Archive of Our Own ^beta

Disclaimers: Standard, belongs to Pet Fly, no infringement intended.

Notes: This is the auction story Marnee and Ruth requested. I hope the owies were sufficient! And that the romance satisfies. Thank you very much for your letters!

Warnings: No one important dies. Wild sex. Minor owies (well, minor for me. I've discovered a real difficulty with hurting Blair, oddly enough). Sorry, Ruth! It was the best I could do.

For some reason, Phil Collins was rolling around in his head. Just another day in Paradise. Alone. Waiting for something exciting to happen, for someone exciting to come along. Again. Dr. Genevieve Benet had returned to Saint Germaine, after dumping him as gently as he ever had been, and who was he to argue that world peace and justice for the downtrodden shouldn't take precedence over love? Or even a nice hot grope in the front seat of a Corvair.

Life was funny, that way.

Since hooking up with Jim Ellison (and by extension, the Major Crimes Division of the Cascade Police Department) he couldn't say that life had been boring. But he could wonder, every once in awhile, if there would be something more for him somewhere down the road than falling for crime lords' daughters and untouchable human rights activists and unattainable cops.

Woah.

Back up.

He hadn't meant that. Hadn't meant to think it. Certainly wasn't gonna act on it. Besides the fact that he liked living at the loft and wasn't financially or emotionally ready to be looking for other quarters, there was the fact that Jim was about as clueless as asparagus when it came to sex. Women tended to confuse him, and Blair sometimes thought his roommate took them to bed just so he didn't have to try to figure them out. A guy with the hots for him was just as apt to get his clock cleaned clear into the middle of next month. And there was his dissertation to think about, and the not inconsiderable fact that Jim, much as he was able to keep a handle on his senses most of the time, still needed some fine tuning. Blair wasn't quite ready to give up and offer himself on the sacrificial altar of heterosexual shock just yet.

Maybe next year.

Sighing, flipping off the computer with one toe on the power bar, he stretched and felt every vertebra pop out, then back in to place. Enough brooding, enough sighing, and most definitely enough paperwork for one morning. Time to wander down along the Ave and see if there was anything new at GreenGrowers. He was almost out of echinacea, and completely out of goldenseal, not a good thing in Cascade in the winter. And who knew? Maybe Chandra would be working and he'd get lucky.

After all, if a guy couldn't scratch one itch, he could always scratch another. He grinned to himself, shouldered his backpack, kicked the door shut on his way out and headed into the weak watery light trying desperately to imitate a sunny day. By the time he made it to the herb shop, he was humming under his breath.

"Hey, Chan, how's it going?" he sang out as the bell over the door clanged behind him. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, his mind had processed both the lack of verbal response and the unnaturally still way his friend was standing. That's when he recognized the gun in the only other customer's fist.

Shit.

Two and a half years as a cop's ride along partner kicked into action.

"C'mon, man, you *so* do not want to do this. She'll give you any money she's got, right, Chan?" A frantic jerk of her head agreed. "See? It's cool. It's easy. No need to hurt anybody." He was edging closer as he spoke, trying to calm the jittery man and pull his attention away from the terrified clerk. "Just put the gun away, man, no need for it here, we can-"

Before he could finish the sentence or get close enough to try to disarm the robber, the door bell clanged again. With a muffled, "Fuck!" he dove for the man's gun arm as three young college students chattered their way in the door. The gunman panicked at the noisy intrusion, firing once directly into Chandra, her body jolting back with the force of the impact. Her choked off scream was drowned out by the screams of the two girls and one boy who now found themselves in the middle of an armed robbery. Blair was too busy fighting for his life to worry about it.

He didn't know what the guy was on, but from the strength of him he'd bank on PCP. He was just managing to keep the barrel away from his body, when the guy grabbed hold of his hair and yanked him into position in front of him like a human shield. Blair wasn't able to restrain the yelp of pain as he felt a clump of hair ripped from his scalp. The cold circle of the gun barrel jamming into the soft skin under his jaw cut off any further sound.

"Get the fuck outta my way!" the man screamed past his ear. Blair stared, wide eyed, tears starting from the corners of his eyes from the grip on his hair, as the man backed away, dragging him with him by his grip in Blair's hair. Blair threw his hands out in a shooing motion, hoping to at least convince the kids to escape. One of the girls did just that, ducking back out the door behind the cover of her friends. Blair tossed a brief prayer up to whatever gods might be listening that she didn't just run, that she'd go get help, and save Chandra before she bled to death. Then he and his captor were out the back door and into the narrow alley that connected the service entrances of the shops along that section of the Ave. The grip on his head finally eased and the gun stopped digging into his throat. Seizing what little chance he could, he ducked his head and kicked backward, lashing out, aiming for the man's groin.

He didn't connect. The gunman did. There was a sickening crack as the butt of the gun whacked him on the side of the skull, and the world went gray. Then the sky swung sideways, and his face hit something dirty and hard that smelled like greasy oil, before the gray faded to black and took the pain with it.

Chicken breast, alfalfa sprouts, red leaf lettuce, havarti cheese and hot mustard, with a side of apple chips. And the kid thought *he* ate weird shit. Jim Ellison spared a single disdainful glance for the inoffensive brown paper bag sitting on the passenger seat, a surprise 'thank you' he'd decided, spur of the moment, to take to the University and feed his partner. After all, Sandburg had missed a few meals on this latest case, and if not for some oddball stuff about hemp and body paint the kid had come up with (not to mention about half a ton of paperwork) Jim'd still be stuck behind the computer trying to figure out what the hell a five leafed plant, circles and dots on a girl's belly, and a corpse with its tongue cut out all had in common. He grinned with anticipation of the reaction Sandburg would have to Jim not only remembering his favorite lunch, but actually taking the time to bring it to him. Sandburg had a tendency to look about three years old when he was really happy -- bounce, beam and babble, that was his partner. A squeal on the radio snapped him back to attention.

Recognizing the code for a shooting and robbery in progress, less than six blocks from his own position, he reached for the handset with his right hand and cranked the wheel around with his left. Calling in his location and intent to pursue, he headed for the scene, a small shop a few blocks from Rainier University's main campus. Pulling the truck to a fast, safe stop next to the black and white on the scene, he dug out his badge and headed into the typical chaos of a crime scene.

Three steps into the shop he froze. Something didn't smell right.

Blood. He looked over at the crumpled form of a slender young woman behind the counter, scenting the scene automatically as Blair had taught him. No, not hers. Something different. Something more. Something ... familiar. His eyes focused in on a black and teal lump halfway between the back of the shop and the ruined counter.

A backpack. Sandburg's backpack.

Son of a bitch.

Turning abruptly, he caught one of the uniforms by the shoulder. "Were there any witnesses?" The woman nodded toward a boy and a girl, huddled together by the side of the shop, both staring with ghastly fascination at the corpse. He nodded his thanks to the uniform and headed for the couple.

"My name is Detective Ellison. The police woman tells me that you saw what happened here?" As soon as he got an affirming nod, he cut across their excited chatter about what they'd seen and asked bluntly, "Was there anyone else here? White male, about five nine, hundred and forty pounds, long curly brown hair?"

"Yes," the girl answered quickly, her voice shaking from stress. "The man who shot the girl behind the counter, he had Mr. Sandburg, I know him from school, I took one of his classes! The man had him by the hair and he dragged him out the back like a caveman or something. We couldn't do anything, he had a gun and he just shot that girl! Shot her and she wasn't even doing anything!"

Not taking time to deal with the incipient hysteria in the girl's voice, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket and hit quick dial button two. "Simon?" He didn't give his captain time to say anything, either. "Send Rafe or Brown out to Greengrowers, 13892 University Boulevard, to the murder scene there. There's a hostage. It was Sandburg. I'm going after them." Ignoring the spluttering protest in his ear, he cut the connection, snagged a different uniform and planted the man next to the two witnesses, one of whom was now crying (the boy) while the other was still babbling (the girl). "Look after these two. Another detective will be here shortly." Not giving him any time to respond either, Jim headed for the back door at a controlled run, nose up, eyes narrowed, every sense on alert, following the very faint trail of his Guide's smell ... his Guide's blood.

There was another scent, too, one made up of dirty automotive oil, pine, and some sort of fecal matter. Dog shit, probably. Jim didn't stop to identify the smells, just cataloged them and locked on them. When he was positive he had them down, he ran for his truck. Cranking the window down, Jim concentrated on the unique mixture of smells and started hunting. They were already fading. He didn't have a lot of time.

One little thing. He tried to do one little thing and some bozo freak gets in the way and screws it all to hell and back. Garsten muttered to himself as he pulled the feebly fighting bundle of denim and hair out of the back of his van. No gas money now. No food money now. Spent a whole damned week fishing around those stupid college kids looking for someplace easy, finally found a place and a time and a target, and did his damnedest to finally get one goddamned thing right and what happens?

Goddamned hippie freak. Now what the hell was he supposed to do with it? He tossed the bundle on the floor and stared at it in disgust. Couldn't even tell if it was a boy or a girl. Sheer frustration pulled at him, and he drew one heavy booted foot back and planted it midway up the bundle. The grunt was a baritone. The figure rolled over, instinctively covering its crotch. He stared at the flat chest, getting angrier and angrier. A boy. Figured. Couldn't even fuck this one for his trouble.

A sense of unfairness and aggravation hit him all at once, and landed on the focal point for his rage. Doing what he'd always done, running on instinct, he reached down, grabbed the bundle of boy by the front of his shirt, and started whaling the hell out of him.

It felt really good. Almost made up for screwing up his one attempt at getting himself some food money.

~~~

The world stopped jolting right about the time he regained full consciousness, but before he had a chance to gather his scrambled brains and put up any sort of a fight. Blair landed over something bony and broad, then the horizon tilted crazily and crashed to a halt as he was thrown on the floor. His stomach was revolting by this time, and he'd just taken a deep breath preparatory to losing his breakfast when a foot caught him squarely in the ribs. He lost the breath, would have screamed given half a chance, and did what any man in his situation would do -- rolled up in a ball and tried to cover his nuts.

It didn't help.

A fist the size of an Easter ham took hold of his shirtfront, hauled him to his feet, and shook him like a terrier shaking a rat. His head, already aching from the beating it had taken, threatened to explode, and his hands came up instinctively to try to fight back. After the first blow clipped his jaw, he gave up the concept of self defense and concentrated on covering up, just like Sweet Roy had taught him so long ago. He took a blow to the stomach that had him choking on acid and bagel bits, several to the ribs that had him gasping for air. All through the assault, the shaking never abated, he could never catch his breath, couldn't focus his eyes. He was vaguely aware that he was screaming something, 'Stop' he hoped. The psycho who was beating him was screaming, too, something about screw ups and god damn him, and now what was he supposed to do?

Blair had a few suggestions. Die topped the list. Let go and go away were up there in the top five, too.

All he could see was red, and his chest hurt, and he wasn't sure, but he was afraid he'd wet himself. And the crazy man never stopped. Finally he did something he hadn't done since he was a little kid. He pulled his knees up as far as he could go, letting all his weight fall on the man holding him up by the shirt, ducked his head, and bit the wrist that was holding him. In response, the crazy bastard screamed, swung him around, and literally threw him against the wall. He hit with a dull thud, and slid down, dazed and half conscious. Knowing it wouldn't do any good, but compelled to try, he rasped out, "JIM!" as loud as he could. Then he closed his eyes, dragged his arms over his head, and waited for the psycho to kill him.

~~~

Thankfully the truck, or van, or whatever it was that smelled like Sandburg and blood and oil, hadn't gone very far. He nearly went off the road several times driving the twelve miles he did go, before pulling up in front of a tiny ramshackle house in one of the poorer parts of Cascade. He heard the heartbeat before he rounded the corner onto the street.

Sandburg.

Scared half to death. Pulse jumping all over the map. Hurt. And being hurt, still.

He heard more than that unsteady beat. There was the congested whistle of air through a clogged nose and a throat tight with fear. The heavy, irregular thump of a fist on flesh, and he knew whose flesh was taking the beating. Cop instinct to come in silent warred with Sentinel instinct to rip whoever was hurting his Shaman into little bloody bits. A compromise was reached in the fastest, quietest approach he had ever made in his life. As he sliced through the bushes alongside the back of the house, he heard an odd shuffling noise, then something that sounded like a dog biting into a bone, then a scream of pain and rage, followed by a loud thump, and a muffled, pained "jim".

Fuck silence.

He went through the window in a diving roll, coming up directly into the tall frame of the man who smelled of oil, dog shit and Sandburg's fear. The figure fell back, and he saw the barrel of a gun raised in his direction. Showing superb reflexes, he dove to the side, drawing fire away from the hostage and narrowly avoiding taking a shot in the chest. His own gun came out and he returned fire, but his aim was off due to his awkward position half on his side behind a rickety overstuffed chair. Before he could sight again, the man disappeared. Poised to vault the chair and continue the chase, a small noise stopped him in his tracks.

"jim?" Then a muffled moan, then silence.

He changed directions again, this time heading toward his partner. Sandburg was a mess, bruises coming out along his face, his throat, what could be seen of his chest through the torn tee shirt. Blood was trickling over his forehead and matted in his hair. He even had blood on his mouth, although Jim couldn't see any wounds in that area. Maybe he'd bitten his lip when he was getting pounded on. Expertly checking limbs for breaks, assessing the wounds he could see, Jim laid a hand on Blair's throat as if to reassure himself that the pulse he was hearing was actually there.

Shaking his head at his own idiocy, he grabbed the cell phone out of his jacket again and punched the button for Simon. A quick description of the scene and request for back-up, no chance for further questions, and he disconnected and dialed 911. A terse explanation, succinct directions, and the promise of an ambulance later, he finally allowed himself time to relax. Gathering up his now unconscious partner, he rocked him gently, not even aware of his own actions.

Laying his cheek lightly against Blair's sticky, matted hair, he took a deep breath. "Hang in there, Chief. I've got you." This time.

~~~

Captain Simon Banks stared at his cell phone in disbelief for half a second before bellowing for Rafe and Brown. Twice in one day. Ellison was losing his marbles. Twice in one day he'd called up, yelled something incomprehensible (or nearly so) into the phone, barked something about Sandburg and hung up before Simon could get a word in edgewise. Sloppy, very sloppy. He was going to have to have a word with his best detective about that.

His second best team peered nervously around the corner at him. He barked the address of the shop at them, told them to get on it, and grabbed his coat. He was practically stepping on their heels as they headed toward the garage.

"You coming in on this one, sir?" Brown asked doubtfully. Simon shook his head no.

"Off to the hospital. The hostage they took at the store?" Rafe nodded, showing he, at least, had been listening to the barked briefing. Brown gave him a 'yes?' look. "It was Sandburg." Identical expressions of dismay stared up at him, and he sighed. "Ellison's at the hospital now. I'll let you know how the kid's doing as soon as I find out." And as soon as I kick Ellison's ass up around his ears, he thought but didn't say out loud.

"Thanks, Simon," Brown said softly. "Hate seeing Hairboy get hurt." Rafe nodded, and they parted ways at the parking garage.

"Yeah," Simon agreed softly, in the privacy of his car. "Me, too. And Jim's going to be a basket case. If he isn't already."

He used the lights *and* the siren on the way to the hospital.

Coming into Emergency, he wasn't surprised to hear a Jim Ellison-sized commotion coming from the nurses' station, although he wasn't expecting it to be Jim slamming the phone nearly through the countertop. Casting an apologetic glance at the nurses, shrugging as if to say 'what can one do with grown children?' he caught up to his detective.

"First things first, Jim. How's the kid?"

Haunted ice blue eyes stared up at him. "I don't *know*, Simon, they won't *tell* me."

A nurse with a daunting aura of authority around her said, not unkindly, "We don't know yet, Mr. Ellison. As soon as we know how your partner is doing, the doctor will inform you. Until then, please try to remain calm." Her tone made it clear as crystal she'd expect that when the moon turned blue. Simon sympathized.

Placing one hand under Jim's arm in what looked like a light touch but was in actuality a hold used to immobilize crazed junkies, he gracefully manhandled Ellison over to a bank of plastic chairs by the window. "Who was on the phone, Jim?" he asked mildly. "Or who *wasn't*?"

Jim growled in frustration. "Naomi! I can never find that woman! I swear, one of these days something really bad is going to happen to Blair and by the time I find her we'll have already scattered his ashes over the ocean!" Then he swallowed, turned green, and looked like he was going to throw up. Simon increased the pressure of his hold.

"Get a grip, Ellison," he ordered almost under his breath. As he'd hoped, the ex-soldier reacted well to the command tone. He still looked like he was going to fall over and puke, but at least it wasn't imminent. "Now, tell me what happened!"

Ellison recited the days events like an automaton, complete to the alfalfa sprouts and the smell of dog poop. Whatever one could say about the detective, he was damned good with the details. By the time he'd finished reporting, Simon had a clear picture of everything that had happened in the last three hours, and Jim was much steadier on his feet.

Then the doctor came through the door, and Jim nearly burned rubber making it over to her.

"Is he okay, doc? What's wrong with him?" Is he broken? Can you fix him? Simon was irresistibly reminded of Daryl and a Tonka truck he'd smashed to pieces as a small child. If he hadn't been so worried about the kid himself, he would have smiled. Instead, he simply stood behind Ellison and loomed quietly. It usually worked when interrogating criminals. It should work with members of the medical profession as well.

She didn't even notice. "Are you Captain Banks?" she asked Jim.

"No, I'm Detective Jim Ellison, Sandburg's partner. Is he okay?" He was crowding the woman now, and she stared up at him, not intimidated in the least.

"Well, Detective Ellison, your partner is a very lucky man. No broken bones, numerous contusions and abrasions, a bald patch where some scalp was torn and some hair was pulled out, and Mild Traumatic Brain Injury. Computed tomography, the initial MRI and routine neurological evaluations appear normal. We'll be doing an electroencephalogram later this evening and a second MRI tomorrow to make certain there's no permanent physical damage."

"Brain injury?" Their voices overlapped. She nodded.

"There is evidence of contusion of the frontal and temporal lobes, from the brain hitting the inside of the skull. He was shaken up quite a bit. His neck is strained. We'll be keeping him overnight to check for concussion, and as I said, we'll be running another MRI to look for any edema, hemorrhage or hematoma. He's awake now, if you'd like to see him for a few moments. And we're trying to keep him calm and quiet, so no more than ten minutes." She turned and headed back down the corridor, the two men trailing along in her wake. Jim was shaking ever so slightly, and Simon moved a fraction closer, uneasy at seeing the normally stoic man so off-balance.

When they entered the room, he understood Jim's shot nerves a little better. Sandburg looked like hell. His eyes were swollen, and blackened so that he looked like a scruffy raccoon. There was a huge bruise making one side of his jaw puff out, and his head and torso were wrapped in bandages. There was an IV in the back of one hand, a pulse clamp on the index finger of the other hand, and an oxygen tube wrapped around his face and stuffed up his nose. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with Tyson and barely escaped with all his body parts intact.

Just then, bleary blue eyes liberally shot through with red opened and gazed lazily around the room. They lit on the doctor, slid off her, took in Jim, slid off him, and landed on Simon.

"Hey, Cap'n," Sandburg slurred out. His bottom lip was swollen, looked like he'd been stung by a bee, and he couldn't talk very well. "How's't hangin'?" He sounded bizarrely cheerful considering the shape he was in. Must have been the drugs. At least he hoped so, although he wasn't sure patients with 'brain injuries' were *given* drugs. Simon opened his mouth to answer, wondering why the young man hadn't greeted Jim first, when Sandburg went on. "Who's the buff dude?" The eyes were frankly appreciative now, almost lecherous. Simon looked around to find out who the hell Sandburg was talking about, when a choked noise from Ellison alerted him.

He was talking about Jim.

Oh, fuck. *This* was not good.

Sandburg was looking very interested in his now cherry-red partner. Ellison looked like he was having a heart attack, his mouth hanging open, partial syllables tumbling out but no complete words. Simon got another death grip on his detective, smiled with utterly false cheer at the man in the bed, and yanked Ellison back out into the corridor. The doctor followed them, this time.

"Wha--, what--" Jim was sputtering, still not quite making sentences. Simon looked pleadingly at the doctor. She looked kindly at Ellison.

"Cognitive defects, such as traumatic and retrograde amnesia, are common among patients who have suffered brain injury of this sort," she said quietly. "Is it possible that Mr. Sandburg might associate you with any traumatic events, Detective?"

Jim stood there, mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out. Simon came to his rescue. "More probable than possible, doctor," he offered. Jim gave a strangled whimper and looked at Simon like his boss had betrayed him, then wandered off to stare out the window at the sun setting over Cascade. Simon raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and went to stand vigil with his friend.

This was not going to be an easy recovery.

Okay, so a tank came busting through his window and spoiled his fun. The threat was still there. And Mathew Garsten knew how to deal with threats. He'd been doing it his whole life.

Getting into the hospital was easy. Some flowers for cover, a sad look on his face, and he was in the door. Well, the door of the hospital, anyway.

The tank was at the door to the hippie's room.

All he needed was ten minutes. A little privacy. And a pillow. Surely the tank had to sleep sometime.

Yeah.

In a chair next to the hippie freak's bed.

Any time Mathew got too close, the tank would start sniffing the air like some kind of mutant hunting dog or something. He'd back away, the tank would un-tense, he'd wander closer, the tank would tense up again. It was like baiting a rabid pit bull.

Two days of playing tag with the tank without ever getting close enough to touch the little bastard who could identify him, and Mathew was forced to withdraw. Obviously the hippie hadn't talked yet or he'd be in jail already. Maybe he was lucky and had really messed the little punk up. He'd have to wait and see.

Mathew was very good at waiting.

He remembered other times in the hospital, most of them recent, but he couldn't remember why he'd been there. He remembered Captain Simon 'Taller than a Tree' Banks, Joel Taggart who brought him maple syrup candy, a good looking guy named Rif or Rafe or Rife or something, and Henry Brown-I-am-and-cute-besides, who smiled a lot. Every time he looked at the man who'd been identified to him as his partner, he popped a boner, but no memories sailed to the surface.

Two days of poking and prodding and taking pictures, blood and more pictures later, they let him escape.

Home with the Stud.

Only he had a sad feeling said Stud was not only straighter than a ruler, he was also feeling really guilty about whatever the hell it was that put Blair in the hospital. Which was not a good sign. If Studly had anything to do with him getting his head nearly knocked off his shoulders, he wasn't sure that hanging out with the Stud was a good idea.

Except he couldn't seem to convince his body of that.

Studly had his hands all over Blair. Constantly. It was like Blair's body was covered with rubber cement and the guy was cat hair, or Blair was one big magnet and Ellison was an iron filing. Zap-bingo, Blair breathed and Jim was touching him *somewhere*.

The mixed signals were driving him nuts.

The first evening, Jim had cooked dinner, cleaned the cleanest loft Blair had ever seen, even if he didn't remember it, and was now hovering around him like a mother hen with one chick. Blair growled up at him.

"Sit!" Damn, but it worked. Jim plopped down on the edge of the couch, poised for flight, but motionless for once. "Relax, man, I'm not going anywhere."

Jim's hands fluttered helplessly, once, then settled into his lap. Big crystal blue eyes stared at him, as if asking for help somehow, and he felt compelled to answer, even if he didn't have a clue what was being asked.

"It's okay, Jim," he said softly. "Whatever it is, just say it, please?"

His friend, or so he must be if they were living together, swallowed twice before he spoke. "I'm sorry about Chandra."

Blair flashed on a pretty young woman with brown hair and brown eyes, surrounded by wonderful smelling herbs. "What happened to Chan?" he asked, genuinely confused. The last time he'd seen her she'd been fine. Jim closed his eyes briefly as if in pain.

"You don't remember." It was a statement, not a question, and he didn't bother responding, just watched, waiting for further explanation. Jim obliged. "She was killed, Blair. I'm sorry. In the same robbery where you were taken prisoner. You tried to protect her, but the guy shot her before you had a chance to get the gun away from him."

Blair sat very still, trying to process this. Chan, dead? A robbery? None of this rang a bell. He took a deep breath. "Well. Shit." His head started to spin, and he put out a hand for balance. Jim instantly took it and held on tightly.

Another flash, this one frightening the hell out of him. A blond guy, no, a brunet, no, he was blond. Whatever he was, he was completely insane. A wheelchair, a wig, a yellow scarf. Water. A vile taste in his mouth, coating his tongue, making his head swim. Chains.

A shout, crashing wood. An incredible feeling of relief. Gunshots. Strong, gentle hands holding on to him.

The flash mutated, and he was floating this time, not swimming, Cold cement under his butt, head exploding in weird golden visions, fire all around him. Surrounded by cool strength, caught up against a steady wall, arms wrapped around his shoulders, head cradled against a pulse that anchored him, kept him from floating away.

Oh. So *that's* who Jim was. At least every once in awhile.

He squeezed the fingers holding his own, and released his grip. "Thanks, man. For telling me, I mean. She was a friend." He smiled unsteadily up into the worried face less than a foot from his own. "It's gonna be all right, Jim. I just ... need to process this, you know?"

Ellison nodded, let go of his hand with obvious reluctance, and settled back into the corner of the couch, still watching him like a hawk. With what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Blair got up from the couch, walked into his room, and pulled out his candles.

Big time meditation scene needed for this one.

Not so much for Chandra, although he would say goodbye to her and wish her a good journey wherever she might go. But there were other concerns in the here and now that had his head going around in circles. And he had to put the pieces together before they made him totally nuts.

Usually the soft chanting music and the dancing flames mesmerized him, put him into a different place, settled and centered him. They put him in another place that night, all right ... one he wasn't sure he wanted to go. Unbidden, memories came to him, all revolving around fire.

Standing at the feet of a beautiful Black woman, listening to words of justice and retribution as a streak of fire lit the sky and an oil barge on the Sound exploded. Peaceful, relaxed, laughing at a monkey, or was it an ape? With a bowl of popcorn in his lap and the comforting presence of Jim beside him, then a shouted warning, and hell broke over his head as his home exploded around him. Heat, and fear, and too many people caged with death hanging over them, crazed blue eyes boring into his, the earth rolling under his feet as a downtown office building was reduced to rubble in the name of liberty.

A place of worship become a killing ground, as bomb after bomb destroyed church after church. A madman with a jones for fire taking out warehouses, killing guards, nearly killing Jim, and a woman with him. The heat on his face, making his eyes water, squinting against the glare, heart in his throat at the sight of two figures weaving through the inferno toward him. The skin on his palms itching from contact with the hot material as he helped his partner from the middle of hell.

Another tiny place, too many people, free falling, only to jerk to a stop that made his teeth rattle. Fire, eating through the floor, under his control, the *only* thing under his control, then fire in the hole, as the explosion rocked the metal floor under his feet and singed the material along his back with the backlash. A creak, then running, watching helplessly, unable to leave, unable to do a damned thing but stare as the electronic scoreboard crashed two stories down onto the middle of the basketball court, barely missing half the damned Jags *and* the mascot.

His eyes popped back open, and he snuffed the candles hurriedly. Holy shit. Did everything Jim touch blow up? And was he always so fucking close? Gulping to get enough spit in his mouth to be able to speak, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

"Going ... " he coughed and tried again. "Goin' for a walk, Jim. Be back in a little bit."

He was out the door and on his way, trying to make some peace with his thoughts, never noticing that he had a shadow. Or two.

Finally! He'd known the little bastard had to come out sometime without the tank wrapped around him. Had to be a couple of queers, the way they were wrapped up in each other. Well, he was sorry for the tank, but the little playmate had to go. He knew too much.

Lining up the gun carefully, he aimed for the mop of brown hair and cocked the gun. Best chance he was gonna get, had to make the most of it ... He squeezed carefully.

The tank came out of nowhere and tackled the hippie, and the bullet missed, burying itself in the brick wall behind his target.

"Fuck!" he howled. The tank's head came up, and for a second he was sure he'd been spotted. Putting his head down, he ran like hell to his van, tossed the gun in the passenger seat and squealed the tires getting out of there.

Goddamned tank. He was gonna have to kill both of them now.

Jim hadn't liked the spooked look on Sandburg's face as he headed for the door at high speed. The kid looked like he'd just seen a whole family of ghosts and all of them were after him. His chest tightened at the thought that Blair's memories of him should be so traumatic, then pushed the thought aside in favor of immediate concerns. Sandburg shouldn't, and wouldn't, be allowed to roam the streets on his own. Even in the best of health, he was a trouble magnet. Half rattled, still shaken up from the kidnapping and moving at half speed from the bruises all over his body, he was a sitting duck.

He paced his friend, not wanting the younger man to feel too crowded, but still close enough to be able to help if, or make it when, trouble found Sandburg. Stalking along silently behind him, Jim mentally cataloged the stiffness in the walk, the unnaturally subdued bounce, the careful way Blair held his head. His arms were wrapped protectively around his ribcage, not to keep out the cold, but to minimize the jostling. His head was down, and he appeared to be counting the cracks in the sidewalk in front of his feet. Jim took a deep breath, cutting out everything but his partner. He didn't smell the acrid tinge of fear, but he could still smell the blood from the healing cuts, the liniment he'd rubbed into the knotted muscles of his back that afternoon at the hospital before Blair had been released, the medicinal salve on the torn scalp and absorbed into the bandages over the stitches in his shoulder and abdomen and along his hairline.

Cranking up the hearing a notch, he monitored Sandburg's heart rate. A little elevated, partly from exertion, considering his condition, but more than it should be. Adrenaline, maybe, from some memories? *More* trauma associated with being Jim Ellison's Guide? He inched nearer, answering his own need to be in close proximity, and it was a good thing he did, as he caught the one sound that was completely out of place in the middle of a peaceful afternoon in suburban Cascade.

A gun cocking.

Instincts kicked in, and Jim practically flew to Blair, knocking him to the ground, one hand under his head to cushion the impact, the other wrapped around his bruised ribs to keep from hurting them further, his full weight pushing the younger man down flat and his bulk covering him like a human shield. He heard the whine of a bullet cutting the air, close -- too close -- then the splinter of brick as it plowed into the wall right where Blair's chest had been.

He caught the scent, then, the one that had been at the crime scene, the smell of the son of a bitch who'd been beating on Sandburg when Jim found him. His head came up, and he caught the flash of movement down the block, but it was gone before he could react.

Even Blair heard the bellowed "Fuck!" that followed, and the sudden rev of an engine as a car peeled out.

Gradually he became aware of the heat rising from the body beneath his. Looking down, he saw huge azure eyes staring at him in what looked an awful lot like pure unadulterated lust. And he wasn't quite sure, but ... he shifted. Yeah. Nice hard-on, there, too. He blushed. Adrenaline would do that to guys. Hell, it had happened to him often enough. He didn't go into the reasons why he didn't make a move to get off his partner. It just felt too good to ruin it with thinking.

"Jim?" Sandburg's voice was really husky. Jim gulped.

"Yeah?" His own voice sounded like it was rusty.

"Think we should, I dunno, report this or something?" No humor, that he could hear, just a lot of confusion. Jim winced. Well, hell, of course they should. Where was his brain? Shifting to finally move off Sandburg, he was made vitally aware of his own erection, and *knew* where his brain had gone.

Wordlessly giving Blair a hand up, he pulled the cell phone out and hit the rapid dial button. Again.

By the time they made it home, Simon had arranged for a patrol to watch outside the loft when they were there, and Jim was on bodyguard duty. Brown and Jim had a long conversation about the murder/robbery at the shop, and Jim gathered Blair up and headed for the crime scene. Maybe being on the scene would stir something up in Sandburg's memory. Being shot at hadn't, at least, not that he was willing to share with Jim. And other than being put in jeopardy and watching ball games, there wasn't a whole heck of a lot more Jim could think of that they had done together that Blair *might* remember. It was a very depressing thought.

He knew he should respond to the little confused looks Sandburg kept shooting over at him, but for the life of him he didn't have an idea what he should say. Sorry? I'll keep you safe? That was a joke, and a bad one. I don't mean to put you in danger? Cascade really is the most dangerous city in America? Is your dissertation really worth what you take hanging around with me?

He didn't really want an answer to that last question. He was half afraid of what it would be. So he simply drove, parked, ushered his partner out at the scene, and clamped one hand down on Sandburg's shoulder. No way under the sun was he able to walk into the place where he'd nearly lost his partner and actually let go of the man.

Jim felt the muscles under his fingers tense, and looked down to see a very pale face staring around at the outline on the floor, the yellow tape, the bloodstains still visible on the wall. He squeezed as reassuringly as he could. "Help me through this one, Chief?" he asked quietly.

Blair looked at him like he was speaking Swahili. He licked his lips and tried again. "I use my senses to find out what happened. You keep me from zoning out on anything. Ring any bells?" He could almost see the light go on in those bright eyes.

"This sounds very familiar!" Sandburg chirped, and Jim barely restrained himself from clapping a hand over that distracting mouth.

The thought tripped him up for a second, then he shook it off and said, "Not so loud, Chief, it's a secret, remember?" Oh, good one, Ellison. Of *course* he doesn't remember. Before he could apologize, his partner piped up again, a fraction quieter this time.

"Yes!" He stared at the expression of intense concentration on Sandburg's face. The kid was remembering something, all right. Hopefully nothing to do with death and dismemberment. "The dials." Blair looked askance at him, and he nodded encouragingly. The look eased into surprised comprehension. "Shit, yeah, man, I remember the whole project. I just didn't remember that *you* were the center of it!"

Something inside Jim twisted at the artless confession. It hurt, inside, to think that Sandburg really didn't remember, didn't *want* to remember, their friendship. There really was more to it than gun fights and kidnappings and murder and peril. He stopped. Not a heck of a lot, on the surface, but it was all the stuff below the surface that made all the scary times worth the ride. He wished he had a way to explain that. Stuffing the thought back down with everything else he couldn't think about when he was trying to work, he concentrated on gathering evidence.

Two hours of sniffing, tasting, feeling and listening later, he had a massive headache, Blair was bouncing as much as a rubber ball wrapped in elastic bandages *could* bounce, and Rafe had enough forensic evidence to pin down somebody, eventually, as soon as they found the hound and the particular type of pine trees attached to a specific sort of needle. Jim just wanted to go home, drink several beers, and not think for ten hours or so.

Blair wanted to go back to the U and read up on some notes, get a handle on this whole Sentinel schtick.

Jim lost the toss. As usual.

Blair finally remembered Larry the Barbary Ape. This was because he was starting to share many of the same characteristics as his erstwhile lab subject.

He didn't eat alone. He didn't go to work alone. He had a new (older than the usual model) student in his classes. He practically had a second hand holding his dick when he peed. The only time he was alone in a room was when he was in bed, and if he so much as sneezed Jim was in the doorway.

It was starting to really piss him off. It was also turning him on something fierce.

He toyed with the idea of jerking off just to see what the reaction would be. Except he had a sneaking suspicion Jim would simply stand sentry in the doorway to make sure nobody took a potshot at him in extremis.

Not that it was all bad news. Jim was paying for the brake job on his classic Corvair since Jim, after all, was the one to smell the brake fluid from the cut lines. Somehow, it didn't seem completely fair that the man should have to literally pay for saving Blair's life, but considering the way Jim had bodily yanked him out of the car then proceeded to sniff all over it like a dog evaluating a fire hydrant right in front of pretty much every living member of the Anthro department, Blair couldn't find it in himself to bitch. Much.

And the police department was 'donating' the cost of a new office window after the Mad Robber (whoever the hell it was who was trying to kill Blair) had taken it out with a .22 rifle slug aimed at the student. Missed, of course, because the Sentinel had gotten him down in time by the simple expedient of rolling him up in a ball and stuffing him under the desk. For a moment, Blair drifted off into tactile memory.

Jim had been all over him like a second skin for two weeks, ever since the first attempt on his life. Big, long-fingered, strong hands wrapped around his arms, his head, his legs, and most memorably, as he was being crammed into the cubbyhole under his desk, all *over* his ass. That little incident had popped the lid on a few more repressed memories, too.

He'd been sitting there, grading papers, ignoring the snap-snap of pistachio shells as Jim indulged his oral fetish in the corner of the office. Staring at him. God. He could practically feel those eyes mapping his skin. He wasn't even certain if Jim knew he was doing it, but the effect was undeniable. He was half hard all the time, any more, from those eyes. He found himself drifting off, ignoring the everything-but-the-kitchen-sink attempt at an essay on the role of Mayan women in religious life (how many ways could a student spell 'sacrifice'?). The heat from that gaze had him thinking of icebergs, and snow, and cool mountain streams.

Which somehow propelled him into a fishing trip. Him, Simon, and Jim in waders. With automatic gunfire in the background. While he was busily trying to figure out why this *didn't* seem odd, he flashed on a wooded area, and water, lots of water. His head hurt, and he was scared shitless, and he was running, and Jim was ... holding him? He calmed, only to panic again as he was suddenly plummeting through the air, off the side of a cliff, into a river. Under, under, wet, scared, snarfing water, then snagged by a strong arm and pulled to shore, resting against the strength he knew would always be there in his partner.

He jumped off cliffs for this guy?

That really must be love.

For some reason, that thought made his heart rate go completely bonkers. Jim's head came up and the gaze sharpened, if that was humanly possible. His mouth dropped open, to explain something, even if he didn't have a clue what. Then Jim's head swung around toward the door, and that big body was moving toward him at full speed. He had time to duck, that was about all, before those long arms bundled him into a small ball, wrenched the chair out of the way and tucked him under the desk. Then rifle shot shattered the window in the door, and all Blair was aware of was long-fingered hands pressed up against him, one cupping his ass, the other circling the top of his thigh, and warm weight against his back, and hot breath against the side of his neck, and an ache in his groin that wasn't helped at all by being tied up like a pretzel.

A small noise brought him back to the present, and he looked across the couch to see a brightly blushing Jim valiantly ignoring the bulge in Blair's jeans. Blair looked down at his own lap, and nearly jumped as he suddenly saw a lizard. Not literally, of course, but he had a very vivid impression of digging a lizard out of his pants.

When the hell had he had a lizard down his pants? And *why*, for god's sake?

Looking up again, and over at Jim, all set to ask him no matter how totally embarrassing it might be, he stopped dead. More memories were coming back. Lush, verdant forest, striking mountains, blood, pain, smoke, fear, quiet peace beside a camp fire. The jungle. The night sounds of animals chittering in the branches of trees and burrowing through the undergrowth all around them. Gripping the arm of a dark haired man with bright, dying eyes and red streaks on his face and his chest, some paint, some blood. An infusion of energy and purpose sweeping through his veins, complimenting the sheer unadulterated terror at the thought of a future with no guideposts to guide the Guide. Aboriginal drums pounding in his ears, fingers bruising his forearm, and the sensation of falling, cartwheeling through space, screams ripping from his throat, feeling like they were coming from his toes.

He jumped out of *planes* for this man? What the flying fuck was up with that?

By now Jim had reacted to his unspoken distress by moving until he was practically in Blair's lap, hovering over him, hands lighting on his shoulder, his thigh, his hand, his hair. Blair didn't know whether to pull Jim's gun on his partner and put them both out of their misery or jump him, rip off his clothes, and fuck him through the couch. Either course of action had its own appeal.

"I gotta get outta here, man," he finally managed, tearing himself away from his hovering partner before he gave into either temptation and heading for the door. Jim beat him there.

"I'll get the jackets. It's cold out there."

Blair freaked.

Sandburg had been antsy all day. Not that Jim could blame him -- after all, some nutcase was trying his best to kill the kid and they still had no idea who it was. Rafe wasn't getting very far on the investigation, even with the leads Ellison had given him. So he waited, and watched Sandburg, and tried to look every direction at once, hear everything, smell everything, practically tasting the air like a snake to keep any possible harm from his partner.

Whatever invisible string there was between them was thickening. Pulling them together, or at least reeling him in. Sandburg seemed pretty unfazed by the whole thing. Except ... every once in awhile he looked over at Jim as if he was seeing him for the first time. He'd get these really odd looks on his face, puzzlement, concentration, appalled fascination, nausea, dizziness, disbelief, then back with the puzzlement again.

And he kept getting hard. Leaking pheremones like crazy.

It was very distracting.

Jim was having too hard a time keeping all his senses on hyper-alert twenty four/seven to worry about why it was so distracting. He just knew it was.

Then the kid did something really weird. He popped a woody, stared at it like he didn't have a clue what it was, looked at Jim like he was going to ask *him* what it was, stopped with his mouth hanging open like the village idiot, blushed like crazy and headed for the door. The whole time, Jim's senses were tipping sidewise trying to find out what the holy hell was bugging his partner so badly. Had he remembered something? Was he in pain? Was it his head? His ribs? His pulse was off the scale, he was sweating, he was even shaking. Jim didn't know which question to ask first, so he didn't ask any, just reaching out both literally and with his senses to try to figure out what was wrong with his Guide.

Then Sandburg made the absolutely ridiculous pronouncement that he was going for a walk.

Yeah. Right. With a crazed psycho murdering scumbag out there just waiting for a clear shot.

But Jim didn't argue. He simply gathered up their jackets and offered to go with his obviously over-stressed partner, willing to throw his body between any harm that might be aimed at his partner and the oblivious young man.

And Blair threw a tantrum.

"I *so* do not need a damned babysitter, man! I'm almost thirty years old. I've been walking for a long time, I've been looking after myself just about as long as I've been walking, and I'm not a complete idiot, nor am I completely helpless, and I swear to god, Jim, if you do *not* fucking well back off I am gonna *shoot* you! Enough is enough, man, and you are *suffocating* me!"

He didn't hear all the words. Just the tone, battering at his dialed-up hearing, every nuance of frustration, rage and decision telling him only one thing.

He had failed. Again. His Guide had taken enough, had been punished enough for being part of his miserable life, and he was leaving Jim alone. *Every* sense he had went haywire at the thought. Lost. Abandoned. Alone.

No fucking way.

Something snapped, something that had been prowling around in his head and in his gut since he'd walked into that shop and found nothing left but a backpack and some blood. Something that had clicked into place when Lash had first threatened to take his Guide from him, that had broken free when the Golden had nearly poisoned his Guide and taken him away for good. Something that growled and snarled any time Blair was threatened, something with no mind, no coherence, simply decision and possession and desperate craving need.

Jim had no idea that he dropped the jackets. Moved toward Blair, caught him up against him, walked him across the narrow expanse of floor and pinned him down against the couch. He was making a strange little noise with every exhalation, a weird cross between a growl and a whimper. His instincts had taken over. Not all of them were centered in himself.

He listened for every heartbeat, measured them with his own. Heard a muffled 'ouch' when his fingers pressed too hard on a bruise, and shifted until there was no pain. His entire body surrounded Blair's, not that he really understood that. All there was in his world was scent and sound and taste and the feel of the hard muscle and soft skin under his hands, his chest, his groin, his legs. Spice and apples in the darkness under his mouth, a tongue pushing against his, and he devoured that, too, sliding along and under, suckling on it until it pushed back.

There were hands at his shoulders, pushing him away, pulling him forward, he didn't know and didn't care. There was cloth under his hands, ripping, catching, giving way, tossed and gone from his attention. Shoes, over the side, a crash, maybe a lamp, what was left of his conscious mind noted before giving up and going under. Then simply skin, tasting of sweat and faintly of liniment, mint and aloe. Soft swirls of hair, the softer still crinkle of a nipple. Wet satin of Blair's erection, licking along the slit, greedy for the sweet salt there.

The body under his hand was thrashing, and there were sounds coming from above his head, but they made no sense to him. He pinned the torso down with one hand, licking the groin below his face thoroughly, nudging aside the cock slapping against his cheek to find other scents, other tastes. His hand slipped between the tensed thighs, tilted and parted them, and he rooted further back. The sounds increased, a note of desperation in them, joining the wild high note keening through his own veins.

His hands turned, flipping his prey over, pinning him down with one hand flat in the small of the back. The other hand returned to his feast, parting the heavy muscled cheeks and diving between, licking and prodding everything he could reach. The writhing was strong enough to distract him now, and he rose above the prone body, replacing tongue and fingers with his own erection, easing the ache in the hot clench of muscle. One hand wrapped around the bony protrusion of hip below him, slapping that sweet warmth against him, the other slid around the sturdy waist to explore up the length of soft hair on the sternum, spreading over the frantically beating heart, covering it as his body covered the length of Blair's back.

Time disappeared in a swirl of color and heat, musk and sweat rising until he was high on it, tasting the moans and broken mutterings from the face buried in the arm of the couch, every nerve ending in his body concentrating on the clenching around his cock. He eased forward, raising Blair away from the sofa onto his knees, burying himself as far in that restless heat as he could go, wanting to climb in completely and never come out. Never wanting to stop, wanting to do this forever, connected like this for the rest of his life, their lives, never lose him, never let him go, never let anyone else near him ever again.

He wasn't expecting the orgasm, either his own or Blair's. So wrapped up in the act itself, in the incredible sensations pulsing through his cock to his balls to the base of his spine to the crown of his head to the soles of his feet to the ends of his fingers, when the tunnel around him spasmed it shattered reality and pulled his soul out of his body. He was dimly aware of wet heat splashing the back of his hand where it was splayed across Blair's heart, but everything else was liquefied, molten bones and flesh and muscle dissolving into a pure red haze of heat.

"Sweet Jesus, Jim, what the fuck are you doing?"

It took three times playing the words over in what was left of his mind before he realized what Blair had said. Twice before he realized Blair *had* said anything. Four times before the guilt hit. What had he done? Oh, not much. Just raped his best friend.

No, nobody else had to drive his Guide away from him. He could do it all on his own.

The world collapsed around him again, but there was no light, and no heat, in the gray shell where he retreated. Nothing, no one. A hell of his own making. No colors, no comfort, no words.

He couldn't even say he was sorry.

He'd wanted to escape. Walk away before he jumped his partner's bones and shocked him to death.

Look who got the shock?

Blair found himself grinning into the side of the cushion, yanked up against Jim's body, licked all over like an ice cream cone on the hottest day in July, and nailed so hard and so deep he could feel the aftershocks in the tips of his toes. He couldn't say yes, no, maybe, or even fuck me harder; all he could manage was the occasional scream and a hell of a lot of moaning and groaning. Didn't seem to slow the big guy (and he sure as hell earned that moniker) down a bit. Every fading bruise disappeared, the nagging headache he hadn't been able to shake for two weeks was gone like dandelion fluff in a windstorm, and he felt more relaxed than he had in ages. He'd come so hard he'd nearly given himself a nosebleed.

Then he realized three things simultaneously. One, Jim was lying over his back like a grizzly who'd been shot through the heart. Two, he finally remembered everything *and* knew why he'd forgotten the most important thing. And three, nobody was saying anything. Half giddy with relief and satiation, he asked, grinning like a madman, "Sweet Jesus, Jim, what the fuck are you doing?" Like he didn't know. Like he didn't appreciate every hot, pounding, intensely mind-blowing second of it.

Without a word, with very little care, in fact, his warmly stuffed ass was suddenly un-stuffed. Jim undraped himself and flew back to huddle in the corner of the couch. Blair felt suddenly cold and abandoned. Not liking the feeling, he twisted around to peer at his partner over his shoulder.

Jim looked like somebody'd just wrecked his truck. And torn down the last Wonderburger stand.

It hadn't been *that* bad, had it? Blair'd thought it had been pretty, well, fantastic, actually. He looked closer.

Uh oh. Zone. "Was it something I said?" he asked tentatively. No response. Okay. Deep zone. He sighed, winced, wriggled and unceremoniously wiped his leaking butt on the cushion. They could clean it up later. He had more important things on his mind. Like getting his Sentinel out of a zone the size of the Grand Canyon, for starters, and figuring out what the hell had triggered it, for afters. He most certainly didn't want Jim to zone every time they made love. If he had his way, that would be often, and it couldn't be healthy for Jim to zone out five times a day.

Scuttling closer, he tried sitting next to the utterly immobile Sentinel and talking to him. Low voiced. Command voiced. Guide voiced. Whining voice. Demanding, pleading, cajoling, seducing, screeching, whispering voices.

No go.

Staring at Jim in frustration and not a little fear, not liking the increasing coolness of the skin beneath his hands, Blair stared down at his naked self, stared over at Jim's naked self, and thought, what the hell. It's not like either of us are virgins. And since this got him into it ... maybe it'll get him out of it.

Abandoning all pretense of objectivity, he crawled into Jim's lap and began licking and kissing every inch of his face. In between licks, and nibbles, and pecks, he talked. Continuously. "You know, of course, that I love you. This can't come as a surprise." He paused to make a nice meal of Jim's jaw, up to his earlobe, then down along the side of his neck. Tasty. "I finally figured out why I couldn't remember you. Wasn't anything outside that had happened to either one of us, man. It *was* us." A playful nip at the end of Jim's nose. Was that a glimmer of light in those frozen eyes? He sure as hell hoped so.

"Listen up, Jim, 'cause this is important, and you gotta hear it. Thought I didn't have a chance, but I've been wanting you, like this, you know, making-love-like wanting, forever, feels like. Didn't think it was your scene." Another pause, this time to spend some time along those cheekbones, a whisper kiss along the line of his eyebrow, back down the temple and over to the other ear. *Very* tasty.

"I'm not really sure I even admitted it to myself, but it was there, you know? Unrequited love really sucks. But I guess, now, it's requited after all, hm?" He wriggled around on Jim's lap, getting comfortable, straddling his thighs and pressing his renewing erection into the hard muscled ridges of Jim's abdomen. "At least you want me. Maybe if I play it right you can love me, too?"

"Not playing, Blair," came the strangled reply, and Blair pulled back just long enough to look hard into Jim's face. Yes! He was back. A huge grin split his face, and he leaned forward and kissed Jim as hard as he could. Strong hands caught his shoulders and pushed him away, holding them a good foot apart. Blair froze. Maybe he'd misread it after all?

Although, come to think of it, how the hell could he misread something as obvious as getting the stuffing fucked out of him? He stared at Jim, confused.

"I'm sorry, Chief."

Don't do this to me, Ellison. "Why?" Don't you fucking well *do* this to me. Don't dangle paradise in front of my face then tell me it was a mistake.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. Ever."

Oh, was that all. He opened his mouth to make a flip reply and saw the genuine anguish in those incredible crystal blue eyes staring back at him. He shut his mouth, swallowed, thought fast, and tried again. "You didn't." One big hand cupped his buttock, fitting perfectly into the fingertip bruises that were already coming up on the creamy skin. "No more than I can take, Jim, than I *wanted* to take." He could see it wasn't getting through. He could practically see the walls going up, brick by brick. Taking Jim's face between his hands, he leaned forward and feathered kisses all over his mouth and jaw. "Make it up to me, then, man. Don't close up. Make it better." Like it could get any better.

"How?" The resistance was still there, but it was melting. There was a chink in the wall. Blair set about turning the chink into an irreparable breach.

"Do it all over again. My way, this time, Jim. Do me my way." A quizzical look, rewarded by Blair brushing kisses over Jim's eyelids, closing those disbelieving eyes. More kisses, Blair's fingers cupping Jim's skull, massaging the tension away. Kneading down Jim's nape, onto his shoulders, all the while kissing and licking again, bathing his face, his neck, the hollow at the base of his throat. Moving against him, never still, transmuting his signature energy into a full body seduction. Tensing and relaxing his legs, circling his ass over Jim's awakening erection, rubbing his own cock into Jim's belly. Teasing the peaked nipples on Jim's nearly hairless chest with the soft mat of curls on his own. Angling his head to dust Jim's shoulders, then across his face with his long hair.

In very short order, if Jim had any objections, Blair couldn't find them. Apparently, neither could Jim. Still stretched and wet from their first wild mating, it was no effort at all for Blair to rise up, center Jim with one hand, and settle down onto Jim's full length.

Jim howled. Blair grinned, and moaned, then started his own unique version of a lap dance. The howl crested, broke, and started all over again.

Blair took his time. The edge was off, for both of them, and he took full advantage of the fact. In counterpoint to his hips' movement, burying, half-releasing, then swallowing Jim again, his hands stroked everywhere, and his mouth ate everything his hands didn't reach. He was whimpering softly, continuously, just under his breath, drowned out by Jim's guttural howling, and it felt as if there was only one person on the couch, one circle of flesh, one soul in one writhing body, loving itself, completing itself, finding itself and burrowing into itself.

When climax came it took Jim first this time, and he arched up as far as he could under Blair's weight. Obligingly, Blair rolled his pelvis and pushed down as hard as he could, one hand finally dropping to his erection. As Jim shot into him, he pushed himself against that hard stomach, pulling and rubbing frantically, until he came as well, straining back into Jim's shaking arms, then falling against Jim's chest. One of Jim's hands slid up his sweating back to tangle in his hair, cupping his skull and drawing him forward. Blair opened his mouth, shut his eyes, and kissed Jim back as deeply as he was being kissed. He was starting to black out when Jim finally released him.

They sat there for a what felt like not nearly long enough before Jim softened and slipped out of him. Blair gave a muffled groan of protest, and Jim kissed him again, lingering over his mouth. It almost made up for the emptiness inside. Funny. He hadn't been taken that way for years, and hadn't particularly liked it then. But now that it was Jim, he felt like he could do this forever and never get tired of it. A sudden mental image of them walking into the bullpen with Jim buried to the hilt up his ass hit him, and he got the giggles. Jim released him just far enough to give him a puzzled look. So he shared the thought. After a good three seconds of looking horrified (and more than a bit intrigued) Jim cracked up.

"You're insane. I love you." Solemn words, spoken softly as they sat, forehead to forehead, arms wrapped around one another.

"I know," Blair agreed equally as solemnly.

"Which?" Unholy laughter in those bright eyes, now. Blair beamed at him.

"Both." Before Jim could think of a follow-up, the door shattered and a spray of gunfire filled the room. Blair found himself tossed up off Jim's nice warm lap and over behind the sofa, not a hell of a lot of protection against a semi-automatic weapon, but better than nothing. Jim reached for the (naked) small of his back. A man entered the doorway, gun raised for a second assault. Jim made a noise unlike anything Blair had ever heard, something wild and fierce. The next move he made was one Blair would swear to under oath, after the fact, and still not quite believe he'd seen.

Laughter, heat, and connection. A strange trio to think of when he thought of Blair, but he knew that was precisely what would always come to mind. He was trying to think of something, anything, to say that would make Blair understand, wondering if he even needed to try, since his partner was so damned good at reading his mind anyway, when all hell broke loose.

He smelled it before the man opened fire. That instant of warning, the instinctive perimeter guard he always had now where Blair was concerned, was all he needed to get his Guide behind the couch, out of the direct line of fire. After that, things seemed to move at one quarter time.

His gun was across the room, not in the small of his back in his belt holster like it usually was, of course, since he'd been making love to his partner, not his usual activity, although that would change. In order for it to change, this threat, this son of a bitch who was stupid enough to try to take his Guide from him, would have to be removed. He scanned the room in a millisecond, every neuron firing and every nerve singing. His weapon was a splinter of wood from what had been the coffee table, sheared off by gunfire, eight inches long and two inches around, pointed at the end. He swept it up, drew it back, and threw it like a hunting knife the way he'd been taught, first by the army, then more thoroughly by the Chopec. His sight arrowed in and his aim followed its path, directly across the six feet between himself and his target, through the soft tissue at the top of his throat and out the back at the base of his skull. Cut his throat and severed his spine at the same time. Then Jim dropped over Blair, covering him as the last spasmodic jerk of the dead man's finger on the trigger loosed another wild round. It came to a halt with the end of the barrel pointed at the wall, round after round going into the plaster and burying itself in the frame.

Jim calmly lifted himself off Blair, checked him quickly for any injury, then hopped over the couch and wrenched the corpse's hand from the firing mechanism. Looking up as a new figure barreled into the doorframe, he tagged the newcomer as a friend and checked to make sure his kill was, indeed, dead.

The threat to his Guide was terminated. Stupid son of a bitch should have known better than make Sandburg his target.

It had gone down so fast the uniforms in the patrol car hadn't seen a thing. If Rafe hadn't been on his way upstairs to go over some photos of suspects with Ellison and Sandburg at the time, *he* wouldn't have had an idea what was going down. As it was, he was almost too late even being in the building when it happened.

He heard the gunfire, then the weirdest sound, like the scream of some big jungle cat or something from a Tarzan movie, then nothing. Rounding the corner on the third floor, he pounded up to ruins of Ellison's door, and skidded to a stop.

Mercy. Lord have mercy.

Ellison was crouched over a dead body. The guy looked familiar, and one corner of his mind linked him with one Mathew Garsten, a drifter seen in the area of the Ave on the day of the murder/robbery attempt at the herb shop. The other ninety eight per cent of his mind wondered where the hell Ellison had gotten those love bites all over his body, how a guy managed to get that much semen all over him, if Ellison knew he smelled like an all nighter in a whorehouse, and why the other detective should suddenly remind him of a tiger that hadn't been fed in a very long time.

Sandburg answered all the questions except maybe the last. Given the protective way Ellison moved in front of Sandburg, even with Rafe, he had a good idea that even *that* question was wrapped up in the kid.

Besides. Blair had even more come on him than Ellison did. Holy shit. His mouth opened, closed, opened, and closed again. What to say?

Sandburg calmly moved up beside Ellison, pointedly ignoring the corpse, and began to examine a long, shallow wound along the side of Jim's ribcage. Looked like a bullet had taken a slice out of him. Starting at the sound of pounding feet coming up the stairs, Rafe swung around, blocking the view inside the loft from the curious eyes of the uniforms.

"This one's secure, you guys search the premises on the other floors and around the building for anyone else carrying a fucking Uzi that nobody saw come in!" he barked, neatly turning responsibility for the whole mess onto the other cops for not seeing and preventing this, and diverting them from making a truly noteworthy discovery in the form of a detective and his partner who'd obviously been interrupted in the middle of something other than a hot game of Scrabble. Gathering his thoughts, he cleared his throat and glanced nervously back over his shoulder.

"You guys might wanna clean up some before the rest of the cavalry gets here. You know, like, clothes, maybe?" He deliberately looked at the corpse, not at his friends. Ellison sort of snarled at him, making him jump slightly, but Blair said, softly, "Thanks, man!" and went up the stairs at the back of the loft, carefully avoiding shattered glass and wood splinters with his bare feet.

He nodded, then stepped back into the hall, not watching them dress, keeping an eye out for what he figured should be long enough for them to get decent before calling in the crew. Flipping his cell phone shut, he stepped further into the hall and took a deep breath. He was *not* going to think about it. *Not* going to think about Ellison and Sandburg. *Not* going to think about them, together, making love, moving against each other, doing all the things they'd have to do to get as messy and as wet and as covered in spunk as they'd been. Not to mention all those ... marks. And he most *certainly* was not going to think of joining them.

Good lord, no, of course not. He swallowed, surprised to find his mouth was so dry, and shifted, not surprised to find he was hard as a rock. He grinned, almost against his will. Sexy bastards. Under his breath, he whispered, "About time you guys figured it out. Good luck. You're gonna need it." Shaking off both his unwanted arousal and his distraction, he clattered down the stairs to meet the ME and the forensics team and lead them upstairs.

~~~

Fussing around Jim now as his partner had been fussing around him for the last two weeks, holding a bandage against the seeping wound on his side, zipping and tucking and wiping him up, Blair was startled to see a wide grin split Jim's face. He looked a question up at his Sentinel.

Jim just shook his head, and said quietly, "We don't need luck. We've got each other."

Blair was utterly confused. Jim reached down and kissed the end of his nose. Going nearly cross-eyed trying to track his movements, Blair was just about to demand an explanation when a rattle of equipment and the stomp of feet at the door announced the arrival of the crime scene team. Contenting himself with a quick squeeze of Jim's hand and a promise to himself to ask his partner later what the hell he'd been talking about, Blair resolutely pushed Jim over to the paramedics following the forensics team in, pointing out the bleeding bullet-graze.

There was plenty of time to explore what all this meant, now that he wasn't a moving target for a psycho murdering would-be robber. And now that Blair knew he wasn't alone in his need. He shifted, felt the dampness along his thighs, the slight sting of love bites along his back and shoulders, and the still-stretched muscle, and grinned to himself.

All the time in the world to jump off cliffs and out of airplanes, as long as they were moving targets together.

~~~

finis

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