing up all the blood I swallowed!"

Jim turned abruptly and grabbed his keys off of the kitchen counter. "I can't talk to you!" he muttered darkly, and stalked out the door.

He meant to head for his truck but the sudden onslaught of terror had him running in the opposite direction. He tore down the street, heading out toward the beach, almost as if he were going towards something, instead of running away.

He must have run full out for at least 15 minutes before he stopped, doubled over and gasping for air. Jesus, what kind of monster was he? Screaming at Blair like that....yelling at him for feeling sick. Jesus Christ, he *was*! What the fuck was wrong with him?

Oh God, Blair was going to leave him. Jim was pacing in a tight circle, walking first in one direction, then whirling and walking in another. One way or another the kid was going to cut him loose and who could blame him? He was fucking *worthless* to him! He couldn't help. He couldn't make him better. He could fucking hear a fly buzzing on the outside of the window pane but he couldn't do a single, God damned, fucking thing to make Blair any better. Jesus, if anything, he was only making matters worse....

Fuck, he was worthless. Blair deserved so much better. Someone brilliant like he was. Someone bright and well read and open to anything and everything. Someone as open and giving as he was. What did he have to offer the kid? Here he was, this thick-headed cop, anal to the extreme, fucking *screaming* at the kid like some kind of animal.

One way or another, Blair was going to leave him. He knew it.

A half hour later, Jim had walked back to the truck and used the cell phone. "Hi, Simon, it's Jim. Look, uh, Blair and I are going to pass on the tickets, okay?"

"Pass?" Simon said incredulously. "Are you sure? They're playing the Oilers!"

"I know," Jim said, swallowing against the emotion in his voice. "Blair, uh....Blair's not up to it, and I was thinking I should stick around...."

Simon was quiet for a moment. "Oh. Is, uh, everything... okay?" he asked, wincing inwardly at the banality of such a question.

"Oh, you know. Rough day, I guess. Nothing....serious," Jim winced himself.

"Rain check, then," Simon said with false cheer. "Next time Sandburg feels like a night out, I'll give the mayor a call. He owes me a few more games."

"Thanks, Simon," Jim said, his voice barely above a whisper. He quickly switched off the phone, letting his head fall back against the head rest for a minute.

Eventually, he walked on shaky legs up to the loft and quietly let himself in, hoping Blair was asleep, and he could postpone the inevitable.

Blair was sitting up on the couch, glasses on, furiously typing at the laptop. He had so few hours in the day where he felt up to working that when he did, he tended to go at it full throttle. He looked up from the screen, his face softening in compassion at his distraught lover.

The look nearly made Jim turn around and leave. He felt like he didn't even deserve to be in Blair's presence, much less the object of his concern. How could the kid do it? Jim had a core meltdown, yelled at him like some kind of maniac, but instead of lashing out at him, there he was, looking like he wanted nothing more than to hold him close.

Jim's car keys fell from his hand. Trembling, he made his way over to Blair, falling to his knees in front of the couch. Blair moved the laptop to the side, then Jim covered his smaller hands with his own. He ducked his head, kissing Blair's hands, rocking his head in his lap. "I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly. "I'm sorry, Blair. I'm sorry. Don't be mad at me. Don't be mad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Blair leaned over and gently kissed the top of Jim's head. He carefully freed one of his hands to pet the close-cropped hair. "Shhh, it's okay," he soothed. "Jim, it's okay. I understand. Come on, it's okay."

Jim shook his head, his head still buried on Blair's lap. "It's not okay," he whispered. "I'm...I'm awful, Blair."

Bending down to kiss Jim's hair, Blair grinned. "You're not awful," he scolded, then gently teased, "Anal, yes. Control-freak, absolutely. Remote-hog, sure thing. But not awful. You're wonderful, Jim."

"I don't know what....what I was thinking," Jim continued, still unable to look Blair in the eye. The younger man could feel the wetness from his lover's tears as they fell on his hand. "I just.... I wanted it to be like it was before. I just wanted to come home and have everything be fine and I ...it makes me crazy that I can't...help...I can't...do anything."

"It's okay," Blair said, leaning to the side to see if Jim would look at him. The big man closed his eyes, quickly shaking his head. "Listen, I want you to go to the game tonight and have fun and then...."

"No," Jim interrupted. "I already called Simon and canceled. It wasn't....it wasn't the game. It was just....going somewhere with you...like we used to, you know?"

"I know."

"I love you," Jim whispered. "Don't leave me, Blair. Don't ever leave me."

"I won't," Blair said, silently adding, *Not on purpose. Not willingly.*

"Promise," Jim said forcefully. "Promise me you'll never leave. Say the words, Blair. Say you promise!"

"I promise," Blair said, still petting Jim's soft hair. "I'll always be here with you, Jim. I promise."

It never failed to stun Blair how those simple and essentially meaningless words served to soothe the savage beast in Jim, as if he honestly believed Blair's promise could somehow turn back the cancer cells. Blair felt Jim relax under his pets. "I'm sorry you're sick," Jim whispered. "I'm so sorry, Blair."

"I know you are," Blair said softly, and if Jim could have seen the tenderness in his eyes, his renewed wonder that a man like Jim could feel so deeply, he would have been even further comforted. "Come on, stretch out here on the couch," Blair said, moving the laptop to the floor.

"But you're working," Jim said, even as he was crawling up on the sofa. He settled his head on Blair's lap and slipped his arms around the younger man's waist. "It's important...."

Still gently rubbing Jim's head, Blair grinned fondly at his lover. "But you're *much* more important to me," he said and kissed him one more time.

Even if Jim hadn't recognized Michael's car in front of the loft, he could hear the man's voice as soon as he got out of the truck. That gave him enough time to practice looking pleasant.

He was a nice enough guy--Blair really liked him anyway. He'd latched on to the man like he always did when he was infatuated with someone new. Blair was infinitely interested in people, and someone was always piquing his interest--a new professor at school, a new detective at the precinct. He'd fixate on the person for awhile, learn as much as he possibly could before they were added to his ever-expanding stable of friends. It was virtually impossible to go anywhere in Cascade without running in to someone Blair knew.

Jim liked that about his lover--the way he seemlessly drew people to him. It was a talent Jim had never cultivated in himself, and it made him proud to see it in Blair. Why then, did Michael Yeager's presence gnaw at him like fingers on a chalkboard.

Blair had taken Michael up on his offer a dinner at the agent's home a few nights back and was still talking about it to Jim--how nice Nancy was, how delicious her chicken was, how funny Michael's son was, what a great father Michael seemed to be.

*Maybe it's just because I'm high maintenance,* Jim said to himself, borrowing Blair's teasing complaint. Maybe he did begrudge the kid his friends because it cut in to the time he had to spend with--or just think about--Jim. Maybe. *Right, Ellison. There's no maybe about it.*

Jim opened the door to the loft and saw that Blair was stretched out on the big couch, fast asleep. Michael was sitting on the smaller couch, reading aloud from one of Blair's guided imagery books. Chemo was tomorrow and Guided Imagery was one of the kid's New Age remedies. The book helped the patient picture cancer cells as invading armies, or medieval dragons, and the chemotherapy became knights in shining armor or dashing princes to fight off the evil cancer.

Jim smiled politely at Michael, but was thinking, *That's *my* job.*

"Michael, how are you?" Jim said quietly, offering the agent his hand.

Michael got up and shook Jim's hands. "Just fine, Jim. You?"

"Fine, thanks. Blair doing okay?"

'Okay' was becoming more and more of a relative term. The grad student had never fully recovered from the last round of chemo-- neither his stamina nor his appetite had returned to normal. He'd spent most of the last two weeks sleeping.

Jim immediately pushed away the memory of his rampage at the younger man, but the pain remained, a constant, aching reminder of yet another failure where his lover was concerned.

"He's been asleep for awhile," Michael said. "Figured some of that guided imagery stuff might sink in subconsciously if I kept reading."

"Can't hurt," Jim admitted. He got a beer from the fridge, holding it up as an offering to Michael, who looked at his watch and nodded.

Michael took a swig from the bottle and smiled at Jim who smiled back. "Oh, uh, hey, Nancy wants Blair to come for dinner again next week. When he's feeling up to it. She'd really like you to come along, Jim. Give her a chance to meet the guy Blair talked about non-stop the last time."

Pleased, Jim grinned and shrugged, then nodded. "That sounds great, Michael. Tell her we'd love to come. Blair had a real nice time."

They finished their beers, steering the conversation back to the Medical Solutions case. Michael put on his coat and took a final look over at Blair. "He's a great kid," he said fondly. "I'll be glad when all of this is behind him."

"Yeah, me too." Jim agreed. "Michael, thanks for coming by. It means a lot to Blair."

Jim gave a final wave and quietly shut the door.

"What means a lot to Blair?" came a sleepy voice from the couch.

"I do," Jim said with a cocky grin, sauntering over to the couch to kiss Blair hello.

Blair matched his grin. "You just shouting that out to the hallway?"

"Well, it's easier than yelling it from the rooftops," Jim said. He sat down and stretched his arm across the back of the couch, letting Blair fit himself against him so he wouldn't inadvertently cause him pain. He grinned when Blair settled his head on his shoulder and sighed, almost purring.

"Michael came over today," Blair said, his voice still sleepy.

"I know. He was here when I came home. Actually, I was telling him his stopping by means a lot to you when you woke up."

"Mm," was Blair's reply.

Jim gently ran his hand up and down Blair's back. The feel of his ribs nearly boring through his skin didn't shock Jim as much as it used to, a realization in itself that made him feel sad. "Hey, I rated an invite to dinner next time," he said, his voice sounding too loud in his ears. "What do you think of that?"

"I think Nancy better buy a couple of extra chickens," Blair said. He giggled when Jim growled and nipped at his ear. He made a little sound of displeasure when Jim stood up.

"You eat today?" Jim asked, walking over to the refrigerator where they kept a copy of Blair's daily menu. Dr. Thomas was unhappy at his weight loss after his last appointment and insisted they keep a food diary to make sure Blair was getting the appropriate amount of calories every day. Jim scanned the page, nodding his approval. "How about leftover meatloaf and potatoes and broccoli?"

Blair wrinkled his nose, but made no retching sound, so Jim took that as an affirmative. He dished out two plates and put them in the microwave.

Blair shook his head. "Somehow it doesn't seem fair that on your night to cook you're reheating a dinner that *I* made."

"It's not my fault that all my meals are so delicious there's never any left over," Jim said innocently. The microwave sounded.

Blair moved slowly from the couch to the dinner table, lowering himself to the chair to stare with trepidation at his plate. "Mm, I don't know," he said dubiously.

"I'm not the one who gets lectured at by Dr. Thomas," Jim said with a shrug.

"Yes you are," Blair said, picking at the meatloaf. "You're the one sitting next to me, remember?"

"Yeah, right, that is me, isn't it," Jim said. "At least eat the broccoli. Remember Thomas' speech number 108, 'Fighting Cancer from the Inside Out.'"

Blair sighed and took a bite. He pushed the food around with a fork, casting worried glances over at Jim. Jim read the looks well enough--Blair's way of saying 'I want to talk about something, but I don't know how to start.'

Jim leaned down to catch Blair's eye. "Out with it," he said. "Come on, Beav, what happened? You wreck the car or something?"

Blair smirked, but his face sobered and he reached out and began to pet Jim's arm. He'd been thinking about this for a long time, playing the conversation over and over again in his mind. He couldn't even get Imaginary Jim to go along with him, so he didn't hold out much hope for convincing the real thing. Still, he had to try.

"Jim, I...um...I've made a decision. I know you're not going to like it, but this is....this is my decision. I'm stopping the chemotherapy."

The silence surprised Blair. He'd expected Jim to go ballistic at the very idea. Instead, Jim slowly and carefully wiped his mouth. "Can I ask why?" he said. His heart was thundering loudly and he was happy he was the Sentinel and not Blair. Was it possible that Blair had come to the same conclusion he had about using the serum?

Blair winced at the ultra quiet voice. "Look, man, it's been, like, months, and I'm no closer to remission than I was when we started this. I've been reading up on some holistic healers who've had remarkable success treating cancers with diet, exercise, healing ceremonies... I want...I want to give it a try."

Jim's heart fell. Stupid of him, really, to think it would be that easy.

Blair's mind just didn't work the way his did, something he was usually quite grateful for. Jim neatly folded his napkin, then cleared his throat. "No," was all he said.

Blair looked at him expectantly, his eyes widening in disbelief. "No?" he echoed. "Just....no?"

Jim shrugged, as if to say "You heard me."

Blair smiled in disbelief. "You seem to think I'm asking your permission, Jim," he said. "I'm not. I'm *telling* you, I'm not having any more chemotherapy."

"And I'm telling you yes you are," Jim said. Until you agree to take the serum, Jim added silently to himself.

"It's not your decision!" Blair said incredulously.

"It is if you're going to make ludicrous decisions like this," Jim said, his voice still annoyingly calm, ultra patient.

"Just because you don't agree with something doesn't mean it's ludicrous," Blair said. He sighed and leaned back in the chair. He was too tired for this. He needed someone on *his* side; someone who would see his point of view. A picture of Naomi flashed through his mind, but he pushed it away. Not yet. He didn't want her to know yet. Still, it would be nice to have someone who could help Jim understand.

Blair took a cleansing breath. This was already more confrontational than he meant it to be. He reached for Jim's arm again. "Jim, the more I read, the more convinced I am that mental attitude is the key in fighting this. You of all people have to understand that and believe it. I mean, you're the most focused person I know. You know the power of believing in yourself and believing in what you have to do to get the job done....Jim, I don't believe in the chemo. I don't think it can cure me. And if I don't think it will....it can't."

Jim struggled to keep his temper in check. He'd let it get away from him once with disastrous results. It wouldn't happen again. "Blair...Sweetheart, you're just frustrated right now. The last session was crappy and you're thinking about the next cycle. It's hard to be positive 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It's okay to have doubts. But we can't just stop what we're doing."

"Jim, *we're* not doing anything," Blair said, gritting his teeth in irritation. "*I'm* the one *doing* it."

"And I'm the one right next to you, remember?" Jim whispered, hurt.

"I know!" Blair said quickly. "God, man, I know. You're amazing, and I love you more and more every day we spend together...."

"Then let's stop this talk of ending chemo!" Jim said. "Hey, I've been good, haven't I? I haven't said anything about the weird stuff you've been drinking or the incense you burn; that strange man you go see every week. I've kept up my end of the bargain, Blair. You keep up yours!"

Blair sighed and wondered how in the hell he ended up falling for a man so completely grounded in the concrete. If Jim couldn't see it, touch it, hear it, smell it, it simply didn't exist for him. *Life with a Sentinel,* he thought ruefully.

"We've tried it your way," Blair said gently. "The chemo's messing with the 'weird stuff,' you know? Diluting it. If I clean all the chemicals from my system, these holistic remedies will work."

"Who told you that, Blair. That charlatan shaman you've been seeing? Oh come on, don't look so surprised. You knew I'd check him out. Jesus, Blair, wake up. He just wants you to have as much cash as possible to spend on his miracle cures."

Blair sadly shook his head. "You of all people should believe in the unbelievable, Jim. In the spectacular, in the out of this world."

Jim explosively exhaled and slumped back in his chair. "I can *prove* what I'm able to do," he said. "What I'm capable of is *fact,* not illusion, not wishful thinking, and not some *scam* designed to part desperate people from their bank accounts!"

"Damn it, why is everything *you* don't accept ludicrous and stupid and wishful thinking? You're not the sole determinant of reality! There's more in heaven and earth, Horatio!"

Jim flashed his eyes upward as if seeking heavenly intervention to deal with his lover. "Blair, it's a question of consequences here. You believe in Mr. Hocus Pocus, and he's wrong, what happens, huh?"

Blair glared at Jim. "The same thing that happens if you believe in the chemo, and *it's* wrong. Dead is dead, Jim. If I'm going, I'd just as soon take my own road, thank you."

It was a dangerous tract. They both knew Jim didn't deal well with the "d-word."

"You're not going anywhere," Jim answered with deceptive calm.

"Would you believe me if I told you I was positive, absolutely positive, that I can beat this if I fight it my way?" Blair asked carefully.

"Blair, I believe that you believe," Jim said softly. "It's not *you* I doubt. You keep pointing out that my not believing in something doesn't make it untrue, but Baby, that goes both ways. Just because you believe something doesn't make it so."

Blair looked into Jim's eyes, boring into his soul with his uncharacteristic stillness. "Would you believe me if I promised you?" he whispered.

Jim inhaled sharply and leaned away from Blair, as if the younger man had just landed a physical blow. He stood up and turned irritably away from his lover. He started to raise his voice. To yell at Blair that he was being stupid and childish, but the words died on his lips. "This is pointless!" he said, surprised the words were spoken out loud.

He felt Blair's confusion and when he turned, sure enough, Blair was staring at him looking baffled. "Talking about this!" Jim explained. "Arguing about apples and oranges. It's pointless, Blair." He took a deep breath and set his shoulders, then he sat back down at the table and spread his napkin on his lap. "You know what? Eat bark if you want to. Pray to the patron saint of dogs and cats if you think it will make a difference. Who gives a fuck if this stuff doesn't work? We've got a cure coming."

If anything, Blair looked even more bewildered.

"The serum!" Jim said impatiently, gesturing with his fork after taking a bite of cold meatloaf. "Medical Solutions. They're making it as we speak. It doesn't matter if the other shit doesn't work, because they're making a cure."

It was Blair's turn to draw back as if struck. Was Jim testing him somehow? Or was this his way of showing Blair just how ridiculous his suggestions had sounded to Jim. Blair shook his head slowly. "I don't ...I don't know what you want me to say."

"That's a first," Jim smirked. Seeing that Blair was truly shocked, he leaned forward. "You don't have to say anything," he said gently. "Give your new age cures a try if that's what you want to do. We've got the serum to fall back on."

Blair started to stand up, but it made him dizzy, so he grabbed the corner of the table and carefully sat down again, part of him shocked, the other part still thinking Jim was trying to make some esoteric point. "I don't...I don't know what you're talking about!" Blair said, frustration turning his tone to a whine. "They won't make

me take that junk. Benton said Michael would accept the delivery and they'd make the arrests then."

"And then the test tube sits in some evidence room gathering dust and I sit there and hold your hand like a good like lackey and watch you die?" Jim asked calmly. "I don't think so, Chief. That serum's ours."

"Are we really having this conversation?" Blair asked incredulously. "Or do I wake up in a few minutes and tell you about the crazy dream I had?"

Jim had finished his dinner and now took his dishes to the sink to rinse them and load the dishwasher. He hadn't planned on bringing up the topic like this, but he was glad to have it out in the open. "It's not so crazy," he said easily.

"I don't know what you're thinking Jim, but there is no way, no way in HELL, I'd put that shit in my body." He still couldn't believe they were having this conversation. Blair kept expecting Jim to start laughing and say he was just kidding around. But this wasn't funny, and Jim was serious. "Come on, man!" he said incredulously. "Would you think for a minute? You know me! I couldn't do something like that! The price is too high!"

"No price is too high!" Jim quickly barked.

Blair winced but continued in a calm, smooth voice. "You're not the one paying, Jim," he reminded his lover. "Someone died for that," he said. "Someone who was healthy and alive moments before it was stolen from their body. You think I could inject it into myself? *Live* with myself knowing I'm alive because some innocent person was murdered?"

"So they just die for nothing?" Jim argued. "You think that makes it any better? At least this way their death will have meant something. Someone else will live because of it!"

"I have no more right to live than they did, Jim. My life is no more or less valuable than theirs."

"It is to me," Jim said. "I'm not going to lose you. Don't you understand? I can't!"

Blair touched Jim's arm. "You'll lose me anyway," he said. "We do this and eventually, you'll regret it. And then somewhere along the line that regret will turn to resentment. And then I'll be nothing but this reminder of how you sold yourself and your integrity."

"I will never, *never* regret your being alive!" Jim said, eyes flaring that anyone, even Blair, could suggest such a thing.

Blair knowingly shook his head. "You'll hate yourself for doing it. Maybe not right away, but you will. And then you'll hate me for making you do it. I swear to God, Jim, that's the only thing in the world I can't handle."

"I could never hate you," Jim mumbled.

"Come on, Jim, would you listen to yourself, man? You don't mean any of this! You're the original Super Cop! Mr. Straight-and- Narrow. You're just scared, man."

Jim shook Blair off him. "You're damn right I'm scared!" he said angrily. "Jesus, Blair, you act like dying is the same as getting a parking ticket. Shrug your shoulders, too bad and all that. Better luck in the next life. You promised me you were sticking with me. You didn't say 'I promise, unless this, this, and this happen.' You promised! You looked at me, you looked *into* me, and you said you promised!"

"I never promised to sell your soul," Blair whispered. "I never promised to make you forget everything you believe in, everything you've spent your entire life defending and enforcing. I never promised anything like that!"

"You told me once you'd do anything for me, Blair," Jim said, his voice low. "Anything! Why is it so hard to do this then? Why?!"

Blair sadly shook his head. "Jim, don't you get it?" he asked. "I'd sell *my* soul for you in a heartbeat if I thought it would help. But I won't sell yours. I couldn't live with that, and no matter what you think right now, neither could you."

"That's bullshit!" Jim shouted bitterly, shoving Blair away from him.

"This is life, Blair! For both of us! How can you just dismiss it when you know, you *know* that you're condemning me to a future without you?"

"I don't know that!" Blair protested, but it sounded weak, even to him.

"What do you think is going to happen if you die?" Jim asked quietly. "Do you honestly think I'll go upstairs and look through your closet for something to bury you in? Call a funeral home and make arrangements? Order a casket, pick a burial sight?"

Blair, who wanted to be cremated, lifted an eyebrow and started to respond, but knew flippancy would not help the situation. Then again, it didn't look like reason would get them anywhere either.

Shaking his head at Blair's silence, Jim stood up and moved restlessly around the kitchen. "You think I'm going to stand around while some fucking stranger tells *me* what kind of person you were? Stand there and listen to everybody telling me how sorry they are? Telling me to call if I need anything? Is that what you see happening?"

Blair shrugged carelessly and looked away. Jim's eyes narrowed and grew cold. "I won't make it out of the loft, Chief," he said softly, threateningly. "I'll eat my service revolver before the ink's dry on your death certificate."

Blair felt the blood drain from his face. "That's a....terrible thing to say to me," he said, recoiling at the idea.

"Doesn't make it any less true," Jim coldly replied. "Look, self- preservation is the strongest human instinct there is. I know that, Blair. I live it every fucking day of my life. I know I'm being a hard ass here. I know I'm being unreasonable and dictatorial, but I'm not just trying to save your life, I'm trying to save mine!"

Heartsick, Blair slumped in his chair and said nothing.

Now Blair understood how careful he had to be. He had to handle this flawlessly if Jim was to survive it. Survive him. He shuddered at the overwhelming responsibility of guiding Jim through his sickness and, possibly, his death. He took a deep breath, but couldn't stop the tears that started trailing down his cheeks.

"Okay, then," he whispered meekly. "Okay. I'll....I'll stay with the chemo, all right? I'll mind the doctors like a good little boy. I'll do whatever...whatever you say. Just....just promise me....*promise* me, you won't do anything about the serum. Promise me that part's over with, okay?"

Jim shuddered then, heartsick himself at the picture of Blair brought to heel. He loved Blair's untamed spirit as much as he loved the long hair, quick smile and easy laughter. He didn't want to break the younger man, just bend him a little.

Jim nodded slowly, letting his own eyes bore into Blair's soul. "I promise," he whispered, and hoped to God that He would let him keep it.

Jim sat on the floor just outside the bathroom door. He was practicing one of Blair's breathing exercises, but every time he thought he was in control and tried to stand up, his sight blurred, the smells overwhelmed him and all the sounds in the loft magnified and enveloped him. He was losing it here.

It had never been this bad before. The bathroom was a battleground--water and towels strewn everywhere, the stench of sickness weighing heavy in the stuffy air.

Violently shivering, Blair was huddled, naked, on the floor. Or he was last Jim checked. That was a half hour ago.

Blair barely made the drive home from chemo without being sick in the truck. Slumped over, head in hands, he'd groaned, "Hurry! Hurry!" the entire drive. He was out of the truck before Jim came to a complete stop. He'd sprinted up the stairs, but stumbled on his way inside. He fell and vomited on the floor. Liddy was trying to get him to the bathroom when Jim rushed in the door.

Since then, Blair had been sick virtually non-stop. The vomiting caused a nose bleed severe enough that Liddy almost called an ambulance. The dry heaves were so bad, Blair's lips turned blue, and he nearly passed out.

At the first respite from the assault, Jim crawled out of the bathroom to collapse against the wall. He crossed his arms over drawn up knees, buried his head and tried to concentrate on nothing but getting one smooth, even breath to follow another.

Liddy had left for her shift around three. She'd wanted to call Gwen or one of the others who would be getting off to come over and help, but Jim had declined. It was his lover. His mess. His responsibility.

Hearing Blair gear up for another round, Jim shuddered, biting back the bile in his own throat. *My God,* he thought brokenly. *There's nothing left inside him. There's nothing left...*

"I'm right here, Blair," he called, unable to venture back inside yet. Maybe they should have stayed at the hospital. Dr. Thomas had wanted to admit Blair. His temperature was elevated and his lungs were mildly congested. With Blair's weakened immune system dangerously susceptible to pneumonia, she didn't want to take a chance of a cold turning into something more serious.

Promising to keep a close eye on the younger man, Jim managed to talk her out of a hospital stay, but he was starting to think that was a bad move.

It had been a shitty day all the way around. Dr. Thomas had told Jim privately that Blair's last batch of tests did not look promising. They were having such a hard time getting him into remission, that when they finally got it, she did not expect it to last long. She wanted Naomi to come in to test her suitability as a bone marrow donor as soon as possible.

God was taunting him now. Laughing at him. Punishing him for making a promise to Blair he couldn't keep. Why would He do this to them? Lead them to one another; lay at their feet the most glorious promise of happiness and joy and then pull the rug out from under them?

Jim Ellison knew first hand the cruel and monstrous things human beings could do to one another. He had witnessed the ugliness inside man too many times not to know it existed where one least expected to find it. But that kind of cruelty, that kind of depravity could be curbed and controlled. The evil could be caught and punished. Good could triumph.

But this....this was...uncontrollable. This was beyond him.

Or it was as long as he kept his promise to Blair.

Jim thought the worst of the sickness was over, so he ran the bath. Not too hot because it would scald Blair's sensitized skin; not too cold so as to bring on a chill. The fingers of a Sentinel made sure the temperature was perfect before gently lowering the weak young man in the water.

Bathing used to be wonderfully erotic part of their sex life, even after Blair got sick. Sometimes, the grad student would fill the bathroom with candles, load a handful of CD's into the player, then entice Jim into lounging with him in the tub, until escalating foreplay sent them to other rooms in the loft. Blair always considered it a personal victory if Jim could be led upstairs with water puddling all over the bathroom floor.

But now, the unyielding porcelain was uncomfortable for the gaunt younger man. No matter how gentle Jim tried to be, his touch seemed to cause pain. Bathing was something to be endured, not enjoyed.

Jim tried to hurry through the ordeal, but Blair was still shivering and whimpering with discomfort by the end. "Ready?" Jim asked, but it was a rhetorical question. He hooked his hands under Blair's arms and lifted him to a standing position. Turning to grab a towel from the rack, he kept one hand on the younger man, but it wasn't enough support. Blair pitched forward and with a startled cry, slammed against the tub. He screamed and promptly vomited down his front. The sickness began again in earnest.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" Jim cried, laying towels in front of the toilet, then positioning the younger man on top of them. "Please, I'm sorry!"

When it finished, Blair crawled over to where Jim sat, back against the tub. The big man's clothes were filthy, not to mention soaking wet. Blair laid down on a blanket directly in front of him, watching Jim with glistening eyes.

"I can't do this anymore," the younger man whispered. "I can't. Please, Jim ...you've gotta...you've gotta help me..."

"Hush, Blair," Jim said frantically. "It's just...it's just hard right now..."

"Please Jim!" Blair sobbed. "Just...just promise me you won't let it get any worse. Promise if I can't...if it gets to where I can't... I can't do this anymore!"

"Yes you can, Baby!" Jim whispered. "Yes you can! Blair, you're the strongest person I know! You can do anything, baby. Anything!"

"Promise you won't let them keep doing stuff, Jim. Promise... promise you'll make 'em stop!"

Jim wished he could promise his lover what he asked and allow him that small measure of peace.

"I can't," he whispered, so quietly, Blair didn't hear.

Jim sniffed loudly and swiped at the tears trailing down his cheek. "Blair? Baby?"

Maybe he couldn't promise what the kid wanted, but he could offer something in its place. "How about... how about, when you're better....when you're in remission and everything's back to normal, why don't we... why don't we throw that party you've been wanting. You know what I mean, with your friend Kathy, and...and your mom....nice suits.... We'll exchange I do's, like you wanted...You think about that, okay? You concentrate on that."

Blair blinked a few times. "I do?" he whispered.

"You'd better," Jim teased.

For a moment, Jim thought Blair still didn't understand what he was talking about. The younger man shifted uncomfortably, cringing fearfully when Jim moved closer to help. Still huddled on the floor, Blair brought the blanket closer around him. "Will you wear a ring?" he asked.

Jim smiled. "Well, nothing gaudy," he said. Blair's expression didn't change. His eyes were measuring the man before him. Jim steadily met the gaze. "Yes, Baby, I'll wear a ring."

That was almost too easy. Blair bit his lip, his eyes becoming more daring. "Will you pick out a romantic song and dance with me in front of everybody?"

"Absolutely," Jim answered.

"In front of everybody?" Blair repeated.

"I'd be delighted."

In the silence that followed, Jim thought for sure Blair could here his thundering heart.

"Okay," came a small whisper.

Jim's cough of laughter sounded almost like a sob. "Okay, then."

Blair painfully brought himself up on his hands and knees. "I'm going to be sick now," he said.

Jim smiled sadly, thinking if Blair felt better he would appreciate the irony of that sentence punctuating their marriage proposal. "Okay," he said. He pulled himself to his feet and went to put on another CD.

Jim bathed Blair a second time and coaxed him into eating some applesauce. A few bites exhausted the younger man and made his stomach ominously churn. Jim set it aside while he tidied up the bathroom. At some point, he'd shed his dirty clothes and was walking around in his boxers.

When he turned to see if Blair wanted to go upstairs, his Guide was staring at him with tears in his eyes. "You're the most perfect looking person I've ever seen," Blair whispered. "I miss... I miss touching you."

"I'm right here," Jim said, kneeling down in front of his lover.

"I'm all mixed up. Everything's... everything's all mixed up."

"I'm right here, Blair. That's all you need to know."

Blair wiped his eyes. "I don't...I don't know if I'm remembering it right any more...if it's remembering or make believe. I'm not sure...."

"About what, Blair?"

"What it was like before. Was it the way I remember it or am I making it all up? I don't know!"

"Oh, come on, now, don't cry," Jim said, rubbing his hand in a small circle on Blair's back.

"I remember what it feels like to hold you...to make love to you. I remember what it feels like to have you inside me and to be inside you, and I remember how sometimes I get so lost in you I don't even know which it is." Blair was crying now. "And I remember the way you say my name, like a prayer, like it's me you worship. And I remember what it feels like to make you come; to know that I'm the only one you've got anything for; it's like the most... awesome, powerful thing I've ever felt. I remember all of that, and now I'm mixed up, and I'm not sure if I'm remembering it right. Maybe I'm making it all up. Maybe it was never like that!" Sobs wracked the younger man's frail shoulders.

"Calm down," Jim soothed, afraid the kid would reawaken the nausea. "Blair, it's just like you remember. It will be again, I promise. This is just a detour, you know? A side trip. We've got so much ahead of us, we're not even going to remember this shit in a few years."

"What if...what if this is all you remember, Jim?" Blair asked, eyes wild at the possibility. "What if...what if cleaning up my shit and piss and vomit is all you remember? What if every time you try to get close to me, all you can think about it all the trouble I cause?"

"Don't talk like that" Jim said. He laid down, facing the younger man. He didn't even have to touch the kid to hurt him, it seemed as if the breath he exhaled could cause pain when it wafted across Blair's skin. He hoped he was far enough away. "I love you so much, Blair. I'm not sure even your memories can do it justice. The way I love you is bigger and grander and deeper than any memory could hold."

"It's so...awful now," Blair said, tentatively reaching over to stroke Jim's arm. It was a move designed to comfort himself as much as Jim. "It's dirty and ugly...*I'm* dirty...and ugly...."

Jim stopped Blair's nervous caresses by putting his hand over his. "Please don't say things like that. It's not true. You're as beautiful to me today, right now, as you were the first time I laid eyes on you...."

"That's a lie," Blair said in a hollow voice.

Jim vehemently shook his head. "No, it's not!"

Blair shook his head, but Jim continued before he could say anything.

"When we get to the hospital, Mrs. Gould is waiting for her chemo. And every time you say, 'Hiya Beautiful!' and you kiss her cheek and you ask her how her grandson Adam is doing. She lights up, Blair, and shows you that snapshot you've seen a hundred times and she just...glows. And that little girl, what's her name? Aliesha? She starts squealing the second the elevator doors open up, and she can't run to you fast enough. And you throw her in the air and she laughs...She looks at you like you're the most wonderful, magical thing she's ever seen. You remember all the nurses' boyfriends and who's mad at who and...and this place that should be gray and desolate and miserable is suddenly bright rainbows and sunny skies... And every time, every time, Blair, I am....*stunned* by how much I love you, and by how lucky I am to be the one who gets to go home with you. Who gets your...beauty and sweetness....and magic for keeps. If I remember anything from this shit, it will be how you bring joy to people just by...being. It amazes me, Chief. Enthralls me...If we...if we *have* to find something good about this fucking shit, it's that I get the...privilege of falling in love with you over and over and over again."

Blair sighed, an effort that seemed almost overwhelming. "Okay," he whispered, and finally, blissfully, drifted into restless sleep.

Jim couldn't help it. He simply had to lean over and place a gentle kiss on his smooth cheek. "I love you," he whispered.

He let the kid sleep for a few minutes, until it deepened and the residual tension drained from his body. He gathered Blair up in the blanket and carried him upstairs, laying him on the comforter he'd spread out on the floor earlier in the day.

He covered the younger man with a soft, cotton sheet and leaned against the bed, staring at his lover as if the intensity of his gaze could help will the man better.

"It's not dirty or ugly to me, Chief," he whispered, staring with unblinking eyes at the still form. "I don't care if it's always like this. I don't care if I'm always cleaning up puke and helping you shit. I don't care if I have to bathe you and feed you and fucking carry you from room to room for the rest of my life. I don't care as long as we're together. As long as you're here, and I can take care of you and love you. I don't care as long as you're here with me. I don't care...."

He rocked against the bed, his ass growing numb against the hardwood floor. He would be stiff and soar in the morning, but he would not move. He would think of it as penance; punishment for his selfishness; for his weakness; and for his all of his unforgivable inadequacies.

Jim begged off work the next day. So far, Simon was letting him take vacation days and sick days whenever he felt like Blair needed him. Since Jim's was still on the Medical Solutions case, the other officers assumed he was working with the Feds on the days he wasn't in the office. Naturally the Family Leave Act was silent on the subject of same sex partners, so they had to work the system.

Blair was weak and groggy. Jim had to help him negotiate the stairs, then he tucked him into the couch. "Am I cold?" Blair asked, looking around the room like he didn't quite recognize where he was.

Jim felt his forehead and winced. *A hundred and three,* he thought. *No, kid. Cold you are not.* "I'll get you a blanket, Sweetheart," Jim said, grabbing one of the endless supplies they kept downstairs. "Can you eat a little something, Blair? Some toast maybe? Some ginger ale?"

Blair vaguely shook his head, his face still drawn up with worry. Jim had laundry to do and the bathroom needed to be scoured. He had paperwork he could finish for some cases that had wrapped up weeks ago and there was an article he'd been trying to help Blair locate in some outdated periodical. But somehow, the only thing he had energy to do was flop in the chair opposite the couch.

Blair drifted in and out of awareness. That was okay. He needed the rest. He'd feel better tomorrow. He'd make him a nice, big breakfast before he left for work. Maybe call Liddy to come keep him company for a few hours. It would be fine.

"If you and Carolyn were still married, you'd probably have a kid by now." Blair's quiet voice startled Jim out of his contemplation, the subject so out of the blue, Jim thought for sure he must have zoned out.

The big man shook his head at Blair's idea. "Nah, I'd be miserable. I just wouldn't understand why."

"You'd make a great dad. You're...patient and...and so gentle. That still surprises me about you--that a man your size, who's... who's seen so much can still be so...caring."

"You're probably the only person in the world who thinks so," Jim said with a self-deprecating grin.

"Does it make you sad to know you'll never have any? To think of...of what you're missing?"

Jim shook his head, but he had a hard time coming up with the right words. He twirled the beer bottle in his hand and looked out at the water, frowning in concentration. "Everything that was missing in my life...everything I thought I wanted but didn't have became irrelevant when I found you. I don't want anything I don't have..."

He shrugged. "Except you well." He took a shaky breath. "And I want that a thousand times more than everything else I ever thought could make me happy."

Blair's smile was sweet. "Oh, okay then," he said with a shrug. "Just checking."

Instead of falling like it normally did, Blair's temperature continued to climb, and he started to develop a nagging cough.

Jim called Dr. Thomas, who wanted to admit Blair immediately, but the suggestion so unnerved Blair, she agreed to hold off for another day. If his temperature wasn't significantly lower, she wanted Jim to bring him to the hospital that evening.

The big man asked Liddy to come by the loft so he could at least put in a perfunctory appearance at work. At noon, Liddy called to report that Blair's fever had not fallen, so Jim made arrangements to admit the kid to the hospital. Just a touch of pneumonia, Thomas said. Nothing to worry about.

Jim drove home the long way, stopping by the grocery store to pick up orange juice and applesauce. Liddy was just leaving when he came home. She looked sad as she told Jim that Blair was upstairs in bed.

Jim saw Liddy to the door, then walked upstairs. He stopped at the head of the stairs and winced. He could sense Blair's body temperature from there, and recognized it as two or three degrees higher than it had been that morning. Blair looked exhausted and uncomfortable. Christ, and so *thin.*

Swallowing hard, Jim set his shoulders and forced his face to soften. "Hey, babe," he said coming further into the room.

Blair slowly turned his head and blinked, his every movement on a slow kind of taped delay. "Hey," he said in a voice that sounded rusty and unused.

Jim carefully sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to ignore the way Blair flinched. He leaned down and kissed Blair's heated forehead and the younger man hugged his arm tightly. "Mmmm, hey," Jim said again, nuzzling Blair's nose. "I missed you today." *Hundred and five,* Jim thought worriedly.

Blair grinned. "Yeah, a whole eight hours without me must be a real chore."

"Nearly impossible," Jim agreed. "If I wasn't so incredibly devoted to duty, I'd never make it."

Blair managed a quiet chuckle, picking up the hand Jim had placed on his chest to surreptitiously gauge the extent of congestion. "Is Liddy gone?" the grad student asked.

"Do you need something?" Jim asked, a sliver of fear in his voice.

"Just wondering," Blair said. "I'd hate to accidentally start seducing you in front of her."

"Since when?" Jim teased and felt victorious at the smile lighting Blair's features. "She's gone." Jim said, gently kissing Blair's smooth cheek. How long had it been since he'd felt the roughness of Blair's beard? "Ravage away, Baby."

"Oh man, I wish," Blair said with a sigh.

"Soon!" Jim said, a little too loudly.

"Is that an order?" Blair asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

Jim smirked, but any reply was lost when Blair started coughing. Jim helped him to sit and held him up until the fit passed. He laid him back on the pillows and averted his eyes from his labored breathing. "Did you talk to Dr. Thomas?" Blair asked finally. Still unable to meet Blair's eyes, Jim nodded. The younger man struggled for control. "Do we have to go today?" he whispered.

Jim's breath caught in his throat. He let it out slowly, contracting his stomach muscles like Blair had shown him. "Yeah, we do," he said softly.

"Maybe...Maybe I can stay home a few more days," Blair suggested, holding Jim's hands tightly between both of his. "I won't...I won't be any trouble, Jim. I'll...I'll sleep all the time and I won't...I won't make a mess....Just a couple more days, okay?"

Jim kissed Blair's head and held the younger man close. "It's okay,

Sweetheart. Come on, settle back now."

"I want to stay here," Blair whispered. "I need to be...home...I need to be with you."

"You need to be in the hospital, where they can get rid of this infection. It's just for a few days."

Blair shook his head, but didn't argue any further. Jim sighed and started packing a bag for the younger man. Blair watched, his eyes clouded with such worry that several times Jim was tempted to call Dr. Thomas, but she had already explained that Blair needed to be on an IV to replenish fluids, he needed to receive platelets and blood. The hospital was the best place for him.

So why did it feel so wrong?

Blair was silent on the ride to the hospital except for occasional coughing fits. He didn't seem to notice the phlegm dripping down his chin, and twice Jim reached over to clean him up.

The older man kept up a steady stream of comforting conversation as he drove, talking about what they'd do when Blair was well, then mentioning a story about the university he'd seen on the news, a movie they should plan on seeing, the upcoming baseball games, the Mariners chances for another pennant.

*Shit, how does Sandburg do this all the time,* Jim thought, starting to hate the sound of himself droning on and on.

Once at the hospital, Jim parked near the door and got out of the car. He expected Blair to follow, but after taking a couple of steps he looked behind him and realized he was still sitting in the truck, perfectly still, eyes straight forward.

With a sigh, Jim opened Blair's door and reached over to unlatch the seat belt. "Come on, Baby," he said softly.

Blair started, as if coming out of a dream. He looked around blankly, squinting at the illuminated sign in front of the blurry building. It took him a second for the letters to clear, but when they did he jumped, like he'd been struck.

"Don't make me go here!" he whispered, grabbing the front of Jim's shirt in his fists. "Please!" he begged. "Please! They can't help me, don't you see? I'll be good, just don't make me go there! Don't make me!"

The utter terror in his voice made Jim sick to his stomach. Oh God, oh God, I don't want him to be afraid...

"It's okay, Sweetheart. Everything's fine," Jim tried to soothe, but Blair only grew more upset.

"It's not fine!" the kid shouted. Jim winced, casting a quick look around to see if anyone had heard. "I don't want to go there! You can't make me! You can't make me!" He started struggling then, flailing at Jim, who turned his head to the side to avoid a smack. He gently restrained the younger man, whose big blue eyes filled with tears at such betrayal. "You're supposed to love me!" he whispered brokenly. "You're supposed to take care of me!"

"I do love you!" Jim said softly, feeling the words like a sledgehammer to his chest. *He's sick, Ellison,* he told himself disgustedly. *He's delirious, for god's sake. He doesn't mean anything,*

"Come on, now, Baby, we have to go." He started to pull Blair from the cab, but the terrorized kid yelled and struggled to get away.

"I promise!" he shrieked. "I promise I'll be good! I'll be a good boy! I promise!"

Not knowing what else to do, Jim gathered the younger man in an embrace as tight as he dared. Bellowing with rage, Blair tried to fight it, striking Jim in the back with his fists.

Jim's hand covered the back of Blair's head. "You are my good boy," he whispered soothingly. "Hush now...calm down. You're my good boy. It's going to be okay, Blair. You're just sick, Honey. That's all this is. You feel sick and a little scared, but it's okay, because I'm here, and I'm going to make everything better."

Blair stopped hitting, and a few minutes later, he stopped shouting.

Jim continued holding him, rocking him, whispering softly. He let Blair cry for as long as he felt like crying, and then held him for a little bit more after that.

And even when Blair was over it and feeling a little embarrassed, Jim stood tall beside him as they walked into the hospital, his strong arm defiantly, proudly holding him close. And as the doctors and nursed poked at him and started IV's and checked his vitals, Jim was still there, stroking his arm, brushing his large, callused hand across his forehead, and whispering, in front of anyone who happened to be near, "You're my good boy. It's going to be okay. I'm right here, and everything's going to be fine."

To Jim, there was something immensely comforting about the regimented schedule of the hospital. There was a time for everything, and everything had its time. Every ache and pain was catalogued, addressed, and cared for. Nothing seemed left to chance.

It felt effortless to fit himself into the strictly organized system. He was there at 6:45 every morning when Blair woke up and was served breakfast. He called at 10:15 after Blair's morning check up and talked with the duty nurse to make sure everything was okay. He usually dropped by and ate lunch with the kid at noon. He called again at four, to see if Blair wanted him to bring him anything, then he was back at his side by six o'clock. He'd usually stay until nine or ten, when Blair was given medication to help him sleep, then he'd drive home, take a shower and go to bed, only to replay the day over again.

Naturally, Blair found the whole situation nearly intolerable. He didn't *want* to be told when to eat and when to sleep and when to wake up. He hated being drilled with needles and doped up with pills, and being poked and handled by everyone.

On top of that, he worried about all the time Jim spent with him, worried that the detective wasn't eating right or sleeping enough.

The worry secretly pleased Jim, who told himself that if Blair could lay there and worry about *him,* he must be getting better.

Sadly, the doctor wasn't necessarily backing up that assumption. They were having a hard time bringing Blair's temperature down. The antibiotics weren't kicking in the way they should, and four days after being admitted, Blair was no better than when he first arrived.

Arriving for his evening visit, Jim laced his fingers through Blair's, wincing at the heat wafting off the younger man in waves so intense he could almost see them, like steam rising off sweltering pavement. The sound of the heart monitor and oxygen provided a disconcerting backdrop. Jim wondered if it bothered Blair or if it was just his Sentinel hearing.

There was a bluish tint to Blair's lips as he struggled to fill his faltering lungs. He stirred finally and opened heavy eyelids. "Mm, hey," he said faintly.

"Hey," said Jim, leaning in to kiss his forehead even though Blair winced in the anticipation of pain. *Still a hundred and five,* Jim thought before he could stop himself.

"Is it day or night?" Blair asked, squinting at the clock by his bedside.

Jim brushed some imaginary hair from his hot forehead and smiled. "It's night," he said. "About 6:30."

"You catch some bad guys today?"

Jim shook his head. "Caught a bad paper cut," he said.

"Mm, some dashing hero you are."

"Yeah, well, with you in here, I'm not called upon to play hero. If I didn't know better I'd say you went looking for trouble, not the other way around."

"I was afraid you'd figure that out eventually," Blair said. He sighed and tiredly closed his eyes. Since when did it take so much energy to keep them open? "You eat dinner?"

Jim grinned to himself. "Ah, I'm not hungry," he said, and was ridiculously pleased when Blair opened his eyes and frowned at his lover.

"Now, Jim, you told me you were going to do better about....."

"Whoa, there, Chief, just checking," he said with a grin, holding up the salad he picked up on the way to the hospital.

Blair looked at the healthy greens and smiled approvingly. "That's what I like to see," he said, settling back and closing his eyes. They only stayed closed a minute. "What kind of salad dressing did you get?" he asked suspiciously.

Like a child offering a gift, Jim held out the salad for Blair to get a closer look. "See, there's broccoli in there and carrots. Lots of carrots, Chief. Gotta keep up my Sentinel sight, right?"

Blair smirked at his lame attempt at obfuscation. Had the man learned *nothing* living with him? "The salad dressing?"

Jim sheepishly pulled out a bottle of prepackaged dressing and showed it to Blair. "Bacon Ranch?!" he said incredulously. "Jim, you might as well have a cheeseburger and french fries!"

"Really?" Jim said, making like he was heading for the door.

"Sit down!" Blair ordered. "Honestly, if I'm not there to monitor every last thing you put in your mouth...." He dropped his train of thought at the lascivious look in Jim's eye. "You have a dirty mind," he said with mock superiority.

Jim laughed. "It used to be very straight laced," he said and they both grinned at that. "You're the only change in the mix, Partner. My detective skills tell me...."

Eyes closed again, Blair grinned. "Those aren't *detective* skills talking, Lover." He grimaced in sudden discomfort and squirmed in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. He gave up with a sigh of resignation. "Can I go home tomorrow?" he asked in a small voice.

Jim's jaw clenched. He gently pet Blair's smooth head, hating himself for the answer. "No, Sweetheart, not yet," he said. "We've got to get your temperature down and make sure you're over the pneumonia."

Blair made a face that said he didn't like that answer. "You only call me Sweetheart when I'm sick," he said finally. "You say Baby when we're in bed, and Chief when we're on a case, and Sandburg when we're around other cops. You're always just...Jim, you know? Like, you're always who you are no matter where we are. Am I really that many different people to you?"

Jim thought about the question for a moment. He couldn't tell from the way Blair asked it whether or not he was bothered by the prospect. "Maybe *I* have to think of you different ways," he said slowly. "Maybe you're always who you are, too, but I'm the one who has to think of you differently."

"Mm, I didn't think of that," Blair said and looked upset because of it. "I should...I should have thought of that, shouldn't I?"

His appetite rapidly dwindling, Jim set his dinner aside. He held Blair's hand and gently pet his forehead. "Hey, are you insulting me?" he teased. "Are you saying that I can't come up with an original hypothesis now and then?"

It took a minute for Blair to realize Jim was joking, then another before his worried look faded. He smiled and shrugged. "You haven't before," he pointed out.

"Oh, ouch!" Jim said, grasping at his heart as if mortally wounded. "Just for that, I'm going to call you Sandburg when we're in bed," he leaned in and lightly kissed Blair's cheek. "And Chief when you're sick." Another kiss. "I'll call you Sweetheart when we're on a case, and Baby when we're around other cops."

"And that's supposed to punish *me*?" Blair asked.

Jim gave an evil smile. "Yeah, it would be sort of a cruel thing to do to Simon, wouldn't it?"

Blair gave a snort of amusement. They were quiet again, until the younger man started struggling against the sheets. "I can't..." he whimpered. "I want to...move this."

Jim helped him re-situate in the bed, worry gnawing at his belly. Blair's temperature had risen another degree in the short amount of time he'd been there. He thought about tracking down the nurse, but his evening check up was in 15 minutes, so he refrained, instead trying to coax Blair into sleeping.

"Is it morning or night?" Blair fretted, pushing Jim's hands off of him.

"It's night," Jim said, an air of resignation in his voice.

"Night," Blair echoed, eyes confused, as if he was supposed to be remembering something. "Am I hot?" he asked, looking up at Jim.

Jim's stomach gave a sickening lurch. "You have a fever," he said quietly. "You probably feel hot."

Blair looked around the hospital room like he didn't recognize it. "Are we supposed to go to a meet?" he asked vaguely.

A cold chill shot up Jim's spine. "Blair, are you okay?" he asked.

"I think...I think we're supposed to go," Blair said, growing upset.

"Hey, hey, just lay back now," Jim said, pushing Blair into the pillows with more force than necessary. Blair laid back and watched worriedly as Jim hurried to the bathroom. He returned with a cool washcloth that he used to wipe down Blair's face and arms. "You with me, partner?" he asked nervously.

Blair tried to squirm away from Jim but found it impossible. "Don't," he mumbled. "You shouldn't...be doing that..."

With a muttered expletive, Jim pushed the call button for the nurse. Blair's pulse was all over the place, and his temperature was still climbing. Jim breathed deep with relief when Gwen stepped through the door. She would not dismiss him as overly concerned the way some of the doctors did. It always made him angry how they assumed that just because he loved Blair he didn't know when something was wrong.

"Gwen, his temp is spiking and he's acting strange. Confused."

With a quick nod, Gwen checked Blair's vital signs, all the while asking him questions about where he was and what day it was. She rang the call button and had the doctor paged. A young resident Jim didn't know answered the page. She perused Blair's chart, checked his vitals again and asked him the same questions Gwen had. Blair wouldn't--or couldn't--answer.

The doctor ordered a medication Jim had never heard of, then asked the nurse to prepare cold compresses.

She didn't look old enough to drive, much less dispense medical care, Jim thought irritably. "What's going on?" he barked, with as much authority in his voice as he could muster.

The doctor turned to Jim. She smiled and offered her hand. "I'm Julia Richmond," she said. "I'm the attending on this floor. We need to get Blair's temperature down as quickly as possible, so I've prescribed some medication that should do the trick. We're also going to apply cold compresses to help speed up the process. I'm going to call Dr. Thomas as soon as I'm done here to let her know what's going on."

She might look like a kid, but Jim appreciated her bedside manner. He smiled and nodded and backed into the corner so he could be as unobtrusive as possible. He was good until they started putting ice packs around the kid. "You're going to freeze him out!" he said urgently. "He's got pneumonia for God's sake, this can't be helping him!"

Dr. Richmond threw a look at Gwen who hooked her arm through Jim's and ushered him out of Blair's room.

"Jim, I promise to call you if there's any change," she said gently. "Why don't you go home and get some sleep and come back fresh in the morning, okay?"

Jim knew what he was supposed to say. He knew how he was supposed to react. He was Blair's Blessed Protector. A Blessed Protector would not leave the side of his charge, not when he was in trouble. Jim knew he was supposed to refuse to leave. He was supposed to sit at Blair's side for as long as it took, keep a vigilant and watchful eye on his lover.

He looked down into Gwen's eyes and swayed unsteadily. And heard himself say, "Okay."

Jim made his way down to the truck, stopping himself several times from breaking into a run. What was he doing? He was supposed to be with Blair, holding on to him, talking to him, watching over him.

But he couldn't. He'd felt the walls closing in on him; the sounds of the doctors and nurses and the medical equipment echoing ominously in his sensitive ears; the smells of ammonia and urine, of sickness and death nearly suffocating him. He couldn't stay. He *couldn't.*

"I'm sorry," Jim whispered, sitting in the truck and waiting for the shakes to pass so he could drive home. He tried doing the breathing exercise Blair taught him, and it eventually started to work. With a final, calming breath, Jim pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. Home. Jim grimaced at the thought and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was only eight o'clock. The guys would still be at O'Roarke's. Simon even said something about joining them. Jim shook his head at the idea, stunned it had even crossed his mind. Jesus, Blair was struggling back there, alone, and here he was thinking about hanging out it some bar. God, he was selfish!

Stopping for a red light, Jim considered hanging a U-turn and heading back to the hospital. No, no Gwen was right. He needed to get a good night's sleep so he could be there for Blair in the morning. Good night's sleep? Was that possible? He could barely remember a time when sleep had come easily for him.

Twenty minutes later, just a few miles from home, the cell phone rang. "Ellison," he barked out of habit, assuming it was Simon or some other cop.

There was silence on the other end, then, a quiet voice came on. "Jim, this is Gwen."

Jim's heart sputtered and a giant lump sprang up at the back of his throat. Maybe she was calling to say he was better, Jim thought frantically. "Yeah?"

"Jim, I'm really sorry, but I thought you'd want to know right away."

Jim grunted, thinking *I don't want to know! All I want is for Blair to be okay, and if you're not calling to tell me that then leave me alone!*

"Blair had a seizure," Gwen said slowly. "He's okay, though. He's going to be okay. But he's unconscious right now, and I thought..." The squeal of tires was loud enough to be heard over the phone.

"I'll be there in 10," said the detective.

*I shouldn't have left,* Jim thought, jogging back in the hospital he'd just left. *He probably knew I was gone, knew he was alone. Jesus, why can't I do this right?*

Gwen was at the nurse's station waiting for him. He barely acknowledged her, instead concentrating on the sounds from Blair's room. He heard four, no five voices. Liddy was one, and Dr. Thomas. He didn't recognize the others. They were speaking too loudly, yelling at Blair as he lay there. Ordering him to wake up, to stay alert. Why were they yelling at him?

"I'm sorry," he said out loud. Gwen took it to mean he hadn't heard her, which was convenient because he hadn't.

She touched Jim's arm and waited for him to look at her. "Blair's temperature is still rising," she said, leading Jim to his room. "He's falling into a coma, but it's not uncommon, Jim. His body's been under tremendous stress the last week and sometimes it has to shutdown and regroup." She opened the door and led Jim into the familiar room. Dr. Thomas, Dr. Richmond, Liddy and two other nurses surrounded the bed, calling out to Blair. Gwen felt Jim tense with outrage when Dr. Thomas gave Blair's thigh a sharp pinch. "We're trying to raise his level of consciousness," Gwen explained.

"Jim, your voice is probably most familiar to him," Dr. Thomas said. "Why don't you try."

Jim felt silly at first, yelling at the unconscious kid to wake up, but it seemed to be working. Blair's heart rate picked up, his breathing seemed to ease. Jim could feel the excitement of the doctors and nurses, but the excitement rapidly dwindled when Blair's vital signs took another dive.

Finally, Dr. Thomas motioned for them to stop. Suddenly no one seemed willing to meet Jim's gaze. "What....what's going on?" he asked nervously.

With some last minute instructions for the nurses, Dr. Thomas put her arm around Jim's shoulder and led him out to the hallway. "Okay Jim, this is a bit of a setback. Blair's body is fighting the antibiotics. On top of the chemo he's been receiving, his system is...overloaded. It's shutting down for the time being, but I'm certain he'll come out of this."

"*This*" Jim said helplessly. "What's *this?* What do you mean? Talk to me in English, doc!"

"Blair is in a coma," Dr. Thomas said slowly. "But he's breathing on his own and his vital signs are strong. His body is just taking a...time out."

"Time out," Jim echoed. "Doc, this isn't basketball here. When's he going to wake up? What are you doing for him?"

Dr. Thomas squeezed Jim's arm. "When he'll wake up, I can't say. Hopefully a day or two. We're going to continue with the antibiotics. The sooner we bring his temperature down, the better off he's going to be...I wish I had...more concrete information to give you, Jim. I really am confident he's going to pull through this."

Jim nodded, thinking the doctors he'd met since Blair got sick had better poker faces than most of the cops down at the precinct. "Yeah, thanks," he rasped.

"Have you made arrangements with Blair's mother to have her bone marrow compatibility tested?" Dr. Thomas asked, sounding far away.

"Uh, no," Jim said, dangerously close to zoning out on the sound of Blair's heart monitor. "I'll...I'll make sure we get that going."

Dr. Thomas smiled, said something about calling her if he had any questions and left the room.

Gwen had stood at Blair's bedside waiting for the doctor to go. "I think it helps to talk to him, Jim," she said quietly. "Let him know you're here, and you want him to wake up. Or just read to him if you feel silly. I think it helps."

Jim nodded and hoped he managed a polite smile. *Silly girl,* he thought. *I can't help him. I can't do anything. He's leaving me, and there's not a damn thing in the world I can do about it.*

Jim leaned his forehead against the window and watched the parking lot. Even at three in the morning, there was activity--an ambulance or two pulling up to the ER, people coming and going, running to their cars with shoulders hunched against the rain. Life, going on for everyone else, despite what was happening in the tiny hospital room.

He'd been talking to Blair all night, but hadn't said much the last hour or so. He was too late. Or rather, Blair was too early. Jesus, some time for the kid to be so out of character. And here he'd always joked about Sandburg being late to his own funeral.

If only they had the serum. If only it was ready. If only they'd had it a week ago.

Jim had learned the serum would be of little help to them now. At some point he'd asked Dr. Thomas what would happen if Blair went into remission right away. She'd looked at him strangely, but patiently explained that Blair's pneumonia was only indirectly caused by the lymphoma--or more accurately--the weakness of his immune system from the chemo. Curing the lymphoma would do nothing to cure the pneumonia.

He was too late.

Jim sighed and cleared his soar throat. "Hey Chief, remember the first time we went camping? I thought you were going to be a light weight. I didn't believe half the stuff you said back then about all the places you'd been. You were too young, you know? Sumatra, Eerinongaia, for God's sake-I mean, come on. You amazed me that weekend. All of our stuff got soaked, remember? Matches, firewood, change of clothes, sleeping bags. I thought for sure you were going to whine and beg until we turned around and headed home, but you just laughed. Stripped down to your boxers, held your head back so you could drink the rain water and laughed. I didn't know I loved you then, but that's when I knew I *could,* know what I mean?" Jim smiled to himself and looked down at his shoes. "I know you do, you always do. With all these crazy senses of mine, it's kind of funny that *you're* the mind reader. I don't know, maybe not. Being a Guide, you have to be pretty intuitive, right?" He turned and leaned against the window sill, watching Blair's slow, even breathing. He was so pale. So fragile.

"So then, you know how much I need you, right? You can feel it, can't you, Blair? Why don't you wake up? You know this is killing me. You know I can't do this without you. I *won't* do it without you. Please wake up. Please?"

There was no sign from the stubborn man in the bed. Jim sighed in frustration and moved over to sit in one of the chairs. Sara came in and checked Blair's pulse and temperature. She smoothed the sheets and smiled encouragingly at Jim. "Keep talking to him, Mr. Ellison. It really does help. His temperature is down another degree and his pulse is steady and strong."

It was not news to him, but Jim nodded and smiled. He watched the door after she disappeared. "She says keep talking, Babe. That's your part though. You're the talker. The fixer. Mender of fences and all that. I kind of have a knack for pissing people off, don't I? Carolyn said I had a 'wanton disregard for the thoughts and feelings of others.' That's a mouthful, huh?"

Jim ran his hand against the stubble on his chin, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "She's right I guess, or she was anyway. I never felt things that deeply until you came to me. When I found you, all of my senses were going out of control, but I still couldn't *feel* anything. Not really. Not inside. That made it worse, you know? That everything outside of me was magnified a thousand times over, but inside, I was...dead. But after I found you, it was like all the parts of me that had been dead for so long woke up and...and suddenly the world was beautiful and inviting and I wanted to be a part of it again...I *could* be a part of it again."

Shaking his head in exasperation, Jim smirked at himself. "Hey, look at me, suddenly a poet, huh? But it's true, Blair. You're what makes my life...beautiful. You know that, don't you? Even if I don't say it in so many words, you know that, right?"

Jim brought his chair closer to the bed, as if preparing to share a secret. He slipped his hand into Blair's and squeezed it gently. "You know you're my sweet boy, don't you? My good boy. You know I love you, Baby, so why don't you wake up for me, huh? Why don't you open those pretty blue eyes for me? Tell me I need to shave and take a nap. Wake up, Blair. Wake up!"

With a frustrated sigh, Jim brushed his hand across Blair's forehead, wishing there was some soft hair to push back. "It'll grow back," he whispered, both promise and prayer. He kissed the smooth head and nuzzled close for a moment. "You're still the most beautiful person I've ever known, Blair. You light up a room when you walk in. I love the way people turn to stare when you walk by and all the time I'm thinking, 'Eat your hearts out, people, he's *mine.*'" He kissed Blair again. The younger man's temperature continued to fall. That had to be a good sign, right?

"You are mine, you know. My sweet boy. My good boy. Wake up for me, now. Please?"

Nothing. Standing up to stretch, Jim walked around the room on stiff legs, rolling his head to loosen up his neck. "Jesus, Blair, what the fuck? How much shit do we have to go through? We've had more than our fair share! I know you try to act all...Zen about this, but I found those books you were reading, trying to find out the reason why. Does there have to be a reason? I mean, let's say Whoever comes down and says, here's why it's happening. This is the reason for all the shit! What good will it do? What fucking difference will it make? You'll still be sick and I'll still be *fucking* scared shitless that I'm going to lose you."

He was back at the window sill now. The darkness was starting to recede, dawn would break soon. Jim looked up to see if he could make out any stars, but he couldn't. "God, Blair, you have no idea how badly I wish we could change places...except there's part of me that never wants you to hurt as badly as I do right now. That sounds selfish, doesn't it? It is, I guess. I mean, you're the one who's sick, right?...Shit, kid, I should have seen this coming. Hell, ride on a chopper with me and it'll crash in the jungle, partner with me and you end up in the trunk of a car at the bottom of a lake. Love me and...Jesus, don't do this to me! Don't you leave me too. You promised you wouldn't. Why would you promise it if you didn't mean it?"

Jim turned angrily to face Blair. "What does it mean to you when I tell you I can't live without you? Do you even hear me? Do you think I'm exaggerating? What if I tell you I *won't* live without you,

does that make it easier for you to understand? I won't, Blair. Make no mistake about that!"

Hearing the ugly tone in his voice, Jim slumped dejectedly against the window pane. "Why can't it be me in that bed?" he whispered tearfully. "Why can't it be me?"

Of course only silence greeted him.

Jim threw his keys on the counter and kicked the door shut. Then he stood there, hands on hips, unsure what to do next.

He'd called a couple of Blair's friends from the university to sit with the kid and continue the endless prattle that was supposed to help bring him around. Jim had felt a twinge of guilt at how eager Blair's friends had been to help. He hardly knew them, but they obviously felt close to Blair. Why was he so reluctant to involve himself in Blair's world? The kid had long since stopped trying to get him to meet this couple or that crowd out for dinner or drinks. Jim tried to tell himself it probably wasn't that important to the younger man. Face it, when Blair really wanted him to do something, he did it. Right?

Jim was planning on taking a shower, sleeping for a couple of hours then heading back to the hospital. His stomach rumbled loudly so Jim amended his plan. Okay, eat something, take a shower, sleep for a couple of hours, back to the hospital.

He reached for a glass, but it slipped out of his hand and shattered in the sink. The sound was nearly deafening, and he jumped like it had been an unexpected gunshot. Shaking his head, Jim stared, mesmerized at the crystals of glass, shimmering in the sink. Without thinking about it, he took another glass from the counter, held it even with his head and let it fall. He smiled oddly at the liberating sound of breaking glass. He grabbed two glasses the next time, and dropped them one after the other, chuckling when they broke like the two before them. *Chaos equals freedom, isn't that what you always say, Sandburg?* Jim thought. This time he took a bowl and a plate. He stood back a little and threw first the bowl, then the plate toward the sink. They both broke into large pieces. *No, that won't do,* Jim thought. *Gotta throw harder if they're going to shatter.* Next time, he threw them like a baseball, grinning in satisfaction when they broke into too many pieces to repair. *Oh yeah, Sandburg, this is great,* he thought. *You destroy us, I'll destroy our surroundings. Between the two of us, we won't leave a fucking thing standing. See, kid, we're still a great team.*

Bowl by bowl, plate by plate, glass by glass, Jim demolished them. Each time the sound of splintering glass reached his Sentinel ears he laughed, head back, the joy of release in his heart. He wasn't even throwing them in the sink anymore. He wasn't getting points for tidiness here. He threw them on the floor, against the refrigerator, laughing even harder when he imagined what Blair would do if he were to walk through the door and find him.

By the time the last wine glass lay in shards at his feet, Jim was sweating and breathing heavy. *Hey, babe, that's just the glassware,* he thought, wiping at the sweat on his face with the back of his hand. He tore through the living room next, clearing tables with the swoop of an arm, knocking over tables and lamps. With a roar of rage, he toppled over the bookcase, sending books, CD's, and the stereo crashing to the floor. He cackled at the memory of his irritation with Blair for leaving the books all over the place, not to mention the house rule that all CD's must be stored in their jackets, unless, the CD was in the player, in which case the jacket was to be placed to the right of the player. *Forgot to tell you House Rule #1, babe,* Jim thought, kicking through the rubble, looking for something else to destroy. *No dying on the Blessed Protector. My house, my rules, right Sandburg?*

His hand closed around something and he drew his arm back, prepared to heave it through the window, when his tactile sense kicked in, and he immediately recognized what the object was. It was a small, Mayan figurine--the very first object Blair had set out in the loft, months after he'd moved in. The first sign Jim had that maybe, just maybe, the kid was starting to think of this as home. With a startled gasp, Jim hugged the fetish close to his heart, like a child holding a cherished rag doll. He closed his eyes and remembered Blair's sheepish, embarrassed shyness when Jim discovered the figurine and asked what it was.

At first, Blair thought Jim was asking why he'd put it out. It was shortly after the incident with Lash, and the grad student had hastened to explain that it was supposed to ward off evil spirits. He'd made a joke about being a dollar short and a day late, but his eyes were serious, searching, looking straight into Jim's soul.

"I like it," Jim said with a shrug. "Gives the joint a little class, doesn't it?"

He remembered Blair's smile, that beautiful, room brightening smile. It was one of those times when he realized he'd do just about anything if it made Blair happy.

Other knick knacks began finding their way out to the living room after that. Jim may have complained about Blair's habitual untidiness, but every time he spotted some new fetish or figurine, his heart dipped and sputtered with adolescent excitement. *He's going to stay! He's going to stay!*

Suddenly Jim came to his senses. Still clutching the Mayan figure to his chest, he slowly turned in a circle, eyes blinking in startled realization of the havoc he wreaked. The destroyed dishes he could live with--Carolyn had picked them out anyway. The CD's would be fine. Some of the covers were broken, but the actual disks were okay. CD Player would probably need to be repaired. It was about time they bought a new one anyway. They could move the old one upstairs if it still worked. *Okay, okay, nothing major then.* He was ready to start cleaning the broken dishes when he gave one final look over his shoulder, His eyes fill with tears at the books strewn all over the living room. Blair's books. His precious books. Jim knelt on the ground, crawling over to the piles and rescuing the ones whose spines were strained and opened. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered brokenly. He carefully piled the books into neat stacks, smoothing wrinkled pages, making sure there was no irreparable damage. And all the while the only sound in the empty loft was his whispered apology to the comatose man across town.

A day and a half later, Blair woke up. It wasn't anything dramatic like in the movies. No crescendo of music, no raucous laughter or shouts of joy. At some point one of the doctors told Jim Blair had slipped from the coma into unconsciousness. If Jim listened close enough, he could decipher a change in breathing and pulse. They told him Blair would wake up in several hours, and several hours later, he did.

He was groggy and confused, but not too confused to cast an accusing glare at his lover. "I wasn't this sick when I got here," he rasped.

Jim choked and laughed, a high pitched, hysterical giggle. "No babe, you weren't," he had to agree.

Two days after that, when Blair was a little stronger and a little more clear-headed, Jim pulled his chair close to the bed and picked up the younger man's hand. He smiled, to feel the almost normal temperature. He held it to his cheek and kissed it lovingly. "Blair, Swee..." an irritated look from Blair cut the endearment off. "Um, Blair, we've got to call Naomi now. We really need her to be tested."

Blair sighed, his eyes troubled and drawn. "That won't work for me," he said sullenly.

Jim sighed back. He was too tired for this. He couldn't fight Blair and the doctors and his own angry heart. "Please."

The word was spoken with such utter fatigue, such near defeat that Blair was taken aback. He looked at Jim then, really looked, and was shaken by the lines of sleeplessness on his face. He looked ten years older than he had mere days ago. "Okay," Blair whispered. "Her number's in the address book on my laptop."

With a sad smile, Jim fished the number out of his pocket.

"Oh God, you turned on the laptop," Blair said with mock horror. "There goes two years of research..."

"I'm not nearly as computer-impaired as you like to think," Jim said.

Blair smirked. "Simon show you how to get in?"

"I was going to bribe Sara into letting me give you the sponge bath today, but if you're just going to sit there and insult me...."

"You're going to let a beautiful 25 year old do it instead?" Blair finished for him.

"I would have thought a coma would dull that acerbic wit of yours," Jim said dryly.

Blair shrugged and grinned brattily, and it made Jim want to hug him with every fiber of strength left in his body. Afraid he wouldn't be able to stop himself, he jumped out of the chair and walked off some nervous energy.

Blair took the phone off the cradle and looked at the phone number in his hand and thought of his mother. Thought of her big, expressive eyes and her smile and the way most things in life bounced right off her. To her, something good, something positive came of every experience in life, even the ones that, at first glance, were nothing but trouble. But nothing bad had ever really happened to either one of them. Sure Blair had been hurt before and sick, but not like this. What would it do to her?

Jim was already a different man. He wasn't as...sure as he was before. There was an air of fear that surrounded him, like a hunted man who lived his life always looking over his shoulder.

What would this do to his cheerful, lyrical, unsinkable mother?

"Jim, I can't," he whispered. He held the phone number out to his lover, eyes pleading. "I'm sorry....I'm really sorry, but...."

Jim couldn't stand to hear those words from Blair. He covered Blair's outstretched hand an took the piece of paper from him. "You want me to call?" he asked.

Blair nodded quickly and swiped at a tear in the corner of his eye. "I can't."

Jim kissed the top of his head, thinking it was precious little for him to do. *I have so little to offer you,* he thought sadly.

Taking a deep breath, he punched in the numbers and waited. Naomi answered on the third ring. "Hi Naomi, it's Jim," he said, and his voice immediately told the woman something was wrong.

"Oh no," she said. "What's happened?"

Jim could hear her brace herself for whatever he was about to say. "Naomi, Blair asked me to call--he's right here with me, but this is kind of hard, so he thought maybe I could talk to you."

Naomi's voice was gentle. "Jim? What is it?"

He took another deep breath, let it out slowly. "Blair was diagnosed with lymphoma."

"Lymphoma?" Naomi repeated blankly. "Oh Jim, honey, that's not possible. I'm sure the doctors just made a mistake."

Jim swallowed hard, remembering his own reaction to the news. What was it about Blair that made everyone assume nothing seriously wrong could happen to the kid? Was it Blair or simply the way he made everyone love him so much, the thought of his being sick was incomprehensible. "There's no mistake, Naomi," he said, his own voice gentle. "They, uh, they made the diagnosis several months ago. Blair's been having chemotherapy since then, but...."

"Chemotherapy?" Naomi said, even more incredulous. "Why on *earth* would my Blair be having chemotherapy?"

Speechless for a moment, Jim struggled to clear his throat. Why, indeed. Maybe he'd just ignore that question and keep going. "Uh, he...he has pneumonia right now--it's okay, it's under control now, but he's in the hospital and..."

"Oh my God, this just goes from bad to worse!" Naomi exclaimed. "Jim, get him out of there, now! How could you have kept this from me, and then let those butchers get their hands on him!"

"Naomi, I..."

"A hospital?! You might as well have them bleeding him with leeches! Well this is going to stop, I'll tell you that right now!"

"But, see, the thing is..."

"I'm not even convinced he is sick!" Naomi continued. "I would have known something like this was happening to him. I would have felt it myself!"

"Okay, see, the way it...."

"I'll be there this afternoon. What hospital is it?" Jim paused, waiting to see if Naomi would let him speak. "Jim!" she said impatiently. "The hospital?"

Jim gave her the address and jumped slightly when she hung up the phone. He cleared his throat and pulled on the front of his shirt. "Yeah, that went well," he said dryly.

Blair nervously played with the sheet in his hands. "Is she okay?" he asked nervously. "I mean she didn't...she didn't freak out or anything, did she?

Jim gently caressed his cheek. "She's too mad that you're in a hospital to freak out," Jim said with a grin. "Besides, she's too strong a woman for that kind of reaction. She raised you single- handedly, didn't she?"

Blair managed a shaky smile and then even laughed a little when Jim growled and teasingly bit his neck.

Naomi breezed into the hospital with her usual burst of energy and even if she was outraged to find Blair in a hospital bed, she still seemed to soothe the kid in a way Jim couldn't. Jim stuck around just long enough to make sure Naomi wasn't going to pack Blair up part and parcel and snatch him out of the hospital, then he went back to the loft. There was a little matter of some house cleaning that needed to be done before Naomi came back for the night.

Naomi shook her head at her son. "Darling, I know you love Jim, but this is ridiculous!"

Blair laughed and made room for his mother on the bed. "Come on, Mom. There's a place for this kind of medicine."

"Yes there is! I believe it's called the 17th Century. Really, honey, this is just awful!"

Blair laughed again. "Come on," he coaxed, patting the space next to him. With a sigh, Naomi sat down and let Blair take her hand. "This is going to sound kind of weird," Blair said slowly. "But...well, this is the most important thing I'm ever going to have to do, Ma. And it's important...it's *imperative* that I do it...perfectly."

"Sweety, I don't understand," said Naomi.

"I know, give me a sec. Jim's never loved anyone the way he loves me...and I...I don't think I've ever been loved like this either. It's great, but it's also a lot of responsibility. And if I don't handle this right, then Jim will never...well, he won't recover from it. He'll dry up inside, and I can't bear to imagine it. But if we try it his way first; if we exhaust all of the options that he believes in, then, when we try more...unconventional ideas, he'll be able to accept them. Maybe even believe in them."

Naomi kissed Blair, proud of her son's heart. Certainly of anyone, she could understand. "Maybe I'm beginning to see."

Blair smiled, proud of his mother's heart. "Will you let them test you? To see if you're a match for a bone marrow transplant."

Naomi wondered briefly why she even bothered opposing Blair's will. "Of course, Honey," Naomi said. "Anything."

Blair sighed and relaxed into his mom's hold. "Thanks. Will you do me one more favor? Will you give Jim a little TLC for a couple of days? Fix him some lasagna, maybe steam some vegetables, get him to sleep a little, that kind of thing?"

With an innocent smile, Naomi hugged Blair close. "Why honey, you know that TLC is my specialty."

Jim sat stone faced in Dr. Thomas' office. Naomi was not a match.

Naomi didn't seem particularly surprised or upset by the revelation. She just nodded politely and asked when Blair would be released from the hospital.

As if in another room, listening in across a wire, Jim heard Dr. Thomas ask Naomi if Blair's father might not be tested. Naomi replied that that wasn't an option and the doctor offered her condolences, assuming the man was dead.

Dr. Thomas was beeped for some kind of emergency and left, but Jim found himself paralyzed, incapable of rising from the chair. If he got up, he'd have to go see Blair. If he saw Blair, he'd have to tell his lover that it was over, that there was nothing more to be done. But if he sat there, if he just sat there and stayed perfectly still, perhaps time would suspend for them and it could all be avoided.

Naomi knelt in front of Jim and put her hand on his arm. She remembered what Blair said about handling this perfectly and she found now, looking in to Jim's horrified eyes, she truly did understand what Blair was talking about.

"Jim, please don't give up on Blair yet," she said softly. "I know you've put your faith in these doctors and these cures, but you just can't give up yet. Jim, you of all people have to understand that Blair is...Blair is special. These ordinary people and ordinary medicines can't help him."

Jim stirred slightly, shaking his head at some inner conversation. "It surprised me at first to realize there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for him," he said. Naomi didn't know what he was talking about, but speech was better than the eerie trance he seemed to be in before. "It was such a strange sensation. I mean, there literally isn't a thing I wouldn't do for him. I told him once. I told him, I didn't think people loved one another this way. And you know what he said? He said he didn't think they loved any other way. But, the thing was, I didn't think there was anything I *couldn't* do for him either. I really didn't. If he was unhappy, I could make him happy; if he was...lost, I could help him find his way; if he was troubled, I could fix the problem. I honestly believed I could do anything for him. Anything."

Naomi continued to stroke Jim's arm. But she knew there were no words that could comfort Jim right now, so she didn't bother with any.

"Sometimes," Jim continued, "Sometimes, I think I'm being punished for my arrogance..."

"Oh, Jim, no!" Naomi said. She couldn't let Jim blame himself like that, not even for an instant. "Jim no deity would punish someone for loving the way you love. I won't believe that. I can't!"

"It's as good a reason as any," Jim said tiredly. "Punishment, amusement, boredom. Somehow it seems easier to believe that than just the randomness of the universe."

Naomi squeezed Jim's arm hard enough to make him look at her. "Jim Ellison, you stop this fatalistic thinking right now. Blair is *not* going to die when he has so much yet to teach you! Things happen for a reason," she said with conviction. "It might take years, it might take *decades* to figure out those reasons, but you will. And Blair will help you, Jim. Just because these doctors in this hospital can't help him, doesn't mean he can't be helped. And if you can't believe that right now, then you believe in Blair because he's not through fighting and neither am I!"

Jim smirked and even managed a snort of laughter. "Thanks, Naomi," he said softly. "Feel free to kick my ass any time you think I need it."

"Hmm, now that's an open invitation you're going to regret extending," Naomi said wryly. She kissed Jim's cheek. "It will embarrass Blair if I say this in front of him," she said softly, as if he might overhear. "But I want to thank you for loving my son. It's a rare gift for a mother to be so sure that her son is loved the way she wants him to be. It puts my heart at ease, and I will always, *always* love you for that Jim Ellison."

Jim felt himself blushing, but he smiled, strangely warmed in a way he thought only Blair had the talent to effect. *Like mother, like son,* he thought. He followed Naomi back to Blair's room. *I can believe in Blair for a little while. Besides, there's always his father.

There might still be some bone marrow out there with the kid's name on it. It's just a question of where.*

He wouldn't even consciously think it, but somewhere deep inside himself, Jim knew there was a parachute, just waiting to open and gently float them both to warm, soft Mother Earth.

Naomi stayed another few days, agreeing to return home only after Jim agreed to a month-long break from chemo. Naomi already had the names and addresses of over a dozen alternative healers and promised to wade through the information for the two of them.

Jim brought Blair home from the hospital, hovering nervously like the mother of a newborn. He very nearly carried Blair up the stairs to the loft, but Blair, who'd been itching to leave the hospital for nearly a week, kept shooing him away.

Jim insisted that Blair settle in on the couch, even though the kid kept protesting that he'd been flat on his back for three weeks and would really prefer to move around.

While Jim puttered in the kitchen, Blair relaxed and looked around the loft, surprised by how much he'd missed the place. Home had never been an actual, physical space to him before, not like it was now. But the life he and Jim were building not only had metaphysical aspects, but concrete, tangible ones as well. Which probably meant something, but what he didn't know.

Blair frowned slightly. *Okay, speaking of physical aspects, what is wrong with this picture?* He looked from the bookcase, to the table by the stairs. Everything was in its place as usual. No dust, nothing new. So what was different?

Jim brought Blair a mug of tea, then returned to the kitchen to heat up some soup. He carried in the bowl and set it on the coffee table. Blair looked from the tea to the soup then back to the tea again. "New dishes?" he said.

Jim shrugged and grinned weakly and nodded. "Yeah, uh, well....the uh...shelf fell. Broke the whole lot of the old stuff. No great loss right?"

Blair lifted a skeptical eyebrow at his lover as he finally realized what was amiss out in the living room. "Mm. The aftershock must have toppled over the bookcase, huh?" he said wryly.

Jim winced. Shit, he'd been *positive* the kid wouldn't notice that.

Another vague shrug. "Yeah, well, you know," he mumbled.

With an exasperated sigh, Blair set the mug down next to the forgotten bowl of soup. "Jim, have you even *tried* the relaxation techniques I showed you? We can't replace everything in the loft every time shit gets too deep for you to handle."

"How come you jump to the conclusion that it was me?" Jim asked indignantly. "Maybe some deranged perp broke in and ransacked the place and I didn't want you to worry about it, so...."

"Honey, you're talking to the master here," Blair said, dismissively shaking his head. "Don't even *try* running with the big dogs, okay?"

Jim hung his head, properly chagrined. "I just....I just needed to blow off some steam," he said, diffidently playing with Blair's shirt.

"Think of meditation as a civil means for steam blowing," Blair said. "As a furniture-friendly, dish saving alternative to whatever method you're using now."

Tears burned Jim's eyes, and he furiously blinked them away. "It's all bullshit," he whispered angrily. "None of that crap helps you. None of it makes you better."

"Neither does tearing up the loft," Blair gently pointed out. "Jim, you could have zoned out and really hurt yourself. You've got to get a better handle on this."

With a shaky sigh, Jim drew Blair to him, hugging him lightly. "You were so sick," he whispered into his ear. "I've never been so frightened, Blair. It's crazy. I mean, I lived through the crash in Peru, dealt with all kinds of nasty shit in Covert Ops. I once had a man coked to the gills with nothing to lose hold a loaded automatic an inch from my temple and still I've never, *never* known terror like I felt sitting with you in that hospital room. I just....I lost it for a few hours, panicked, you know? You're all there is of me, Blair. When you go...you're taking me with you."

"Don't say that," Blair choked, once again aware of that odd sense of relief that it was he who was sick and not Jim.

It was silent for a time, then Jim took a shuddering breath. "Please let me look for him," he whispered, his eyes closing with pain when Blair stiffened and shook off his embrace.

Blair knew exactly who-and what-Jim was talking about. One evening when Naomi was back at the loft, Jim had told Blair they needed to find his father. Blair wouldn't hear of it, nor would he discuss it. He'd grown so distraught when Jim mentioned talking to Naomi about it, that Jim had let the subject drop, figuring maybe it had more to do with Naomi being uncomfortable about it than Blair. Now that Naomi was gone, Jim thought he would broach the subject again.

"No," Blair answered now.

"Please," Jim repeated. "Blair, *please.*"

Blair sighed, wondering if there was a time when every move, every thought wasn't shrouded in an all-encompassing weariness. Was there a time when he rose from the couch without effort, when walking from one end of the room to the other didn't leave him exhausted? Was it this life that seemed unreal or the one before it? "Jim, no," he whispered, meeting the big man's desperate blue eyes with desperation of his own.

"Just let me find him," Jim bargained. "Let me...let me just... find where he is. We don't have to talk to him yet. Maybe ...maybe we'll never have to. I won't even tell you when I find him. You don't even have to know!"

Blair struggled against the rising swell of irrational emotion. He had to explain this calmly if Jim was going to get it. "I have no control over anything right now," he said, reaching for Jim's hand. "Jim, I'm at the mercy of the doctors and the nurses and the fucking whim of my blood stream...I just...this is my decision, okay? I need to...I need to be the one to decide."

"I could do it anyway," Jim said sullenly, jerking his hand from Blair's.

"But you wouldn't," Blair said, hoping he was right.

Jim slumped dejectedly, shrugging off Blair's comforting pets. He stared glumly ahead, shaking his head at some inner conversation. He wrestled with his emotions for a moment before his face reddened and tears started rolling down his cheeks. "Why won't you listen to me?" he asked, angrily swiping at the wetness on his face. "Why can't you understand how serious it is now?"

Blair resisted the urge to roll his eyes in frustration. "We don't even know if it would match, Jim." Jim shrugged away that thought, and Blair sighed. "Besides, he never cared enough to find out anything about me. Not a single thing. You think the man is going to say, 'well, I never gave a damn about you, but, go ahead, siphon out as much bone marrow as you need....' Maybe I just don't feel up to that kind of rejection right now."

Jim shook his head, as if Blair's scenario was an impossibility. Blair ducked his head to hide the grin threatening to spread across his face. He read Jim's expression perfectly. 'He'll donate that bone marrow if I have to tie him down and withdraw it myself...' Jim caught Blair's expression and anger wrestled with amusement in his own features. Amusement won out. "Okay, so I'm an overprotective Neanderthal!" he acknowledged. "That's why you love me, remember?"

"Actually, I love you in *spite* of it, not because of it," Blair said wryly.

"I want to fix this," Jim said softly. "I want to be the one who makes you well. The one who...who..."

"Saves me," Blair finished for him. "Jim, do you have any idea what my life would be like if we weren't together? How...lonely and empty and...and pointless it would have been? You *did* save me- -last year when you let me study you, and then partner with you and then move in with you...when you let me into your bed..."

"Let you," Jim scoffed, sniffing loudly. "Like I had a choice. That was all...effortless, Blair. I may have put up a fight at the beginning, but it was like trying to fight a tidal wave. This is...it's different."

Blair reached up and began to rub Jim's neck. He patted his thighs, inviting the big man to lay down. "How 'bout I rub your head and make you forget all about this, hmm?" Blair coaxed. "Three whole weeks with no head rubs makes Jim a very cranky boy."

"Three weeks with no Blair...." Jim murmured, already falling away from himself under Blair's practiced ministrations.

Blair leaned down and kissed Jim's forehead thinking he'd probably slept only a handful of hours since Blair entered the hospital. He hated that Jim walked around in a perpetual state of fear, holding his breath lest their precarious status quo decline even further. No wonder the big guy was just a single straw away from losing it.

Blair shook his head, wondering what the loft had looked like after the blow out. Let's see, new dishes, new bookcase, new table by the stairs. Good thing the Feds had taken over his medical bills. There was no way the two of them would be able to finance both those and the cost to repair the loft after another of Jim's explosions.

Jim stood at the head of the stairs and watched Blair slicing fruit for breakfast. He was humming under his breath, bobbing his head in time to the tune. Jim smiled, absurdly pleased to have his lover back in nurture mode. When Blair turned to place the bowl on the table and grinned up at Jim.

It felt like it had been at the very beginning, Jim thought. When he first fell in love and realized-unbelievably, astoundingly-that Blair felt the same way. Then, every day had seemed like some miraculous gift created just for them. Hunting bad guys by day, making love madly by night--they were immortal, untouchable, invincible. God, it had been glorious.

Jim jogged down the stairs and gave Blair an energetic good morning kiss. He squeezed Blair's ass and growled into his ear, "Finally getting some meat on those bones, Chief."

"Says the original hard ass, himself," Blair replied.

"What are you up to today?" Jim asked, opening the paper and taking a bite out of the bagel Blair set down in front of him.

Blair smirked at the detective. He was feeling stronger every day, but still tired too easily to be able to do much of anything. A two or three hour stretch before needing a nap was all he could manage as Jim well knew. "Oh, I don't know," he answered breezily. "Thought I'd go mountain climbing this morning, then run a quick marathon this afternoon. I'll be home in time to fix dinner though."

Jim lifted an eyebrow and looked at Blair over the top of the sports section. "Have I told you lately that you're a smart ass?" he asked.

Blair appeared to wrack his brain. "You know, I think you have," he answered.

Jim feigned intense interest in the hockey scores. "Well, all I can say is you're lucky I'm crazy in love with you."

"Crazy anyway," Blair said, snatching Jim's paper out of the way so he could straddle his lap.

Jim sighed, like a man forced to suffer much in his life, and let Blair kiss him. Blair kissed a meandering path from Jim's mouth, over his cheek, down his jaw line, all the while squirming provocatively against Jim's groin.

"As the sole breadwinner in the family, I'd think you'd worry about keeping me from the Job, Chief," Jim said in a tight voice that made Blair smile against his neck.

"I'd think you'd be happy to have my undivided attention," Blair replied. He sat back, still bouncing impudently on his lover's lap. "Admit it, man, you're eating this up-me stuck here all day waiting for you to get home--no school, no work-nothing to do but think about you all day long."

Jim's grin was anything but contrite. "All's right with the world, Lover," he admitted. Blair laughed and went back to work on Jim's neck, and for the briefest moment in time, Jim actually believed what he'd said.

It turned out their reprieve was short lived.

Jim came home from work knowing something wasn't right. Expected noises went unheard when he stepped out of the truck. Taking the stairs two at a time, he smelled the overwhelming odor of blood before he had the door open.

"Blair?!" he called. "Blair!"

Bright red blood pooled at the foot of the stairs, trailing up toward the loft. "Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus, please, please, please," Jim murmured, floundering up the stairs, his limbs quivering and unresponsive.

Blair was curled up on the floor, one arm stretched toward the bed, as if it had been his goal. Jim roughly turned him onto his back, nearly disgorging his lunch at the sight.

Blair's front was covered with blood and vomit, but his weak groan allowed a modicum of air to seep into Jim's lungs. "What's wrong?"

Jim asked, feeling Blair for a temperature, checking for signs of congestion in his lungs.

Blair moaned and swiped at Jim to leave him alone.

"Blair do you understand me?" Jim asked, his voice sounding thick and unused. "Can you hear me? Tell me what happened. Can you tell me? Are you sick?"

Jim was stunned when Blair started laughing. Utterly perplexed, he sat back on his haunches, watching in confusion as Blair's coughs of laughter turned into wracking sobs. He turned into Jim, hiding his face in Jim's lap.

Ignoring the filth covering his lover, Jim held him as best he could, rocking him, whispering into his ear, promising stupidly, hopefully, hopelessly that everything would be okay.

"I fell," Blair whispered when at last he calmed. "Down the stairs."

Jim closed his eyes. The only thing keeping him from falling apart was knowing Blair needed his strength. "Are you hurt?" Jim asked calmly. "Do we need to go to the hospital?" He started gently probing Blair's limbs, checking for broken bones.

Blair tensed at the mention of the hospital. "No!" he said, more than a shade hysterically. "I'm not...hurt...nothing's broken. I just....I was working on the laptop, and I guess I...I was getting tired, but I kept thinking I could do a couple of more pages, then a couple of more....but then I got so tired....I needed....I needed to go to sleep so I...so I went to go upstairs. I felt funny, but I just thought...I thought if I could just go to sleep it would get better...I don't know what happened, I got halfway up the stairs and everything changed shape and it got dark and...and the next thing I knew I was flat on my back and my nose was bleeding and it wouldn't clot and...and it was all messy and I didn't want to make any trouble..."

"Okay that's enough," Jim said, kissing Blair's head. "You're no trouble. Messes can be cleaned up, Baby. Let's do that right now, okay? Let's get you cleaned up a little." Jim removed his shirt and groaned at the mottled bruises all over Blair's torso.

Blair whimpered and started to cry again. Jim wrapped him in a blanket and as gently as possible gathered him back into his arms. Sobbing in earnest, Blair burrowed into Jim's hold, moaning and rocking in abject misery.

"I'm so fucking messed up!" he wailed. "I can't even walk upstairs by myself! I don't want this anymore, Jim! Please, I don't want this!"

"I know it's awful," Jim said, refusing to hear what Blair was really saying. "I'm sorry for that. I'd do anything, pay any price if I could take it all away from you. But we've got Naomi working for us now, right? All kinds of witch doctors and Buddhist priests and shamen of every shape and size are on the case now! It won't be long, I know it!"

Blair shook his head, but said nothing as Jim picked him up and carried him downstairs to bathe. And he said nothing when Jim lifted him from the tub and wrapped him in the softest towel he could find. And he said nothing, when Jim carried him back upstairs and cradled him in the bed. And he said nothing as Jim rocked him and softly, in a voice barely above a whisper, sang him to sleep.

Something changed in Blair after that-an indefinable shift in attitude, as if he could no longer pretend it wasn't terrible and awful and hopeless.

He couldn't sleep-ripped from slumber night after night by terrifying nightmares he couldn't remember, but full of horrors he couldn't forget. The overwhelming fatigue weighed heavily on the frail younger man, such that moving from the bed to the couch required astounding effort. He would lay absolutely still for hours on end, as if lulled by the realization of his body slowing down, easing up.

But far worse than Blair's physical decline, which Jim had more or less expected, was his emotional turmoil.

He clung to Jim when he was home, barely able to release his hold on the older man to let him use the john or take a shower. Leaving for work in the morning grew more and more painful with Blair begging him to stay for just ten more minutes; just ten more minutes. Please, please, please....Don't leave me...don't let me go...Stay, stay, stay. Jim's mantra for the past few months had now become Blair's.

Jim did not do what he was supposed to do. Not out of ignorance- he knew he should call Naomi and ask her to come stay with them; he knew he should ask Blair's friends from school, Michael Yeager, even Simon and some of the other guys to drop by whenever possible and try to lift the kid's spirits. He should have at least *tried* coaxing Blair back into hope and strength and trademark independence.

But there was something inside him-an ugliness, a deep, dark ugliness that would not let him do what he was supposed to do. Because this ugly part of him, this dark and suddenly overpowering part of him loved it. Loved it that Blair would not eat unless he fed him; would not sleep unless he held him. He loved it that Blair would not make the simplest decision-milk or juice, couch or bed, shower or bath-without looking to him for the answer. He loved it that Blair cried when he left in the mornings and cried in relief when he returned home.

It helped him believe that it didn't matter what he'd said or done in the past. He alone was responsible for Blair--for what he ate and when he slept, for bathing him and dressing him and loving him. Blair looked to him for every decision and blindly accepted whatever Jim said.

It helped Jim believe that no matter what promises he broke, it wouldn't matter because he and he alone made up Blair's entire universe.

Jim arrived for a briefing at the Roth offices just minutes before it was due to start. Leaving the loft that morning had been a trial. Blair was desperate for him to stay home. It was too late to call Liddy or one of the other nurses to come stay with him, which was just as well. It upset Blair even more to have someone there when Jim was gone. Jim had felt sick as he extricated himself from Blair's frantic clutches.

Jim took the seat next to Yeager, thankful Benton got the meeting underway so he wouldn't have to answer Yeager's questions about Blair's health.

Benton arched his brow and said, "Gentlemen, we have an interesting break in the case-two people have come forward to offer testimony. It seems they were injected with Dr. Gray's miracle drug three years ago, but recently fell out of remission. Gray's miracle cure is not only no miracle, it's apparently no cure. Two hundred and fifty *thousand* dollars and all these poor saps bought was some time!" He laughed callously and all but Yeager joined in. Michael glanced self-consciously at Jim, spared a look at Benton, then concentrated on the pad of paper in front of him.

Jim clenched his jaw and counted to ten very slowly. He hated Agent Benton, he decided. Hated him for his health and his arrogance; hated his skin because it wasn't discolored with bruises; hated the boundless amount of energy he possessed, the ease with which he breathed; hated his ability to laugh.

Who the hell was he to laugh in the face of other people's misery and desperation anyway? Where in the hell did that fucker get off with that holier than thou attitude?

Jim felt the rage festering in his gut. When you had a seemingly endless supply of time, it was fucking easy to take it for granted. What the hell did any of them know-safe in their little Father Knows Best world of suburbia, playing cop in their tailor-made suits and dark glasses. They would go home tonight to healthy families; the big trauma whether or not they got to the little league soccer game on time. Fuckers, every last one of them. Laughing at the hopes of desperate people. What did they know? What the fuck did any of them know?

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a thin vial promising nothing but a little bit of extra time. Sounded like a bargain to Jim.

And somehow, in the muddled reasoning of a desperate man, the fact that the serum wasn't really a cure helped assuage any residual guilt Jim might have felt at breaking his promise to the kid. He wasn't stealing a cure, he was simply buying more time for them to find a legitimate cure.

What was so awful about that?

Jim wondered if it was his own returning sense of calm that made Blair so easy to handle that night.

Like always, Blair was standing at the door when Jim came in, and he needed to be held for awhile before Jim could take off his coat and check the messages on the answering machine. But he ate dinner without a fuss and even smiled when Jim joked about Agent Benton. He fell easily asleep while Jim sat up on the outside of the covers, idly rubbing his back while he read the new Sports Illustrated. It was quite a change from the morning when Blair had been impossible to soothe. Perhaps he too, sensed resolution in the air.

Oddly energized, Jim roamed around downstairs after he was sure Blair was down for the night. For awhile, he watched the moonlight shimmering on the water in the bay. If he tried, he could hear the sound of water lapping up against the docks, of boats groaning under the wind and the waves. He smiled, remembering the time he and Blair had lit out after some kidnappers in a borrowed speedboat, Blair piloting the craft like a pro. Sometimes it seems there was nothing the kid couldn't do-drive a big rig, navigate a power boat, speak Spanish, Slavic, German. He was an endless surprise, a never ending delight. Special. That's what Naomi had said. Blair *was* special. Extraordinary. Anyone who spent more than a little time in his presence had to realize that.

Back at Roth, listening to the hardened Feds laughing at the desperation of the victims, Jim had finally accepted that his promise to Blair would go unheeded. What the hell, integrity never did a dead man any good, did it?

So then, why was he starting to have second thoughts now?

He wished he could talk this over with Blair. But knowing how Blair would react, that was simply impossible. Besides, there was the issue of complicity. He couldn't risk Blair being accused of a crime, so the less he knew, the better.

Jim wandered in the small living room and thought about the myriad of people he had arrested over the years. Perhaps all of them had good and noble reasons for doing what they'd done. Okay, that was stretching it, but surely some of them had. Could he remain a police officer, knowing the law was merely a convenience he observed until it got in the way of something he valued more? Did he have the balls to cuff some perp, read him his rights, then stand righteously aside and watch him take a spin on the roulette wheel of justice when he himself had so effortlessly side stepped it? Did he care?

There were other jobs, other careers. Explaining it to Blair would be difficult. Hell, maybe he could offer to travel with the kid, stake out some of those remote jungles of his. It would buy him some time anyway, allow the bitterness of his deceit to recede enough that he could, perhaps, return to his life relatively unscathed.

Would it even have to change him? It was simply a single, tiny vial of medicine. Would taking it *have* to be some life altering event? Wasn't Blair's life worth it? Not just worth it, but worth it, with as little remorse, as little regret as possible?

*Were you or were you not a Captain of Covert Operations for the United States Army?* Jim chastised himself. *Were you or were you not a liaison officer with the Central Intelligence Agency? Jesus Christ, Ellison, your ethics meter was off the charts when Blair was still in junior high. If you're sitting there wondering if you can do it, you've been a civilian too long, my man. Too fucking long!*

Yes, Blair had a point about the serum coming from the deaths of others, but nothing they did or said could bring them back. Arresting Gray and the others would ensure no more would die, so what harm was there, what foul, in taking serum that had already been developed? Would destroying the serum, or worse yet, letting it sit in an evidence room gathering dust be any more noble?

Could he live with himself, knowing he had held the cure in his hands but had let Blair die? The idea was impossible. He could no more let Blair die than he could will his own heart to stop beating.

So the original decision would stand.

Jim sat down on the edge of the couch and rubbed his hand across the stubble of beard. He felt the tension drain from his shoulders and back as his heart beat settled down into a slow and even pattern. He thought about people who'd attempted suicide and spoke later of the delicious calm overcoming them when they'd made the final decision to take their life.

Perhaps it was the same with criminals, Jim thought dryly. Once the will to cross the line was made, the rest was easy.

Blair's sleep was restless now. Jim heard him tossing and mumbling under his breath. He wondered if his guide could sense his inner turmoil or if it was simply his own demons he wrestled with as he slept.

"Rest easy, Lover," Jim whispered. "We're almost through this shit. I'm going to fix it for you. Swear to God, I'm going to fix this."

Blair was awake when Jim stirred the next morning. That hadn't happened in months. He was gently caressing Jim's arm.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Jim asked, just barely tightening his hold.

Blair shook his head. "Mmm, I had a good dream," he said lazily.

"Must have been about me," Jim teased.

Blair smiled against his chest, then kissed the smooth skin above his nipple. "If you say so."

"I say so," Jim growled.

With a sigh, Blair snuggled up against Jim, still petting his arm. "I'm surprised you still want me," Blair said, his voice still light and airy, but Jim felt him tense up. "You didn't sign on for this."

"I signed on for you," Jim said, wishing he could tell Blair how close they were to having it all behind them. "You know the drill-for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health..."

Blair smiled. "Yeah, but lately it's been for worse, for poorer and in sickness."

Jim gave a wry snort of laughter. "Well...take some comfort in knowing the only way to go is up," he said.

Blair laughed at that. "Man, remember the good old days, when all we worried about were deranged serial killers, international hit men..."

"Kidnappers, bank robbers, elevator hijackers..."

They were both giggling now. "Gang wars, gun runners, rogue CIA operatives...." Blair hugged Jim close for a minute. "Jeez, man, where'd we ever find the time to fall in love?"

"I think it was between the deranged serial killer and the rogue CIA operative, wasn't it?" Jim asked lightly.

"Yeah, we did have a long weekend in there, didn't we," Blair said.

They were quiet for a time, lying in one another's arms remembering.

"Hey Jim?" Blair said.

"Mm?" Jim answered drowsily.

"Um...Naomi called yesterday. She finally tracked down an old friend of hers. His name's Sam Ahkeah, and he's a Navajo hataalii."

"Is that like a medicine man?" Jim asked, keeping his voice light and non-judgmental.

"Yeah, but more like a priest," he said. "He's agreed to do a sing for me...He's even going to come here to Cascade, which is, like, totally major."

Jim smiled and hugged Blair to his chest. "I'm not surprised, knowing Naomi," he said.

Blair smiled in agreement. "Yeah, she can be pretty persuasive. I...I'd really like you to be there with me. I know you don't really believe in this stuff, but...."

Jim's heart jumped in his chest, and he quickly glanced down at Blair to see if he noticed. *Perfect!* Jim thought ecstatically.

"But I believe in you," Jim said struggling to keep his voice from shaking. "I should've been...I should be more supportive of you, Baby. I'm going to try to be from now on. You were right about the importance of...of attitude and believing in your cure. I should spend a lot more time listening to you instead of railroading you into what *I* think is going to work."

Blair leaned up and squinted at Jim. "What have you done with my lover?" he asked suspiciously.

Jim grinned. "Finally talked some sense into the bastard," he said.

"How long do you think it will last?" Blair asked.

Jim gently kissed his mouth, then his cheek, then his forehead. "What time's breakfast?" he asked, and didn't realize until he heard it that Blair hadn't laughed out loud in days.

Like all covert operations, the execution was always secondary to the planning. Everything had to be in place so that when they received word that the serum was available, Jim could immediately strike.

Most of the preparation centered around knowing how and when to administer the serum. Jim wasn't the least bit concerned about actually getting it. The security at the clinic was certainly greater than any legitimate hospital or medical center, but laughable compared to the military compounds he had infiltrated in Covert Ops.

The most difficult part of all was controlling his emotions. It was nearly impossible to keep the downright giddiness from Blair. It was almost over. All the shit, all the sickness, all the paralyzing fear. It was almost over and then life could begin again. How could he keep his delight to himself?

Luckily, the sing gave Blair something to hold on to; something to hope for. Jim realized with a guilty heart that the ability to look forward to something--to anything--had been missing in Blair since he fell down the stairs.

He slept in his old room now; the stairs not so much unmanageable as, embarrassingly, frightening to him. Every night, Jim would put him to bed, and sit on the edge of the mattress and hold his hand until he fell asleep. The lines between lover and friend and father and protector were getting blurrier and blurrier.

Jim woke up every morning thinking *Today will be the day we hear. Today the serum will be finished, and I'll get it, and Blair will get better.* And then he would pull himself up off the uncomfortable futon on Blair's floor, and get Blair dressed and fed. Before he left for work, he would hold the shivering younger man-- he was so cold--always so cold now--and he would listen to Blair count down the days until the sing.

"It's four days from now, right, Jim? In four days, right?"

And Jim would nod and rock him a little. Blair didn't really need the comfort, but Jim did. *Today will be the day,* Jim would think as he rocked his shaking lover.

The morning of the sing was cool and damp, but the sky was a brilliant blue. More than once, Jim caught himself wondering if maybe they should postpone the ceremony, which was to be held in the even cooler--and damper--Cascade Mountains. This was impossible, of course, since Sam Ahkeah would only be in Cascade for the day. Besides, Blair's cure was coming, so one day spent in the cold Northwest didn't seem to matter.

When Jim awoke, he had heard Naomi quietly talking to Blair. She must have gotten him up. She'd insisted on taking the futon and letting Jim sleep upstairs in his own bed, though Jim would have much preferred Naomi take the bed so he could stay with Blair. The bed felt wrong without Blair cuddled up next to him, and he spent the night obsessed with his lover's heartbeat and breathing patterns.

Jim smiled vaguely at Naomi's constant stream of idle chatter. He knew Blair found it comforting, and in a weird way, Jim did too. Blair was in high spirits, laughing along with Naomi, probably over him, Jim thought. Together, the Sandburgs enjoyed teasing the disciplined (read-anal) cop.

*Maybe today we'll hear. Maybe when we're in the mountains, the phone call will come. We'll get back home and the light on the answering machine will be blinking and I'll hit the play button and it will be Benton or Yeager telling us the serum is finished...*

Jim could hear the voice of his own mother echoing in his head. "If wishes were horses...."

Jim rolled over and stood up, then stilled for a moment at the sight of Blair sitting at the table. The morning sunlight bathed him in a beautiful yellow glow. Almost more self conscious about his fine, short hair than he was his baldness, Blair was wearing a colorful bandanna. He felt Jim's eyes on him and looked up, an excited smile on his face.

"Hey, Gorgeous," Jim said, forgetting momentarily that Naomi was there.

"We're going to have to have a talk about your eyesight," Blair said wryly. "I think that Golden did more damage than we first thought."

"Hm mm, the view from here is great." He leaned over the railing and grinned lazily at the younger man, until he remembered Naomi and flushed darkly.

Blair laughed and turned to Naomi with a look that said, "See?!" And then Naomi laughed, and Jim ducked for cover in the bathroom.

While Jim sat down to breakfast--some birdseed mixture Naomi had prepared--Blair fired up his laptop and read through some notes. He had tried to explain the ritual to Jim, who tried to act like he understood, but it all sounded like so much hocus pocus to him.

Since Blair was not a true Navajo--and the ceremony would not take place on Navajo land--some adjustments had been made to the rite. Blair laughingly called in Blessing-Lite. It was the spirit of the symbolism of the sing that was important to him, so he didn't mind that he would be treated to the same sing that might have been put on for tourists during the vacation rush.

Instead of a chant intended to cure illness, Blair had asked for a ritual called the Blessingway, which was used to obtain blessings for a long and happy life.

He had explained to Jim at great length the story behind the sing; trying to translate for Jim what Sam Ankeah would be saying, but it was too complicated for Jim to follow--it was like trying to follow who begot who in the Old Testament, Jim thought while Blair described deities with such strange names as Changing Woman, Pollen Boy, and Cornbeetle Girl who would be depicted in drypaintings.

Jim would have teased the younger man about the nonsensical sounding ritual, but he was so pleased so see Blair excited about something for the first time in a very long time. Besides, it was touching to see how deeply Blair respected the beliefs of these Native Americans.

"See, Jim, the way it was explained to me is, if there's a drought, the Christian, the Muslims, the Jews, they all pray for rain. The Navajo performs a ceremony so that he's in harmony with the drought. It's a religion that's built to adapt, man. It recognizes what you have the power to change and what you don't, so instead of bellyaching about what you can't change, you simply put yourself in harmony with the way things are!"

Jim had said it sound like an excuse to accept the shitty things that happen to you without putting up a fight.

Blair had muttered a word Jim didn't understand--belagana--and told Jim he was too linear for his own good.

It didn't matter really. It was going to be a nice day--about time they soaked up a little fresh air. Blair thought the ceremony was going to help him get better, and Jim *knew* the serum was going to buy them the time they needed. A little singing on top of it all wouldn't hurt anything, and it would give Blair something to believe in when they got word he was in remission.

Sam Ankeah affectionately greeted Blair at the ritual site. He was a tall, thin man, in his late 50's with silver hair streaked with black and tied in a bun at the nape of his neck. He teased Blair about his long hair, saying he was trying to fool the spirits into thinking he was a full blooded Navajo.

Admittedly, Jim grasped little about the ceremony, but he'd felt a flash of something when he shook Ankeah's hand. A lapsed Catholic, he likened the sensation to the sense of awe he used to feel as a child when face-to-face with one of the priests. *Not as much fear mixed in with Ankeah, though,* he mused inwardly. There was something holy about the man; something divine. It radiated out from him in the way he spoke and in the gentle, almost healing touch of his knobby hands.

And while Jim may not have understood what Ankeah sang over Blair, that didn't make it any less beautiful or any less powerful. Or make Blair's enthusiastic reception of it any less touching to him. He wished he could believe as Blair believed, in all the ethereal, out of this world things the kid so readily accepted as givens. The balance between them was comforting though, necessary even, and as long as he had a side line seat to Blair's world, he was perfectly happy.

As Ankeah turned to go, he shook Jim's hand and passed on the blessing he had given to Blair. "May you walk with beauty all around you," he said quietly.

Jim had to stop himself from responding, "Lord hear our prayer."

Blair was exhausted, leaning heavily on Jim as they walked back to the truck. He slept on the way home, curled up in the back seat, not even waking when Jim carried him inside.

Jim gently laid Blair on his bed and went to hang up his coat. When the detective got back to the room, Naomi was undressing him.

Jim averted his gaze, embarrassed by the deep pang jealousy that made his heart ache. Naomi was humming under her breath as she brought a blanket up around Blair's shoulders. She brushed her hand across his face and kissed him, and when she looked up at Jim, he felt her anguish as a physical pain in his chest.

Jim knew she would not voice her fears out loud; not after today's ceremony, but they stood out vividly in her expressive eyes. Jim wanted to comfort her. He wanted to assure Naomi that he wouldn't let anything happen to Blair, that he had it covered.

Naomi took a deep breath and a calmer, more relaxed look took the place of the fearful one. "He'll be okay, now," she said.

Jim smiled, and surprised her by saying. "Thanks, Naomi. I know."

The funny thing was, Blair actually *did* seem to get better. His appetite returned and with it, more energy. He was sleeping less, even working some on the computer in the afternoons. A month without chemo had allowed more of his hair to grow back and the sallow cast of his skin to fade. A little color had even worked its way back into his face.

Unfortunately, the blood tests didn't jibe with the other physical evidence, and Blair was floored when Jim put up no resistance to postponing the return to chemo for another month.

Under normal circumstances, such a colossal change in attitude would have sent up a glaring red flag to the grad student, but he was so relieved, he foolishly thought maybe he and Naomi had started to work a miracle with the conventional detective. Naomi even gloated a little as she left to return to California, teasing Blair about the power of the mother-in-law to affect change where Blair could not.

Jim, of course, knew there was no need for chemo because any day now; any day, they would hear that the serum was ready and Blair would be cured.

The call came on a Thursday morning--Michael Yeager telling them the serum was finished. That evening, after he'd settled Blair in for the night, and made sure his lover was sound asleep, Jim changed into a pair of dark pants and a dark sweatshirt. He could barely keep from whistling as he mentally ticked off their remaining seconds in hell.

Blair heard the door close and shuddered, imagining a staircase he had to descend to their hell. He'd been so fucking stupid. It seemed like it was only in the last week or two that the perpetual fog caused by the chemo had started to fade. When he first noticed it, he'd chalked up Jim's unnatural cheeriness and the occasional odd remark to stress. Sometimes when Jim helped him dress or steered him over to the couch, he would tell Blair it was almost over, that they were almost through the worst of it. It was his tone more than the words themselves that struck Blair as odd. He wasn't just mouthing platitudes to soothe Blair, he really believed what he was saying.

And he hadn't said one word; not one word, against Blair staying off the chemo.

*You fucker,* Blair thought as he had when the dark, realization hit that morning. *The least you could do was humor me. Play your part. You fucking son-of-a-bitch, you won't even pay me *that* little respect.*

How could he do it? He'd promised. Jim Ellison didn't break his word, not for anyone. How could he do this?

It wasn't until that morning, when Michael called to tell them the serum was finished and the arrest would go down tomorrow, that Blair finally put it all together. Jim had nearly danced around the room at the news, laughing joyfully at Blair's confusion.

Blair knew he should have said something then, but part of him hoped he was wrong. But there was something else to it, too. As angry as he was; as betrayed as he felt, Blair was still amazed at the awesome, awe-inspiring testimony of Jim's commitment to him.

And even as outrage swirled within him, there was a part of Blair that felt ashamed he had ever doubted Jim's love for him. Toward the beginning, when every change in the direction of the wind had Blair running for cover, Jim had asked him, quietly, seriously, what it would take for Blair to believe in him, in his love for him. "Irrefutable proof," Blair had joked.

Good God. Now he had it.

Jim was gone for exactly 32 minutes. Given the ten minute drive to and from clinic, that meant he'd been in and out in 12 minutes.

He slipped in the front door--the adrenaline high, keeping him from noticing that Blair was not asleep in his room. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Blair began to speak.

"Did you think I wouldn't *know?*"

Jim focused in on the far corner of the darkened loft, where Blair stood, fists clenched at his side.

"What were you going to do? Sedate me? Slip something into my ginger ale? Or just cuff me to the bed? Shove me up against a wall and plunge the needle in my arm while I tried to get away?" He paced restlessly. For Blair, anger, true anger, usually meant a loss of coherence, and he was pretty much apoplectic here. Every time he turned and angrily pointed at Jim, as if about to make another argument, he simply growled in frustration and turned back again.

Jim honestly thought Blair wouldn't know. He stood stock still, stunned that he should have to explain himself. "But I love you," he said, as if that explained everything. Didn't it?

"Love me?" Blair coughed incredulously. "Oh man, that is *rich!*"

"You're going to die," Jim said, his voice still soft and slow with shock--shock that he'd been found out, shock that he had to explain to Blair why they *had* to do this now. It seemed so unreal all of a sudden. "If I don't do something, you'll die."

"You're not doing ANYTHING to me!" Blair shouted. "You touch me, you come near me with that shit and I swear to God, I'll...I'll swallow your service revolver myself. I'll take a header over the balcony; take the bottle of sedatives in the medicine cabinets... I won't let you do this to me! Do you hear me? I won't let you!"

"What's wrong with you?" Jim asked, still oddly calm. "You know I can't let you die. Why are you acting like this is some huge surprise?"

Blair pointed a shaking finger at his lover. "You promised me! You fucking promised me you wouldn't do this! God dammit, I went back on the chemo for you!"

"But it's not working," Jim said, his voice ultra patient, overly kind. "The chemo isn't working, so now we have to do this."

"Dammit, I did all this for you!" Blair screamed, holding his arms open wide. "Let them poison me! Spent the last three months puking and bleeding and sick and miserable! Let them turn me into this....this disgusting FREAK! I did all this for you! So when I died, *IF* I died, you'd know I did EVERYTHING I could to stay with you! So you'd know I tried my hardest! I did all this for YOU!"

Jim closed his eyes, praying to the man he had worshipped with his body so many times before. "Then do this one last thing for me," he whispered. "One more thing, Blair. Do this one more thing. It's all I ask; all I'll ever ask. Please, Blair. *Please!*"

"I did everything for you!" Blair yelled, tears streaming down his face. "Everything you wanted! Everything you asked of me! I did everything you wanted so you'd know how hard I'm trying!"

"I *know* you're trying," Jim said. "But it's not working. This will work!"

"It's not even a cure," Blair said bitterly. Jim seemed shocked that

Blair knew that. He didn't remember telling him about that new development. "I still talk to Michael," Blair said. With a disgusted look on his face, Blair turned away from Jim, as if it hurt to look at him. "You know, Michael said something to me once....about agents at risk. How they don't, like, put someone with a gambling addiction on an illegal gambling case; or how they don't put an alcoholic on an illegal liquor ring. He didn't say anything in so many words, but I knew what he was getting at. Not my Jim, I said. Not *the* paragon of integrity. Not Mr. Do The Right Thing. No way...Man, I am an *idiot!*"

"I won't let you die," Jim said. "I don't know why you're acting so shocked about this. I told you once that I won't survive you. Why is it so easy for you to just shrug that off? Why is it so easy to take me with you?"

Blair turned to face Jim, shaking his head in disgust. "You talk about how manipulative I am, but man, you wrote the book. Just dangle a little suicide threat in front of me and I'll crumble, right? You say I do whatever I want, but it's you. You're the one who operates outside the bounds. To hell with what I want. To hell with what I think. All that matters is you and your rules and your right and wrong!"

Jim took a step forward, but stopped short when Blair held up a hand to ward him off and shouted, "No!"

"What matters to me is you!"

"That'd be funny if it wasn't so fucking pathetic!" Blair muttered. "You don't give a fuck about me. It's all about what you want!"

"That's not true!" Jim shouted desperately. "I love you!"

Now Blair's voice was quiet--soft and slow with outraged disbelief. "Then how could you do this?"

"I love you," Jim said helplessly, unable to come up with any other words that would better explain himself.

"No," Blair said, shaking his head. "No. A man who loved me would know that I meant it when I said this shit was NOT going into my body. And he sure as hell wouldn't have made plans to fucking *force* it on me!"

"You want me to beg, Blair?" Jim asked, red-faced. He knelt on the floor. "You want me on my knees? You want me to prostrate myself in front of you? Tell me what it'll take to convince you that dying isn't an option here!"

"It's not up to you, man," Blair moaned. "It was never up to you."

"As long as there's something I can do about it, you'd better fucking believe it's up to me!"

Blair bellowed in frustration. "Then get it through that thick head of yours that there is *nothing* you can do about it! I won't take that serum!"

"You're not going to die," Jim said, his own voice low. "I won't let you. I *can't* let you. You're not going to die."

"Then give me a clue here, man. How are you going to do it? Knock me out? Tie me down? What's it going to be, Big Man?"

Jim flinched at the loathing in Blair's voice, averting his eyes from the sickened look on his lover's face. "It doesn't have to be like this," Jim whispered. "Blair, please, *please* try to understand. Try to see it my way...."

"Why?" Blair asked angrily. "You haven't tried to see it my way!" That serum, it...it was *stolen* from someone. From a kid. Some pathetic, runaway kid. They were alive, and now they're dead and you want me to take that kind of karma onto myself?"

"You'd have a heart transplant if you needed one, wouldn't you?" Jim asked quickly. "Or a liver transplant?"

"That's different, and you know it," Blair said. "You are asking me to do something so disgusting to me, so abhorrent....It won't save my life, Jim, because I couldn't live with myself, don't you see?"

"I can't let you die," Jim whispered. "Without you, I have nothing. I *am*...nothing! I can't let this happen."

Blair's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he moved in closer to drive his point home. "Then, I'll *make* it happen!" he threatened. "If you try to take away my choice, I swear to God, I'll take it right back. Two can play your game, Jim. But make no mistake, I'll win this one."

Jim helplessly shook his head, confused to find himself in this dark and lonely place. "I can't bear a world without you in it," he whispered in a small voice. "I can't defend a tribe that doesn't include you. Blair....please?"

Blair just slowly shook his head.

The last of the fight leaving him, Jim's shoulders sagged. He had lost. There'd been a hole in his brilliant scheme, a factor he'd never considered--Blair. And like any good soldier, Jim knew that underestimating the obstacles to a plan guaranteed its failure. And like any good soldier, Jim knew that a failed plan cost lives. Innocent lives.

Oh God, how could he have failed so spectacularly the one time, the one time in all the world that it really, truly mattered?

Screams of reproach echoed inside Jim's head as he moved closer to the window, wondering how he could have let this happen. "I thought...I thought I was supposed to protect you," he said, his voice soft, detached, like his soul now floating disconnectedly out of his body. "I thought I *could.*"

Blair had never seen anything approaching defeat in Jim and the sight of it horrified him far worse than the momentary shock of his broken promise. Instantly the outrage lessened, replaced by an almost overwhelming need to comfort and fortify the man.

"I didn't think...I didn't think there was anything I couldn't do for you. I *had* to be able to fix it...I had to be the one to make you better..."

Surprised the younger man could bring himself to touch him, Jim stiffened when Blair's arms gently circled him from behind. Blair kissed his shoulder and leaned his cheek against his back. "I may surprise you yet," Blair whispered. "Jim, you believed in me right from the start--when Simon and the other guys thought you were nuts for hanging out with me; when your brother said you'd regret being with me; when Carolyn said I was just some mid-life crisis you'd get over in a few weeks....Jim, people you'd known for years; people whose opinion you really, *really* value, they all told you I wasn't the one for you. But you never doubted for a second. I mean, I'm over there in a corner hyperventilating every time someone looked at me cross-eyed, but it never touched you. Find that conviction again, man. Find that faith and hold on to it a little bit longer. I swear to you Jim, as sure as you were back then, that's how sure I am that I'm going to be okay."

Jim nodded slowly, hearing snippets of remembered conversations- -Carolyn, claws exposed, smirking at him, telling him if he couldn't make it work with a woman his own age, how did he expect to make it with a *man* nearly 15 years his junior; his brother asking him if he knew what he was getting himself into... Jim had laughed at the question. "Jesus, Brad, you have no idea," he'd said, and even though he hadn't, Brad joined in Jim's laughter.

Jim remembered the perpetual look in Blair's eyes--the hurt and fear and...doubt. He thought of all the nights he'd spent just holding Blair, saying nothing, just holding him as tightly as he could, trying to physically pass on his certainty.

It had always reminded Jim of a favorite childhood story where a little prince was trying to tame a fox. The story stuck in Jim's mind so much during that time, that he'd gone to the trouble of finding the book at the university library and rereading it during one of his interminable waits for Blair.

"You must be very patient," replied the fox. First you will sit down at a little distance from me -like that-in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day..."

A surprised and somewhat amused Blair had found Jim leaning against one of the shelves, engrossed in the children's book. But he'd smiled and quietly waited for Jim to finish. Knowing Blair was standing there, Jim, without looking up, had read aloud,

"But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow."

Blair had covered his heart with his hands, like Jim had shot an arrow right through it. "Jim Ellison, closet romantic," he'd teased.

Remembering what they'd done next--in the children's literature section no less--made Jim smile sadly and lean his forehead against the cool glass window.

"You didn't believe at first," Jim said softly. "I had to convince you."

"And you did," Blair whispered back.

"If we do this your way, then I can't help you," Jim said brokenly. "I'm supposed to...to take care of you, protect you."

Blair shook his head and cast his eyes upward, glad Jim couldn't see the amusement on his face. "Jim, man, I make one, off-the- cuff remark about your being my Blessed Protector and you go totally off the deep end."

"What do you mean?" Jim asked.

Blair chuckled. "Jeez man, I'd just been held captive by some wacko serial killer, I'd spent the night totally freaked out, then we're sitting there at the station with everyone looking at me like they expect me to go nuts any second--I was just trying to...lighten the mood, you know? I sure as hell didn't expect you to, like, devote your life to me." Blair paused for effect. "Well, not your *entire* life anyway."

Jim sniffed loudly. "You don't have half as much an affect on me as you think," he lied. "I don't listen to most of what you say, Sandburg. Why would that be any different?"

Blair hugged Jim as hard as he could. "What have I told you about running with the big dogs," Blair scolded. "Don't even try it, Big Guy," he said. "Don't even try."

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."

Epilogue

Jim did not destroy the serum like he told Blair he would. It was taped to the underside of a crisper in the refrigerator, in a hermetically sealed pouch that guaranteed its core temperature, even if the electricity were to go out for up to 15 hours.

It was a security blanket to be sure. Jim knew he would not give it to Blair without his consent, but in his heart, he hoped that, should their straits turn dire enough, Blair would agree to take it.

He was trying to believe in Blair--the kid had enough confidence for the both of them. It surprised Jim how quickly Blair was able to put the whole serum debacle behind him. Here Jim had betrayed him more deeply than Blair imagined possible and yet, he seemed totally and completely over it.

Blair messed up the left-over system and Jim was still harping on it days later, but let Jim threaten to destroy every last shred of trust the kid had in him, and Blair shrugged it off in a few days.

It made Jim feel petty and ashamed. But it deepened his resolve to trust Blair and believe, as his guide believed, that health and happiness lay just beyond the next bend.

Of course, there was no way to gauge just how far away the next bend was. By the time the second month without chemo was drawing to a close, they were still struggling for remission.

The morning of Blair's weekly doctor's appointment, Jim dropped him off at the door of the doctor's office, offering yet again to come in with him. It was just a quick visit to go over the results of his last

blood test, so Blair said no. It was only supposed to take 15 minutes, and besides, Jim had a tendency to growl at the doctor if the results weren't what he wanted them to be.

With a good-natured shrug, Jim watched Blair walk into the doctor's office, then parked the truck. He thumbed through a magazine and thought about leaving to pick up a cup of coffee.

"Jim! Oh God, oh God, oh God. JIM!"

Down in the truck, Jim heard Blair scream his name, and he froze in abject terror. Had someone pulled a gun in the doctor's office? Christ, some psycho going postal? Jim bolted out of the truck and tore into the doctor's office, nearly running at full tilt right into Blair, who was running with just as much force toward him.

Jim reflexively opened his arms, more to ease their inevitable collision than anything else.

Blair catapulted into Jim, throwing his arms around Jim's neck and embracing him with a force that bordered on strangling.

Blair was trembling violently, whispering reverently into Jim's ear, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh Jim, oh God."

Jim couldn't begin to fathom what was wrong much less come up with any words that might help. He held Blair as tightly as he could, one hand cradling the back of his head. "I'm here," he said quietly, oblivious to the stares from everyone in the lobby. "I've got you. I'm here, Baby. I'm right here."

Blair pushed himself further into Jim's hold, forcing Jim backward until he was flush against a wall. Blair's breath was coming in choppy, uneven gasps, his body still shuddering as if someone was shaking him by his shoulders. His face was buried in Jim's neck, his eyes scrunched tightly shut.

It was real now. It was true. Here, in Jim's arms, he knew the words were true.

"Remission," he finally whispered. "I'm in remission."

If Jim hadn't been supported by the wall, he would have fallen to the ground. As it was, his knees nearly gave way. Blair felt him falter and tightened his hold, pushing Jim harder against the wall to help him stay upright.

"Oh God, oh Baby, oh shit! Yes! Yes!! YES!!!" Jim's words became louder and louder until Jim let out a whoop of joy, picking Blair up and spinning him in a circle. "Oh my God, yes!!" he shouted. "Yes!" He started laughing and shouting at once, planting kisses all over Blair's tear streaked face until he finally managed to capture his mouth, and then he kissed him, hard and deep, pouring every ounce of relief and apology and happiness he could into it.

Laughing with delight and hysteria, Blair let his head fall back. Jim released his lips and attacked his neck with gusto. He felt Blair's laughter bubbling upward from his throat.

"Jim!" he said, then, a little more forcefully. "Hey, Jim, man, remember where we are?"

"We're on top of the world, Blair!" Jim said breathlessly. He held Blair at arm's length, gingerly testing his arms and ribs, as if Blair had taken a fall and he needed to check for broken bones. "Remission?" he asked looking for confirmation in his lover's glistening blue eyes.

"Remission," Blair answered softly and felt, of all things, suddenly shy in the face of Jim's raw emotion. A slight flush crept up his cheeks and he hid his face in Jim's chest like a bashful toddler.

Jim's strong arms wrapped around him and he held tight, rocking them both a little. He kissed the top of Blair's head and a fierce shudder rocked his system. "Oh Jesus, Blair, thank you," he whispered, then tears started slipping down his cheeks. "God, I'm sorry," he choked out. "I didn't....I didn't trust you. I didn't believe..."

"It's over," Blair said firmly, his eyes shining at Jim. "I meant that, Jim. It's over. No guilt, no recriminations."

"Thank you," Jim said, reverently stroking Blair's face. "Oh God, Blair, thank you."

Blair smiled at his lover and though Jim knew it was impossible, he already looked heavier, healthier. "You're welcome, Big Guy," Blair teased. "It was nothin'."

The rest of the day would always be a blur to Jim. There was a long meeting with the doctor from which he retained nothing. Luckily she gave them pages and pages of written instructions. Then they raced home to begin the barrage of phone calls-to Naomi and Simon, the university, Blair's numerous friends, Jim's parents and the families of his brother and sister. Jim would not remember the details of that afternoon, but he would never forget the unmitigated joy they spread from coast to coast.

They must have eaten dinner and talked and laughed and danced around the room in celebration. They must have, for the first time in months, made plans that reached into the next month and the next and the next after that.

They must have done those things because it was dark outside by the time Jim settled Blair upstairs in bed. Blair would be tired for several more weeks, the doctor had warned, and they still had to be careful of infection and illness during that time period as well.

Blair was indeed tired and had sweetly indulged Jim when the older man insisted on tucking him in. "I think part of me is going to miss having you take care of me," Blair said demurely.

With a gentle smile, Jim kissed Blair's forehead. "I would have done it forever," he whispered. "Jesus, you have no idea how thrilled I am that you're better, but I would have taken care of you for the rest of my life if I had to."

Slipping his hand into Jim's, Blair squeezed hard and blinked back the tears in his eyes. "I know, Jim," he said in a choked voice. "But I like it a lot better when *I'm* taking care of *you.*"

Jim had smiled then, with that slightly startled, thoroughly delighted look he got on his face whenever Blair said something unexpected and wholly pleasing to him. "Me too," Jim had answered and leaned in close to softly nuzzle Blair's nose. "Me too."

Jim held Blair's hand until he fell asleep. Now and then he brushed his lips across Blair's forehead or brought the hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. He felt a swell of emotion, a tightness across his chest, but figured it would pass. Not only did it fail to pass, but it kept growing in intensity, until he gasped noisily for air.

Not wanting to disturb Blair, Jim slipped out of the loft and made his way downstairs. He still couldn't catch his breath. Fumbling with the remote, Jim turned the CD player on low and nervously paced up and down the living room, trying to calm down.

*Oh God, oh God, oh God,* the panicked words raced through his brain. He was as stunned as Blair would have been when the first coughing sob was wrenched from his body. Overwhelmed by the irrevocable tide of emotion, Jim stumbled onto the balcony.

Unable to catch his breath, Jim moaned, his knees suddenly without strength. He slipped down to the ground, the concrete cold against his ass and back. Gasping for air, Jim gave up trying to fight it and unleashed the torrent of tears.

Blair sat down on the top step and wrapped his arms around his knees. Part of him was hurt that Jim would not share this with him, but even as he acknowledged that hurt, he knew there was another part of him that would have nearly come undone by it. He was still too tired right now; too close to that rocky edge. Jim would have to carry them for now; be the one who held it all together. Later, soon even, he would reclaim that role.

And still Jim sobbed, his shoulders heaving, the music too low to drown out his ragged gasps for air.

Blair felt a familiar sense of wonder invading his bones, and he shivered from it. It always stunned him to see his stoic lover's release of pent up emotion, to see visible proof of the man's depth of feeling. As if he needed it anymore.

It was frightening to know what lengths Jim would go to for him, but also comforting. He had told his mother that he didn't think he'd ever been loved the way Jim loved him, but now he realized few people were. As potentially dangerous and daunting as it was, it was also wildly exhilarating. How many people had undeniable *proof* of their lover's devotion? How many people had a lover whose devotion was so... undeniable?

Rocking slightly to ward off the chill , Blair smiled at his wordplay, hugged himself tighter, and watched in fascination as Jim cried.

Jim knew Blair was watching him. Even as he cried, he'd continued to monitor Blair's heart. He didn't mind, knowing Blair was witnessing his breakdown. The kid had witnessed much worse from him in the last few months-this would hardly make a dent in his psyche. Blair had seen inside the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind and still, *still* chosen to stay with him. How many people were honored with that kind of commitment? How many people were lucky enough to receive that guarantee; to realize their lover knew how low they would sink and yet still be assured of their love? Of their forgiveness?

Jim's sobs had died down, though tears continue to stream down his cheeks. He rested his head back against the concrete wall and took a deep breath of the crisp night air. Images danced behind his closed eyes-half memory, half dream of the future. Camping in the mountain; Blair shouting with laughter as he chased him into a clean mountain lake; dancing in the darkened loft as candles flickered all around them; Blair lecturing in front of a class, so commanding and charismatic, the two of them talking, courting as Blair said, as they rode around in the truck, sharing amused looks behind Simon's back; Simon shouting, "Sandburg!" and Blair's eyes going wide as he said, "Yeah?" Jim pictured he and his lover in bed, sweaty and sated, panting with desire, and more often than not, spent laughter. Jim chuckled through his tears just imaging Blair's shining eyes as he laid on top of him, taunting him, teasing him. God how he had missed the laughter that had been a constant soundtrack to their lives.

Jim shivered, but enjoyed the pictures in his mind for awhile longer. Blair healthy. Oh God, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.....

Movement from inside shook Jim out of his reverie. He watched Blair come down the stairs, then stand at the door waiting for him to come inside. Jim rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and stood up. Through the door, they traded smiles.

Jim stepped through the door. Mindful of the night chill on his body, he winced when Blair embraced him, but warmth soon flooded his blood stream as he returned the hug.

"You can cry in front of me, you know," Blair said quietly.

Jim gave a soft snort of derisive amusement. "I feel like that's all I've been doing the last six months," he grumbled. "I want to be strong for you, Blair. Always."

Now Blair snorted, wryly lifting his eye at Jim. "You've lost it, man," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Everyone knows I'm the strong one." He grinned then, that maddening, adorable, bratty grin of his.

Jim couldn't help but smile back. "Oh yeah? Then what does that make me?"

"Easy, man," Blair said, laughter already tickling his throat. "You're the pretty one."

Jim smirked at the younger man, but said nothing as Blair sat down on the couch and stretched his legs out on the coffee table. "Come on, Big Guy," he said, patting his lap. "You know the drill."

Jim laughed as he spread out on the couch and laid his head in Blair's lap. "Mmm, but I want to make *you* feel better," he mumbled as Blair began to expertly rub his head.

Blair's laughter made Jim's head jump, but then Blair leaned down and kissed him with gentleness and love, his kiss promising far more than mere words could ever convey.

"Hey, haven't you heard, man?" Blair whispered. "When you feel good, *I* feel good."

Jim smiled, but couldn't spare a laugh. He recaptured Blair's mouth and began slowly, but insistently making promises of his own.