Chapter Text
Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.
Loving You Less Than Life II
By Kadru
Author's homepage: http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html
Okay, so here's part II of "Loving You Less Than Life." Thanks to everyone who offered me so much encouragement to keep going! This second part could use some more polish, I know, but I realized the other day that I posted the first part on Easter, and well, today is Mother's Day, so what the heck!? Let's keep up with the tradition. Here it comes!
But I have to begin by saying that I have three of the best beta-readers anyone could ever possibly hope for -- Ozymandius, Rie Natalenko and Russet McMillan. They did such a great job and put so much into the development of this piece that I certainly dedicate this to them. Russ helped tremendously in the development with the fed agent's characters and in suggesting certain scenes. Rie did a fabulous job helping me with the character development of Ian and Catherine and with a lot of the dialogue. And Ozy is a Queen of Error-catching! However, they found so much stuff that I'm certain I might have missed a few corrections. When you see a mess-up, "it tweren't their fault!" They are wonderful! Thanks, guys!!!
Disclaimers: I make no financial claims to Jim, Blair, Simon, Ryf, Naomi, yada yada because they're owned by UPN and Pet Fly. Please don't sue. I'm just taking them out to play with. I will put them back where I found them, just as I hope UPN does the same. (hint hint). Tracy Chapman's lyrics belong to her, and Nina Simone's lyrics belong to whomever owns them. Ian and Catherine belong to me. Dale and Moira were inspired by Russ. One particular scene was inspired by an certain Audrey Hepburn movie, but hey, that one I'm claiming as an "influence."
Summary: Jim finally admits to himself that he's ready to begin a relationship with Blair, but as a serial killer prowls the streets of Cascade, has he waited too long?
Warnings: NC-17. Explicit sex, extreme violence and language. Death scene of a minor character. No pink ostriches. :-) To any Emily Dickinson fans, I apologize up front. For those of you living in Massachusetts, that sound you hear is Emily's poor body spinning in her grave so rapidly that's she's built up centrifugal force.
Loving You Less Than Life II -- part one
By Kadru
"Hey, Chief, look what I just got!" Jim said as he shouldered the heavy wooden Indian into the loft.
Blair took one look at it and closed his eyes.
"So what do you think?"
"Jim, that's a cigar store Indian."
"Chief, you have an intellect matched only by garden tools."
"Oh, yeah? Well, you have a room-temperature IQ. Jim, that thing is like so offensive."
"What do you mean? It's not offensive."
"It is, Jim. It's a ridiculous caricature of Native Americans."
Jim stared at Blair with a frown and one eyebrow raised. "Come on, Chief, you can do better than that."
"Yeah, I certainly can. What if I got a concrete lawn jockey? We could paint his face black with a white circle around his lips, maybe even get a wooden slice of watermelon for him to hold?"
Jim rolled his eyes. "A wooden Indian isn't that bad. It's not like we made them slaves or anything."
"That we can debate later. As it is, this one's dressed up like few Native Americans were ever dressed, hoping to sell tobacco to the white man like a begging servant."
"Chief, you really are pushing it."
"Well, just don't put that thing in my part of the house."
"And that would be . . . your bedroom?"
Blair didn't answer. He stood with his mouth open before turning around and returning to the couch. Blair hoped that Jim wouldn't notice how much that really stung. They had been stepping lightly around each other for months now, after Jack, Blair's first male lover, had been killed by an assassin who mistook him for Jim. Blair sat down at the end of the couch and hid behind a book. He didn't notice any of the black letters, as his mind was miles away.
Jim rubbed his eyes with his fingers. If he could have reached into the air and taken back the words, he would have. Shaking his head, he walked into the kitchen.
When Blair thought Jim wasn't looking, he peered over at his friend making himself dinner. Lately Blair tried to hide his sadness around his partner. One, Jim blamed himself for Jack's death. And two, Jim would get just as depressed, knowing there was nothing he could do for Blair to change that. /Good. Jim doesn't seem to notice./
But in the kitchen, Jim noticed. He could hear the change in heartbeat and breathing. After Jack's death, Jim had tried to be there for Blair. He felt so responsible. Yet, at the same time, he felt so cheated. He wanted Blair, but by the time he had realized that, Blair had begun to see Jack. /If only I had said something sooner./
He returned to the sofa with a sandwich. "Blair?"
Jim's voice was so tender that Blair's heart squeezed tight. "Yeah?"
"If the wooden Indian really bothers you . . . I can get rid of it."
"It is offensive, Jim."
"But I've always wanted one. Since I was a little kid."
Blair wondered if Jim really knew how childlike he really was at heart. He had always accused Blair of being the child, but Blair found it so ironic. He stared into Jim's piercing blue eyes and broke. "Jim, I'm not going to make you give that thing up. I just wanted you to know that that thing is like so tacky."
"Tacky is good," Jim added, still in a pleading voice.
Blair laughed. "You are too much. You know that man? Too much."
"Jim. Sandburg," Simon called out into the bullpen. "My office."
As they stepped inside, they noticed an older gentleman standing, looking out through the window. He turned, smiling slightly. Jim instantly felt uncomfortable and he didn't know why. "Guys, this is Special Agent Harold Oestend from the FBI." Oestend came over with an outstretched hand. Blair took it noncommittally, but when Jim's hand made contact with the agent, the sentinel measured his pulse as he listened to his heartbeat. There was something odd which he couldn't quite pinpoint, but it made every red flag fly.
"Sandburg. Ellison," the agent began, his grey eyes calm. "Captain Banks informs me that you are the best officers he has."
"Officer," Simon corrected. "Sandburg is an official observer."
Jim could feel the offense coming from Blair, and he spoke up. "He's my partner. Without him, I would have a very difficult time."
"Of course," Simon added. "That came out wrong. I'm sorry. Sandburg is an invaluable asset to this department. You were saying, Agent Oestend."
"I head up a unit which is tracking down a serial killer who I believe has just entered Washington." He handed Jim the file, which Jim promptly gave to Blair unopened. "His first victim was discovered in San Diego several years ago. I've been tracking him ever since. From the pattern I can discern, he tends to kill one victim in each large West Coast city before heading north. He's struck in San Diego, L.A., Santa Barbara and San Francisco. Last week, we discovered a body in Portland. I'm not sure which city in Washington he's picked, but I damn sure want to stop him before he gets to Vancouver."
"What's his M.O.?" Jim asked.
"Here." Blair handed him the file, a little green in the face.
"Rather sick little monster. He uses a cocktail of nerve toxins, each time a little different. And, he manages to inject the poison using a different method for each kill. In L.A., he waited under the victim's car and stabbed her with a syringe through her ankle. In Santa Barbara, he actually fed a slow acting agent to a man in his salad dressing over dinner. The rest are in the file. Then he uses a scalpel or an Xacto knife to sever the carotid artery. While the victim is paralyzed, conscious and bleeding to death, he carves poetry into the victim's chest and stomach."
"Poetry?" Jim asked while flipping through the photographs in the file.
"I'll never read Emily Dickinson again," Blair added, sitting down.
"Yes," Oestend nodded as he turned to face the window again. "He seems to like Emily Dickinson a lot. Her poems are short and easy to carve. And most of them are about death . . . and grief." His voice began to chill everyone in the room. "I'm sorry," he said as he returned to the others. "I've been tracking him for so long, trying to second guess his moves, his motivations. Anyway, we've started calling him Weird Em."
"Weird M?"
"Weird Emily." Blair piped up as the others looked at him. "It's a joke the English professors pass back and forth. Some people believe Emily Dickinson was a little touched in the head, and that she would dance in her garden at night wearing a white dress. That sort of stuff." He froze. "I'm sorry." Blair began to feel uncomfortable at Jim and Simon's stares.
"Sandburg," Simon said, "you never cease to amaze me."
"That's why I keep him," Jim added with a friendly pat on the back.
"What, like I'm a dog?" Blair raised up his hands like paws.
"As I was saying," Oestand interrupted. "I'm not sure whether Weird Em is in Olympia, Tacoma or Seattle. Almost all of my men are spread out in those three cities. I'm up here just to check this place out. This is my old home. I lived here about twenty years ago. Cascade is a long shot, but I wanted to make sure the coast was covered in case Weird Em skips the bigger cities and falls here."
"Jim, I want you and Sandburg to familiarize yourself with this case. If you so much as see anything that sets off a warning, you'll contact Agent Oestend directly." As they were leaving, Simon added, "Oh, and check out the chemicals used in his little cocktails. I want your nose familiar with them."
"His nose?" Oestend asked.
"Figure of speech," Simon added quickly.
Finally, at six o'clock that same day, Jim pushed himself away from his desk with a stretch. "Come on, Chief, let's take our homework home with us."
"Ah, no, big guy. You have homework tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"I have a date tonight."
"A what?" Jim felt his stomach cramp. "A date?"
Simon heard Jim as he was stepping out of his office with his coat on his arm. "Who has a date?"
"I do. The new file clerk in Traffic."
"I don't know him," Jim said.
"Her," Blair corrected. "Debra Fitzsimmons."
Jim didn't know what to say. /A woman? Blair's going out on a date with a woman?/
"See ya guys. And Jim, don't wait up for me."
Both Simon and Jim were speechless as they watched Blair leave. "Jim, I don't want to sound confused, but wasn't Blair . . ." he searched for the word, "dating that Australian guy that got killed?"
"Yeah, I know, sir. I don't know what to make of it, either."
The weather was cold in Olympia, but the jogger had decided to run in shorts anyway. He jogged around the perimeter of the Washington State capitol as the sun began to rise over the Cascade Mountains. He didn't seem to notice the gardener standing near the curb with a spike, picking up the trash.
Nor did he feel the scrape of the spike against his thigh. His body froze as the pavement rose to meet his face.
"How'd your date with Debra go?" Ryf asked as Jim and Blair entered the bullpen.
"Sorry, guy," Blair answered with a grin. "I don't kiss and tell."
Secretly Jim was glad to hear that. He didn't want to even know the slightest detail. Blair had been going out with Debra over the past three weekends, and Jim wasn't sure why he felt so angry. /Jealous? Or maybe it's because you lost out on the one chance Blair will ever take with another man?/
"Jim?" Simon peeked his head out of his office.
"Yes, sir?"
Simon just wiggled his finger for them to step inside his office. Once inside, they both recognized the still figure of Agent Oestend at the window.
"Another Weird Em?" Blair piped up when he saw the agent. Simon passed Jim the file. Jim wasn't interested. Something about Oestend was really bothering him now. /Maybe I'm displacing my anger over Blair./ Then Jim stopped and realized what an effect Blair was having even on the words he used when he thought. Shaking it from his mind, he returned to his angry examination of the FBI agent.
Blair read the details. "A scratch on the thigh?"
"Not sure what did it," Oestend answered.
"How does he score all these neurotoxins?" Blair asked.
"Don't worry about that, son," Oestend answered in a patronizing tone. "I have my men already working on that. I'm just up here to give you a head's up. He struck much sooner than we expected, which I think means he lives near here. He has less distance to travel. I'll have two agents working full time in Cascade now. We suspect Tacoma and Seattle will be next, but we want to be ready in case he strikes here."
"Another Emily Dickinson poem," Blair mentioned to Jim.
"You recognized it?" Oestend asked, surprised.
"Yeah. I started reading her poems when you were last here. 'This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me.' He didn't write the rest."
"I doubt he had the room," Oestend added.
"Anyway," Simon interrupted. "You two keep a nose out for those chemicals. Anything suspicious and contact either of these two agents." Simon handed Jim the cards.
As they were leaving, Jim stopped in the doorway. He felt like he was possessed as his body turned and his subconscious took over his mouth. "Agent Oestend?"
"Yes?"
"How long have you practiced bio-feedback?" Jim listened to the fed's heartbeat spike, the first time this human metronome lost its beat. After about eight quick burst, his heartbeat returned to normal.
"For a few years now. How . . . how did you know?"
"I just noticed." Then he left.
Simon wiped the smile from his face when Oestend said to him, "I'll be damned."
"I told you he was good."
"Hmmm." Oestend stared at Jim through the slats of Simon's blinds. "Yes."
Out in the bullpen, Blair turned to Jim. "What the hell was that all about?"
"What?"
"That comment about the bio-feedback?"
"Oh." Jim sat down at his desk.
"Well."
"I don't know, Chief. I can't put my finger on it." Jim sought for words. "Maybe I've been hearing people around me for too long. You know, the way they sound -- heart beats and breathing. When we first met him, he just . . . he just sounds like a machine. He's not . . . natural."
Blair grinned.
"What? What are you grinning about?"
"You! I can't believe Jim Ellison is harping about a guy who's not 'natural.' That's supposed to be my line."
"Yeah, well, whatever. I'm telling you, Chief, something's not right about this guy. Why would you need to control your breathing and heart rate . . . all the time? What's he trying to control?"
Just then, Oestend left Simon's office. As he walked past Jim's desk, he just nodded. "Gentlemen."
Jim stared at him as he walked out, feeling even more ill at ease.
Blair looked down at the name of the agents on the business cards, then turned to Jim. "This has to be a joke."
"What?"
"The names of these agents. Here, look."
Another week passed, and Blair continued to turn down offers to spend time with Jim. Instead, Debra became the focus of his attention. Jim felt himself closing off, saying less and less. One afternoon, Blair sat down at Jim's desk and started sorting through the files. He came across one, then froze. "Jim?"
Jim looked up and recognized the startled look on Blair's face. "What?"
"How long have you had this?"
Jim looked at it. It was the latest report on Weird Em. "A while."
"And you weren't going to tell me?"
"I just didn't think of it."
"Weird Em? You forgot to tell me about Weird Em?"
"Yeah, well, you were busy."
"Busy?! Too busy to know that he struck in Tacoma?! Come on, Jim!"
"Blair, I thought you were too busy!" Jim said in an angry, accusatory tone that Blair instantly recognized. "And then I forgot about it. You got it? Besides, it's the feds' case. Let them handle it."
Blair tried to hide the fact that he was hurt. He had suspected something was wrong between the two of them. Now he was sure. He just had to figure out what it was.
Special Agent Dale Mulder walked down the sterile hallway in a huff. Weird Em, the serial killer he and his partner had been trying to track down, had killed again in Tacoma and their team was no where near to breaking the case. Yet, even as he growled internally over their lack of progress, deep down he knew why he was so angry.
Lately, every time he had tried to interview a witness, they had laughed at him. "Special Agent Mulder? Is this some kind of joke?" Mulder's shoulders tightened. The fact that he bore a slight resemblance to the television character made it even worse.
He looked over his shoulder at his partner, then rolled his eyes. /I know they assigned me this rookie as a joke. Well, ha ha fuck them./ His partner, Moira Kennedy, was fresh out of the academy. Short, with red hair, she looked like an slightly overweight version of Scully, with even less of a sense of humor than the X-Files character.
/Damnit,/ Mulder thought, /I'm fucking quitting until that damn show goes off the air./
In his anger, he barged into the profile room, even though Oestend, his supervisor, had told him countless times to knock first.
He froze in the doorway. What he saw always disturbed him. Oestend held a black and white image of Emily Dickinson -- so bird-like and frail in the antique picture with her hair pulled back. He was humming something which Mulder couldn't place, but he did recognize it as one of Dickinson's more common meters. In his other hand, Oestend held a sharp Xacto knife, precisely carving letters in the air.
"Sir?"
Oestand jerked as if electrocuted, dropping both the knife and the image. He drew in his breath in gasps before regaining control, then his temper exploded. "Get out! Get out! Get out!" Oestend grabbed a book and flung it at the two agents.
Mulder ducked just as the book flew over his head and into the hall. He scrambled out of the room and slammed the door. He knew Oestend was one of the best psychological profilers in the agency, and that he often pretended to be the killer to second-guess his next move. Still, it disturbed him greatly. "Fuck," he muttered as he ran his hands over his short brown hair, "I hate my job."
"Then just quit," Moira said matter-of-factly before biting at her fingernails as she turned to leave.
Jim knew the jig was up by the time they got home to the loft. Blair seemed to thrive on Jim's inner psychological battles, and whenever he discovered one he was like a dog to a bone. Jim silently ate dinner, ignoring Blair's attempts at passive-aggressive probing to get him to talk. Jim knew he was angry at Blair, he knew it had to do with Blair dating Debra /and not me,/ but nagging fears kept him from addressing the real issue -- that he was in love and felt spurned, again.
After dinner, Blair gave up the subtle approach and became more direct and a little pissed. "Okay, big guy, are we going to talk about this or not?"
"Blair, I'm tired. I'm stressed out. And I don't really think there's anything for us to discuss."
"Jim Ellison. Queen of Denial."
Jim stormed into the kitchen. Blair rolled his eyes, then girded his loins for this one task he really didn't want to do -- chasing after him. "All right, Jim, that did it. Spit it out."
Jim didn't answer him as he removed the dishes from the dish washer, only to rinse them off in the sink.
"Come on, I know you're angry, so tell me what's up."
"I'm. Not. Angry." The words pressed through Jim's clenched teeth.
"Jim, you are washing dishes that are already clean. And you know this."
Jim stopped, gripping a wet coffee cup by the handle. His anger at being spurned was now mixing with fear, fear of losing control, fear that Blair would discover Jim's feelings. /Would that be so bad?/ Then Jim thought about why he was so afraid. /Jim, if you couldn't stand up to the Army to protect Tom, would you stand up to the Cascade PD to protect Blair?/
"You have been like so pissy the past few weeks. What crawled up your ass?"
"I don't want to talk about it." He could feel his heart beginning to race.
"I know you don't, but I do. It has to do with me. I can tell."
"It's not--"
"Jim, I don't have to be sentinel to tell when you're lying. You are pissed at me, and it's going to stop now."
Blair was snaring him in a trap, and Jim could feel himself panic. /He's going to make me say this. He's going to push me and I'm not ready, I'm not ready./ "Blair, don't push me."
"You've been pissed since . . . wait a minute. You've been pissed since I started dating Debra!"
Before Jim realized it, at the sound of Debra's name, he lifted the cup by the handle and smashed it down on the kitchen counter. The shattering china startled Blair, making him step back. Jim looked down to see just the white curved handle in his fingers.
"Whoa, dude," Blair brought up his hands in surrender as Jim stormed past him. Then his own anger bubbled up as he realized Jim really was angry at him for dating Debra. "Wait a minute! You're pissed that I'm dating Debra?!"
Jim spun on his heels. He was completely at a loss for words.
"What right have you got to be pissed at me for dating Debra, huh?" Blair stormed at Jim and poked him in the chest with his finger. "What right have you got?!"
"I just . . ." Jim tried to formulate his thoughts. "I just don't understand you, is all."
"Understand what?" Blair suddenly felt very cold. /You are not about to say what I think you're going to say. You are not going to throw Jack in my face./
And Jim sputtered, "What . . . what about Jack?"
Blair's eyes grew wide in surprise. "Oh my god. You said it." Blair threw up his hands in rage and began pacing. "I can't believe you . . . Fuck you! Fuck you!" he shouted. Then he started counting out loud, taking deep breaths as his pacing grew even more rapid. When he hit ten, he took one long, deep breath before turning on Jim full force. "Of all the things I thought you would ever say to me. Of all the shitty things that you've said and I've said nothing back. That has got to be the shittiest thing ever! How dare you?! Don't you think I have enough guilt to deal with here?! Huh? Don't you think that I have enough problems getting up every morning thinking that if Jack had never met me, he'd be alive today, maybe happy with some other guy, but at least alive? Huh? Have you got any fucking idea?!"
Jim was now more than ever speechless. /No, that's not what I meant./ And his fear was continuing to rise.
"You! You of all people have no right to say this to me!"
"Blair, I--"
"Jim, I am dying inside. I'm fucking dying and I can stay here in this house with you every night and die a little more--"
Jim closed his mouth tight as he felt a sharp stab.
"--or I can go outside and try and start my life all over. I would have thought that was what you wanted me to do. You . . . you have no right. No right!"
Jim was still reeling that Blair had compared their time together as dying inside. "Hey, I have at least hit a nerve here."
Blair threw up his hands again. "Will you shut the fuck up? There is nothing you need to say to me. Ever!"
"What are you saying?"
"I can't believe you would even try to make me feel guilty for going out with Debra. It has been almost nine months since Jack died. Nine months! What . . . what kind of friend are you? How could you do this?"
"You're over-reacting." Jim turned to leave. He had to retreat, get his thoughts back. Then suddenly he felt the air pressure change around him, and he ducked away from it just as a drinking glass whizzed past his ear, smashing against the exposed brick of their loft.
Blair watched as Jim's spine straightened, his shoulders rolling back. He pivoted on his heel and stared hard at his guide, the anger boiling but controlled. "I'm going to pretend that didn't happen," he growled.
"Oh, you ought to be pretty damn good at pretending!"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"What have I been to you all these years? Huh? A safety net? Is that why you accepted Jack so easily? You just wanted me to stick around? Keep you out of harm's way? And to think that I . . ."
"That you what?" Jim approached, sensing Blair's misstep.
"Nothing," he waved his hands.
"Now who's pretending?" Jim added with a snarl, before turning to escape up the stairs.
Blair watched him go. /Me? Pretending?/ Like an electric shock, he remembered when Jim confessed that he had recognized Jack and Blair's relationship. /He said he smelled our pheremones. Our pheremones. Did Jim smell them before, when I was around him? Before I met Jack? Did he know I had been having dreams about him, that I wanted him?/ Blair watched Jim disappear upstairs. /Does he know I love him, and that I've . . . /
And Jim sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. /Oh, God, that is not what I wanted to say. What's wrong with me?/ Yet he didn't know how to change this, or even if he should. /Maybe it's better this way. Blair won't get hurt. Now he's just pissed./ Jim shook his head. He thought back to the look on Tom's face when the Army had scared him from a man he thought he loved with all his heart. /Will they make me do it again?/ he wondered, considering the Cascade PD. /Simon and Joel and Ryf?/
Then he heard the door close slowly as Blair left. The sound came to his ears like a slap.
Late at night, in the offices the FBI had set up in Seattle for the Weird Em investigation, Oestend remained alone in the profile room. On the table lay the diagram of a human chest, and scattered around were books open to Emily Dickinson's poetry.
With his knife, Oestend practiced the letters on the flesh. /Tonight,/ he thought as the knife came down on the drawing. /Tonight./
"Where are you going?" Debra asked as she watched Blair dress. They had only finished a few minutes ago.
"I don't know."
"You don't know? What the hell kind of answer is that?"
"I've got a lot on my mind tonight."
"And so you're just going to leave?" Blair didn't have an answer for her, but sat down on the bed to tie his shoes. "I should have known," she said finally.
"Known what?"
"All the other women at the station said not to go out with you. That you were a pig." She spit the last word out. Blair, with his back to her, closed his eyes. "That you just used women and ran out on them."
"Fine. Maybe it's better that you believe that about me up front. Then you'll just be mad at me. And I won't hurt you by mistake."
"I hope someone returns that comment to you," she said as she rolled her back to him. "And soon!"
It was 2 a.m. Blair was sitting in a corner booth of the coffee shop where he and Jim spent most of their off time. He had left Debra over an hour ago while she protested, the sheets wrapped around her chest, and now he sat silently, staring forward, his mind tumbling and turning. He didn't even notice the two uniformed officers walk in.
"Hey," one of them said, nudging the other, "look, it's Hairboy."
Blair heard his nickname and looked up. He recognized the dark-haired officer, Stewart. He didn't know the other. /Like I care./
As they both came up to the counter, he could hear parts of Stewart's ramble. "He works with Jim Ellison -- Major Crimes -- an outside consultant -- highest conviction rate of anyone on the force. Hey, Hairboy, what are you doing here this late?"
Blair shook himself into reality, not realizing at first that Stewart was talking to him. The guide just shrugged his shoulders.
"Get kicked out?"
"Kind of," Blair answered.
Stewart just laughed. "Blair here has more dates than anyone I've ever known."
"Damn," the other cop started, "is there anything you don't do?"
"Windows," Blair answered.
"Well, if you ever want to quit working with Jim, I'd sure as hell want you for a partner. Then I'd get off this beat."
"I doubt I'd be much good to you."
"Well that's a shame," Stewart said. Then he jabbed his partner with his elbow. "Come on. Let's get our coffee and get out of here before someone says we're hanging out at the coffee shop too long. Good seeing you, Hairboy. See you back at the station."
"Sure." /Ugh, they're gone./ Blair returned to rubbing his chin and thinking about the mess his life had turned into since last winter. He watched the two officers hurry back to their car and thought about the comments they had made. /Yeah, Jim doesn't need me. He doesn't need me any more. And I can always find another dissertation, if I don't have enough data as it is. Hell, grad students change that stuff all the time./ Outside, the weather had turned wet and cold, and he really didn't have a place to stay. He should have stayed with Debra, but he just couldn't. Jim had stabbed him in the worst place, and all he could think about was Jack.
Blair called up his friend Dave. "Hey, Dave, you remember that favor you owe me?"
"What favor?"
"For getting Jim to talk Vice into just confiscating the joint they found on you instead of prosecuting?"
"Hey, that was way less than an ounce. They wouldn't have prosecuted."
"Dave?"
"Yeah, all right, what?"
"Can I crash on your couch for a few days? I need a place to stay."
"Is that all?"
"Yeah."
"Wait. You ain't planning on crashing here as long as you crashed at Jim's, are you?"
"No. I promise."
"Okay. A week, tops."
Blair laughed to himself as he hung up the phone. That was how long he had told Jim he'd be crashing at the loft. "Okay, okay," he said out loud to himself. "A week in dog years."
"Jim, can you come in to my office?"
Jim entered Simon's office, and he could sense the captain was upset. "What is it?"
"This." He handed him Blair's observer badge.
"What is this?"
"Sandburg handed this in earlier this morning. Said he wouldn't be coming back."
"He what?!"
"Jim, I don't want to even know what went down between you two. That is not my business. But for now, I'm assigning you to Forensics."
"You what?!"
"You heard me. You are off active duty for now."
"What?! What for?!"
"Keep your voice down." Simon stared him down. "This is for the best."
Jim paced around the office before flinging one of the chairs to the floor. "What right have you got?!" he shouted.
Simon's temper flared. "Do you know why I even let that kid in here? Because when you came back from Peru, you came back messed up. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. Messed up. This Sentinel thing is all part and parcel of it."
Jim lost his voice. He stood still with his mouth open.
"And Blair knew all that jungle mumbo-jumbo to keep you in line. So until he comes back, or I know you're all right, I'm not placing you on active duty. Capiche?"
Jim stared at him for a while, then reached for his gun. He dropped it on the desk.
"Jim, don't do this."
Then he flung his badge on the desk.
"Jim!" Simon called out to him as he started to leave. When Jim wouldn't respond, Simon grabbed his shoulder just as he opened the door.
Jim spun around, pushing Simon against the glass door with a bang. "Don't you touch me," he growled.
Simon grabbed Jim just as fiercely. "Now you listen to me. I'm not about to have you zone out on a crime scene. Do you hear me? Not just because you're putting other men in jeopardy. But because I don't want to see my best friend taken down. You got that? I could never do something like that to my best friend."
Jim shoved him back. "You just did, Simon. You just did."
Jim slammed the door to the loft behind him, then realized Blair was home. His guide, his former guide, stood in the doorway to his room with a duffel bag in his hand.
"Jim? I didn't think you'd be here."
"Yeah? Well, guess what? I lost my job today."
"You what?"
"Yeah, Chief, seems like Simon won't have me without you. Go figure." Then Jim noticed the duffel bag. "So, what? You're moving out, too?" He didn't give Blair a chance. "Fine, just get the hell out."
"Just like that?"
Jim turned to look at him in surprise. "'Just like that?' Yeah, just like that! Just like you, huh?" Jim started to climb the stairs, then turned around to say. "And you know what? If you had come home just once in the past couple of days, I would have told you I was sorry. I would have tried to explain to you that I didn't mean to bring up Jack's name to make you feel guilty. What I meant was that I thought you had discovered you wanted to be with a man. Period."
It was Blair's turn to be speechless.
"But you didn't. You thought so little of me, wanted to get out so goddamn badly that you just took off and quit on me. Well, fine! Thank you for letting me know! Oh, and by the way, fuck you, too! The sooner you get the hell away from me, the better!" Jim stormed out of the loft, slamming the door after him.
Blair slumped on the couch, holding his face with his hands. "Oh, man, this is like so not good."
Blair returned to Dave's apartment. He had been crashing on the sofa now for a few days, and he knew he needed to call Naomi before she tried to call at the loft.
"Mom?"
"Blair? Where are you? I tried to call and Jim said you had moved out. And then the pig hung the phone up on me!"
"Cool your jets. I know your timing. I figured you'd call while I was gone."
"Weren't you going to tell me you had moved out?"
"This only happened yesterday."
"Oh."
"Like you have any room to speak. I never know where you are."
"Okay, okay. Let's not go there. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"What happened?"
"We just lost our tempers."
"And you moved out?"
"Okay, so we really lost our tempers."
"He didn't hurt you, did he? Dirty pig."
"Stop with the pig comments. He's not like that."
"Okay, you moved out, and now you're defending him? Would that I had your nobility."
Blair sighed, rolling his head around to relax his neck muscles. "I am like so not in the mood for this."
"Sorry," Naomi whispered. "Tell me what happened."
"I don't--"
"Blair. Spill."
"All right. Jim and I had a little miscommunication."
"About what?"
"About Jack."
"Jack?"
"Yeah. I . . . I started dating someone. A woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes, a woman. Don't sound so surprised. You're as bad as Jim. I can date women, can't I?"
"Blair, I didn't mean it like that. I just thought that you wanted to be with Jack."
"Yeah, well, I'd still be with Jack if he wasn't DEAD!"
Blair could hear Naomi suck in a deep, slow breath.
"Blair, you're confusing me. Let's take a cleansing breath and start over. What did Jim have to say?"
"Oh, Jim. He didn't know what to make of me going out with Debra and when he tried to explain how confused he was, I misinterpreted it. I thought he was trying to tell me I should feel guilty for going out with anybody, let alone Debra, because Jack had died so recently. Like I didn't love Jack."
"And you were already feeling that, weren't you? That's why you thought he was implying you should feel guilty. That's why you just snapped at me."
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
"How'd you handle it?"
"I really blew my top. I quit, turned in my observer's badge. And Jim said he got fired."
"Ew. When you fought the first time, was he really pissed?"
"I'll say. He smashed a coffee cup with his bare hands."
"I thought as much. Typical Martian response."
"What are you saying?"
"Men are from Mars, women are--"
"Yeah yeah, I know all that. I mean, where are you going with this?"
"Do you remember when you first met him? You told me he was really brutal. That he threw you around and--"
"Yeah, but--"
"But you said he was scared. That he was lashing out at everyone because he was scared and he didn't know how to act, how to express his fear."
"So what are you saying?"
"I think Jim's scared. Maybe he's scared that you're about to hurt yourself. He always has been so over protective of you. Or maybe he's scared you'll hurt him."
Blair remained silent for a long while, before asking, "Where did you come up with this?"
"I've been working with one of Terence McNally's disciples. We've been working on visually hallucinating our internal struggles. That's when I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"Strange actually. I saw you, but you didn't look like you. You looked like someone from an Amazon tribe. And sitting beside you was this black panther, that I knew somehow it was Jim. There were these . . . things . . . hovering all around the panther, spooking him, and when he tried to slap at them, sometimes he hit you by mistake."
"Oh." Blair became silent again.
Finally, Naomi asked. "Have you been meditating?"
"Yeah."
"Have you been visualizing peaceful images?"
"Yeah, yeah--"
"What about a smudge stick? Do you need to buy a new one? Sage always cleanses the air."
"I've got all that."
"Hey, Blair?"
"Yeah?"
"I love ya. Don't forget it."
"Thanks, Mom. I'll call you to let you know where I'm at next."
When the uniformed policeman looked into Blair's office, Blair wasn't too surprised. "Are you Blair Sandburg?"
"Yeah. What's up?"
"Captain Simon Banks asked if I would pick you up. He wants to see you."
Blair just shrugged his shoulders. He knew Simon wasn't going to let him quit without an explanation.
Simon set down the phone. Officer Williams was bringing Blair in. He then called Jim at the loft.
"Yeah?"
"Jim, it's Simon. And don't hang up on me this time."
"What do you want?"
"If you want active duty again, I suggest you get to my office, ASAP."
Jim stepped into Simon's office and saw Blair sitting in one of the chairs. Blair began to stand, but Simon pushed him back into the chair. "You sit." Then to Jim. "That goes for you, too."
The detective angrily sat down. Simon perched on the edge of his desk. "Now I'm going to tell you two something right now. I don't care what happened between you. It's none of my damn business. But as far as I'm concerned, you've broken the cardinal rule of professionalism." Both men looked at him with dark stares. "You took whatever personal thing was going on between you and you brought it to work. I won't stand for that. You both have a job to do."
Blair opened his mouth to speak, but Simon stopped him with a sharp finger. "Shut up, Sandburg. You quit without trying to work something out. And you, Jim, you did the same damn thing. You both quit on me, taking the best damn unit off the force when there's a goddamn serial killer on the loose. I got word today that they found a body in Seattle, and that means he's coming to Cascade next. You both ought to be ashamed of yourselves. What can be more important than saving someone's life? Huh?"
Neither Blair nor Jim could look into Simon's eyes.
"Fine, then," Simon went on. "Neither one of you will leave this office until you've worked out an arrangement so you can work together. I don't care if you can't stand each other on your own time. But on my time, you'll act like professionals. Is that understood?" When neither of them answered, Simon tried again. "I said, is that understood?"
"Simon, leave the room," Jim answered in a tight whisper.
"What?"
"You heard me. This is between me and Blair."
Simon looked hard at both of them. "All right." Before he closed the door behind him, he added, "You see those black angels over there?" He pointed to the porcelain collectibles at the window. "They better be in one piece when I get back." Then he slammed the door.
"I guess he means we can break everything else," Blair tried to crack a joke.
Jim stood, walked toward the window and stared out in silence. After a long while, he said in a tired voice. "I said I was sorry. What more do you want?"
Breathing deeply, Blair gathered up his strength before confessing, "Maybe I feel too bad to come back."
"Feel too bad?" Jim turned, then knelt down in front of Blair. "Blair, what's wrong?" His blue eyes were so full of concern and Blessed Protector mode. Blair's soul was a jumble of emotions -- sorrow for Jack, still -- longing for Jim -- and a need to break free from both of them. But deep down, he was still a little angry. He kept remembering Naomi's words, reminding him of his own assessment of Jim's quirks -- that when he was scared, he was brutal.
Lifting his head, Blair eyed Jim with a determined stare and asked, "What are you afraid of?"
Jim swallowed, then stood again to return to the window.
Blair continued. "You're only this angry at me when you're frightened. You always lash out. And that night, when you smashed the coffee cup, what was up with that?"
The sentinel rubbed his eyes with his hand. /It comes to this. Do you come clean this time? Or do you keep hiding?/ He looked over at Blair, who stared at him calmly. He gathered up his courage and admitted, "Blair, I just didn't want to see you hurt again. . . ." He trailed off, unable to finish.
Blair didn't realize Jim had more to say and interrupted. "Jim--"
"Chief, I've seen you suffering for almost a year now. Do you think I can take seeing you hurt again--" He started to add, 'especially if I was the one who did it,' but Blair cut him short again.
"Jim. Big guy. I appreciate the concern. Really I do. But I'm 28 years old. You can't protect me from everything. Let me live my life, okay?"
He stared at Blair. /He still doesn't get it. He still doesn't get it./ He looked at his fingers. Inside, his guilt was killing him, for letting this lie go on, for not telling Blair he was hopelessly in love with him but was too much of a coward to do anything about it. Before he realized it, Blair was standing in front of him with his hands covering Jim's.
"Jim, I'm sorry I got so angry. I'm sorry I blew off the handle. I don't know how to tell you to treat me with kid gloves on some things, and to treat me no different on others. I don't know what's going to set me off or hurt me or what. And I know you're scared, too. I know that. But you can't be any more scared than I am."
Jim felt even more guilt as his mouth spoke when his mind was still in shock. "Will you come back to the loft, Blair?"
"Yeah."
"Will you come back to the force?"
"Yeah."
Jim shifted from one foot to the next, still never making eye contact with Blair.
"I'll go tell Simon," Blair broke the silence. He left Jim alone. Jim watched him leave, feeling more guilt than ever.
It was way too cold for Jim to be standing on the balcony, but he had to get out of the loft. Yet if he left the building altogether, Blair would sense he was uncomfortable, maybe even still angry. He huddled into his coat and shivered.
Blair realized Jim was still feeling a little gun shy. He grabbed his books and headed for his room.
Jim was lost in thought and didn't notice him leave. /Jim, you've got to say something. This is ridiculous. But look at the way he's acting, the way we're both acting. He still hasn't come to terms with what happened to Jack. And I still haven't come to terms with being afraid. Now's not the time for this. We still have too much to work out. And if I really love Blair, then this needs to be done right./ Ten minutes later, the winter weather was too much for him, and he went back inside.
Inside, Jim searched for Blair's heartbeat. He heard him inside his room. He was awake, reading. And there was another sound, a voice. /He must be listening to a CD on his discman. / He recognized the voice -- Tracy Chapman. /God, why does Blair always have to listen to that whiny complaint rock?/ Even so, her lyrics were so easy to recognize.
[Sorry] [Is all that you can say.] [Years gone by and still] [Words don't come easily] [Like sorry, like sorry.]
[But you can say baby,] [Baby can I hold you tonight?] [Maybe if I told you the right words] [At the right time, you'd be mine.]
Jim rolled his head back. /Ugh./ Still, the lyrics struck hard. He made as much noise as he could, shucking off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack. Yet the final lyrics stabbed him.
[I love you] [Years gone by and still] [words don't come easily] [like I love you, I love you.]
[But you can say baby] [Baby can I hold you tonight?] [Maybe if I told you the right words] [At the right time, you'd be mine.]
In his room, Blair couldn't stand the lyrics any more than Jim. He quickly turned off the discman and tossed the headphones aside, rubbing his face in frustration.
Jim recognized the sounds and guessed Blair would be coming out of his room soon. /Now would be a good time for a retreat./ Defeated, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom and uneasy sleep.
Jim and Blair had come to the waterfront to seek out one of Jim's informants for a fraud and embezzlement case involving a shipping company. They waited with their backs against the cold metal siding of a warehouse, watching the gulls skim back and forth, listening to the lap of dark water against the piers. After an hour of waiting in the cold, Blair finally let out a jerking shiver, then began slapping at his arms.
"Come on, Chief. No sense giving you a cold. This guy's not showing."
Blair breathed into his cupped hands and nodded. They had become so quiet in the week following their last argument. Even Jim felt a need to pull Blair aside and talk. Jim took an alternate route back to his truck because the sun was shining on this side of the wharf, and he could sense that the temperature was a few degrees warmer. If Blair noticed, Jim couldn't tell; he silently followed behind his sentinel.
Then Jim stopped. So suddenly that Blair ran into his back. Jim just turned with a smile.
"What's up, big guy?"
"I smell something."
"Dead fish?"
"Ha ha. No, I smell something . . . chemical."
"Pollution?" Blair's tone was still ironic.
"Are you going to help or not?"
"Fine. Focus on the smell, Jim. What is it that you recognize about the smell?"
"It smells like a drug. Wait, it smells like the drugs Simon had me sniff back in Forensics."
"Weird Em?"
"Yeah." Then Jim could sense Blair's heartbeat spike. "Calm down, Chief." Once Jim recognized Blair's controlled breathing techniques, he began tracing the scent again. /Must be a body. Damnit. We're too late./ As his anger rose, so did the scent, stronger and stronger until finally Jim said, "Chief, this stuff isn't residual. There's a lot of it here somewhere."
Jim stopped in front of a metal warehouse, then tested the door. It was locked. He reached into his pocket for his Swiss Army knife to begin picking the lock.
"Uhm, Jim, what are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks to me like you are infringing on someone's constitutional right against illegal search and seizure."
Jim rolled his head back. "But I have just cause. I can smell the drugs used in the serial killings."
"But owning those drugs may not be a crime, and breaking in there is like so uncool."
Jim had heard the last of the tumblers fall inside the lock when Blair began his objections. "Fine, Blair. You go back to the truck and call Simon. Tell him what I've found and let him get all the paperwork settled. Then get back here. You and I will wait here and see if anyone comes in or goes out."
The sentinel watched Blair reluctantly walk back to the truck. When he was some distance away, Jim reached for the doorknob and turned it.
Blair heard the explosion first, a loud puff, then immediately ran back to Jim. The air was filled with an orange dust, but Blair's mind was so clouded with concern for Jim that he didn't stop to realize the danger of the chemical. When the first smell hit him, Blair felt his knees give out from under him as he fell to his hands to throw up. He couldn't stop it. The wave of nausea was all powerful, cramping his stomach again and again, non-stop while his mind hovered above it, thinking, /What the hell is happening here?/
Then his anxiety for Jim peaked, and despite the eerie sickness, Blair crawled toward him. By this time, Blair was only suffering dry heaves. Leaning over an unconscious Jim, Blair could see the even dusting of orange, all over his body. When he felt for a pulse, the orange dust started to sting his skin. Jim's pulse was strong and steady.
Grabbing him by the lapels of his leather jacket, Blair lifted him off the ground. His back strained with the effort, but he had to get this dust off Jim and soon. There was a water spigot just a few feet away. With a loud grunt, he started to drag him, when the unexpected fireball of the warehouse exploding flattened him on his back and knocked him unconscious.
When Blair came to, he recognized the smell of the hospital before his eyes even registered the blank walls and sterile equipment. He mumbled a half-hearted "Where am I?" as he lifted himself off the bed.
Simon, standing over Jim's bed, came over and pushed Blair back onto the mattress. "Easy, there, Sandburg."
"Simon? What happened?"
"You and Jim must have found our little serial killer's storage room. He had it booby trapped. At least that's what the fire department thinks."
"Then it was Weird Em?"
"It was Weird Em, all right. All we were able to pick up from the scene were traces of the chemical agents he used. All the evidence of how and where he got this stuff went up with the fire. Almost got you two in the bargain."
"Jim?" Blair sat up again. "How's Jim?" He saw Jim lying in the bed next to his and started to go to him.
"Stay," Simon commanded. "He's doing fine. He took a much heavier hit than you did. He's got to sleep it off."
Then Blair felt the IV needle still in his wrist. "What did they put in me."
"Just fluids. You were pretty dehydrated when they got to you. So were the firemen who arrived on the scene. Pretty nasty booby trap, I'd say. And they just got the smell. They didn't even get a dose of what Jim had."
"Jim?" Blair sat up again. "What did Jim have?"
"Sandburg, stay down." Simon pushed him back. "Dr. Everett thinks it was just a nerve toxin that paralyzed his voluntary muscles. Jim is fine. The both of you are fine but here for observation."
"Can I see him?"
Simon gave him an exasperated look, then stepped aside. "See?" he pointed.
Blair looked over at Jim, who slept peacefully. There were no breathing tubes. The IV drip had been disconnected. Blair sat back and said, "Fine."
Jim did not wake at all that day. The next morning, Simon came in to visit. He waited an hour, then looked at his watch and said, "Well, if he doesn't wake up soon, I'll head on to the office."
"Simon, it's Saturday."
"Yeah, but this Weird Em case is still open. And you and Jim walked in there without a warrant."
"Jim said he smelled the drugs."
"I figured as much. What was he thinking?"
"Jim's been . . . distracted lately."
"You'll keep me updated on Jim, won't you?" he asked while watching Blair sit down on the mattress next to the sentinel.
Just then Dr. Everett stepped into the room with a hearty laugh. "Well, looks like my best customers are back."
Blair turned; with his clothes exposed to the nerve toxins, the nurses had let the young man borrow a pair of surgical scrubs. "Dr. Everett," Blair said with a smile. "Pleasure keeping you in business. How long before Jim wakes up?"
"He's not awake? I figured he'd be up by now." He walked around to the left hand side of the bed and felt his pulse. Blair stood up and moved behind Simon.
Jim awoke to a blaze of senses. As he opened his eyes, green and yellow flashes sparked and bubbled. No detailed shapes, just blobs. /Golden?/ he wondered? Then cigar smoke, thick and acrid. He knew it was Simon, but why was Simon smoking in a hospital? /Wait, I'm in a hospital?/ He recognized the tiny blips of heart monitors coming from all around him. His mouth had such a bitter taste. "What's going on?"
And when he spoke, nothing came out. Just a raspy cough.
Then he smelled Blair. "Blair?"
"Don't talk." He heard Simon's voice.
"Where's Blair?"
Simon couldn't understand him, except for a harsh "b" sound. "Hey, Blair, step over here."
Jim felt the mattress shift like a swelling wave. /What's going on with my senses?/ He could smell Blair, stronger than ever before, and he could hear the pounding of his heart. Something touched his hand. It was wet and pumping, and Jim recoiled as his mind imagined he could feel Blair's wet pumping heart in his hand.
"Jim?" Blair's voice echoed sharply underneath a constant, high-pitched whine. "Jim, what is it?"
"My senses. Off the wire."
"Jim, I can't understand you. Did you say your senses?"
Jim nodded, and when he did, he felt his body reeling. Blair's voice rang inside his head. "Can you hear, Jim?" Again he nodded. "Can you see?" He shook his head. "Can you feel?" Blair touched his hand, and Jim pulled back.
Then Jim heard a doctor's voice, one that he recognized but couldn't place. "Mr. Sandburg, don't encourage Mr. Ellison to talk. His vocal chords have been burned by the toxins."
"Toxins?" No one recognized Jim's words. Blair place his open hand on Jim's chest. Jim could feel each finger spread like fire on his skin, but it calmed him some.
"Jim, don't speak," Blair said again. "We were exposed to the neurotoxins that Weird Em used. It didn't hurt us. We just have to wait for them to flush out of our systems."
All of a sudden, his sense of touch flared. The needle in his wrist felt like an iron bar. The bed stung him all over, and the air seemed to burn. Jim arched his back and shouted, but only a hoarse cry escaped. He heard the doctor shout into the hall, "Nurse, get me a couple of CC's of--"
Jim's heart stopped. Suddenly, there was nothing. No sound. No heart beats. Nothing.
Blair noticed Jim's eyes spring open in surprise. "Jim? Jim, what is it?"
"Blair? Blair, where'd you go? I can't hear you."
Simon leaned over to Blair. "Did he say he couldn't hear?"
"I think so? God, Simon, what do I do? I can't touch him." Blair waved his hand over Jim's eyes. Jim could feel the air pass over his face, and he could see a vague purple shape move back and forth. "His eyes are following my hand," Blair said, unheard.
Then his vision started to grow darker at the edges, constricting into a point, and Jim began to truly panic, struggling as hard as he could, flailing his arms and legs and fighting. "I'm dying oh my God I'm dying, God, don't let me die! Don't let me die!" Simon's cigar smell grew fainter and fainter. Jim wildly swung his arms in panic, feeling a sickening wet softness, then something hard, cracking, before a tingling sensation crept over his skin.
Simon saw it happen, saw Jim's fist connect to Blair's cheek, knocking him completely off the mattress and against the nearby bed. /I hope you're okay, kid,/ Simon thought as he grabbed Jim by the chest and pushed him down. Already, Jim was beginning to fall into a panic attack as his sense of touch dissipated. His heart beat fiercely, but Jim couldn't feel it. He thought his heart was stopping. He couldn't catch his breath. A darkness was enveloping him -- a pure void of silence and darkness with no up or down. He sank further and further into nothingness.
The nurse entered with a syringe. Once Jim was sedated, both the doctor and Simon turned to Blair lying on the floor, unconscious. A light thread of blood trickled down his cheek.
Blair awoke that afternoon to find himself lying on the hospital bed again. His whole face throbbed, and his left eye was swollen shut. Feeling it, he realized that most of his face was bruised from Jim's surprise punch. /Jim!/ Blair sat up in bed and noticed two doctors standing over the sentinel's bed. "Doctor Everett?"
"Mr. Sandburg," the older man said. "Good to see you awake." He came over to the bed, lifting Blair's chin. "How do you feel?"
"I don't really know what happened."
"Mr. Ellison clocked you pretty good." The older man was laughing, but Blair could feel the embarrassment rising off the second doctor. He looked over and saw an incredibly handsome man, not much older than himself. A tall, slim Japanese man with soft black eyes, sharp cheekbones and a razor thin nose. His thick black hair was parted to the side in an arching wave across his forehead. "Mr. Sandburg, this is our resident neurologist, Dr. Ian Yoshito."
Blair pulled his legs to hang over the edge of the mattress to face them. When he reached his hand out, Dr. Yoshito didn't notice. Instead, his caramel-colored hand rose to cup Blair's face with his fingertips. "Do you hurt?" he asked in a gentle Oxford accent.
"Yes," Blair stammered before he realized. "No. I mean, I'm sore, but I'm okay."
A tiny smile creased Dr. Yoshito's face, and his black eyes sparkled. Blair felt his heart skip a beat, and he swallowed.
"Captain Banks said you were Mr. Ellison's . . . partner?"
"And his roommate."
Still holding Blair's chin with his thumb and forefinger, Dr. Yoshito lifted his eyebrow in a subtle question. Blair read it and shook his head slightly. Dr. Yoshito gave another sly smile before turning to Dr. Everett. "Thank you, doctor. I won't keep you from your other patients. I'll interview Mr. Sandburg about Mr. Ellison's personal history." He looked at Blair once more with concern. "Do you need to keep Mr. Sandburg over night?"
"That one? No," Dr. Everett said, again in a lighthearted tone. "That's a feisty one. He's taken worse and still kept fighting. You, on the other hand, are in for a surprise if you try to separate these two." As he left, he said to Blair, "Good luck, Mr. Sandburg, and please try to stay out of trouble."
"Yes sir." Then Blair looked up at Dr. Yoshito and at the strange expression on his face. "What?"
"How often are you in here?"
"Don't ask." Blair stood up, and his legs felt wobbly underneath him. Dr. Yoshito instantly grabbed him by the shoulders and guided him back to the bed.
"Maybe you should remain seated."
"I'm fine. Just a head rush." Blair stood up again, moved around the doctor, and sat at Jim's side. "How is he?" He reached for Jim's hand and noticed the restraints. "Are these really necessary?"
"I think you answered that one," Dr. Yoshito replied. "You might be able to take a punch, but I doubt one of our nurses can." He watched as Blair gently brushed his fingertips along Jim's arm.
"What's wrong with him?"
"I'm not sure." Dr. Yoshito remained close to Blair. "The agents he was exposed to shouldn't have had the affect that they did."
"Jim is very sensitive to drugs that affect his senses. I have a list of them at home. When is he going to wake up?"
Dr. Yoshito checked the chart. "Considering the dose of the sedative, I'd expect sometime around 10 tomorrow morning."
"Okay," Blair said, standing. "I can go home," then he pointed to the scrubs the nurses had let him wear, "and change."
"Do you need a lift?"
"No, I can catch a cab."
"I insist. You don't even have a coat, do you?"
Blair looked around, then realized that his coat must have been ruined like his clothes. "I guess not."
When they stepped into the entrance of the hospital's parking garage, Dr. Yoshito swept his black cashmere coat over Blair's shoulders.
"I don't need this," Blair said, trying to take it off.
"Nonsense. I think the clothes I have on are warmer than yours. That's my car over there." He pointed to a black BMW.
As Blair sat down in the passenger seat, he looked over at the doctor and asked, "So tell me, Doc--"
"Please, call me Ian."
"Okay, Ian, how does a Japanese-American get an Oxford accent?"
"Cambridge, actually, and Eton before that." Ian started the car. "Don't get me wrong. I received the same treatment there -- bloody bastards stood me up on a table and asked me to name the Father of the Roman gods. Then I was ribbed for not being able to pronounce Jupiter the way I should have."
"The cultural indoctrination of underclassmen in English public schools has always fascinated me."
"Which part?" Ian asked as he eased the car onto the street. "The forced accent or the tales of Englishmen falling in love with other boys in the dorm? Where do you live?"
"On Prospect Street. Do you know where that is?"
"I know where Prospect Street is."
"No, wait. Take me to the Police Station."
"The police?"
"Yeah. I promised Simon I'd update him on Jim and I never did. I can just run down to the station, and he can give me a lift back."
"But what if he's not there? It's Saturday."
"Then one of the other officers can take me home." Blair waited a second before feeling devilish. "Back to that comment about Englishmen in grade school. So did you?"
"Did I what?" Ian returned his tease with a sly, subtle grin.
"You know . . ."
"Yes." Stopped at a red light, Ian secretly enjoyed the look of astonishment in Blair's eyes. When the light turned green, Ian added, "In fact, I found the English accent very easy to acquire."
Blair laughed slightly. This doctor made him feel so comfortable for some reason. His nerves were frayed from dealing with Jim over the past couple of weeks, and their sudden stay in the hospital wasn't doing his nervous system much good. /I guess Doctor . . . Ian . . . can sense this. Maybe that's why he's being such a good sport./ "So," Blair started again, enjoying hearing this man talk, "why England?"
"You ask personal questions very easily."
"I'm sorry. Am I offending you?"
"No, not really. It's just refreshing, I suppose." Ian steered the car to the right. "My father is Japanese. He's an executive at a British-Japanese consortium. My mother was an American of Japanese descent. They met in San Francisco. I was born in England, so it means I have a multiple citizenship. Comes in handy sometimes. I lived in England until moving to the States to go to med school."
"Why here?"
"Needed to get out. Away from my father."
"Oh." Blair turned to watch the sun set behind the Olympics. It had been days since he had last seen a "sun break."
After a moment of silence, Ian asked, "So, why does English public school fascinate you so much?"
"I'm an anthropologist. Social structures have always fascinated me."
"Do you teach at Rainier?"
"Yeah. I'm still working on my dissertation, though."
"One of the reasons I went to med school. Tough exams, but no bloody dissertation. Least of all, on some subject that no one would give a damn about like whether Shakespeare had a phobia of the word, 'fie.'" Ian pulled in front of the police station. As Blair got out of the car, Ian noticed him shiver and said, "Wait a moment." He opened the door and moved to the trunk. "Here, wear this." Ian handed Blair a thick gray cable-knit sweater.
"Man, I can't take that."
"Sure you can. I expect I'll see you tomorrow morning?"
"You can count on it. I feel bad enough leaving Jim overnight, but I need to get my clothes and Jim's medical journal."
"You keep his medical journal?"
"Long story. Thanks for the ride." Blair slipped on the sweater. "And thanks for this, too."
"Any time. See you tomorrow." Ian watched Blair scramble through the cold air and into the station.
"Blair!" Ryf exclaimed as he say the young man. "Look at you! How'd you manage that shiner?"
"It's nothing."
"Nothing? It looks like you broke some bones!"
"It looks worse than it is. Jim hit me by mistake. He didn't see what he was doing."
"Jeez. I knew that guy could hit, but I had no idea. So how is he?"
"He's sedated. I came by just to tell Simon."
Blair headed for Simon's office, when Ryf stopped him. "No, Blair. You do not want to go in there."
"Trust him on that," Taggart added from his desk. "You certainly don't want to go in there."
"Why? What happened?"
"This Fed came by. Reamed Captain Banks a new hole for that whole warehouse thing. Then he went totally ballistic."
"You're kidding."
"No. Trust me. That is the last place you want to go."
Blair stared at Simon's door for a few moments before saying. "Then I need to apologize, too." Blair screwed up his courage.
"You're a braver man than I, Gunga Din," Taggart called out after him.
Blair tapped lightly on the glass. When he didn't hear a response from Simon, he slowly opened the door and peeked inside. "Simon?"
Simon sat at his desk, toying with something in his hand. His office looked like a disaster area -- the chairs overturned and files strewn. Blair's gut clenched in sudden fear. But when Simon looked up at him, his eyes didn't express anger so much as discomfort. Blair closed the door, then righted one of the chairs to sit down.
"How's Jim?" Simon asked in a controlled voice.
"He's sedated."
"How's the black eye."
"Throbs a little."
"Did they give you something for it?"
"Just told me to take some ibuprofen."
"You have some of that back at the loft?"
"Yeah." After a few moments, Blair finally asked. "Simon, what happened?"
"Agent Harold Oestend happened."
"You're kidding? He did all this?"
"I had to have him escorted out of the building, but not before he spent way too long accusing me and my men of ruining his investigation."
"How . . . how did we ruin it? We found his storage facilities and they were booby-trapped."
"I know, Blair, you don't have to defend yourself to me."
"You had him escorted out?"
"Yeah. His superior officer just called me with an apology. Used the same old excuse that Oestend had been working too closely on the case and had let it get the better of him."
"Man." Then Blair noticed what Simon held in his hand. It was the broken pieces of one of his black angel collectibles. "Whoa, Simon, he broke one of your angels?"
Simon just nodded.
"Can you fix it?"
"I can put it back together. I can't fix it though."
"Huh?"
"Now every time I look at this angel, I'm going to know that it's not whole, like it was. That it's been broken. That it's been somehow changed." Simon made eye contact with Blair. "People are like that, too, you know."
Blair focused on what he was saying. "Simon, I'm all right."
"No, Sandburg, you're fixed. You've been put back together. I'd like to think Jim had a part in that."
"He did."
"I thought so. Jim guards over you, I've noticed. It bothered me at first, because I thought that was the last thing he needed to do -- watch after some fool kid. But I guess that's exactly what Jim needed. He's come out of his cave to watch over you. And Jim's mellowed out a lot more since you came along. He's become a lot more human. But you, you've changed this year. You're a lot more reserved. A lot more serious. It makes me worry that Jim might be having an adverse affect on you."
"Simon, it's not Jim."
"Good." Simon waited a moment before asking. "So what is it? Are you still . . . hurting because of this other guy?"
"It hurts," Blair confessed, "but not as bad. I'm learning to live with it. I finally had to tell myself that I'm not the only person who's lost someone close. Everyone else lives on. I have to live on, too."
Simon nodded, then put the angel down on his desk. He stood and said, "I need to get you home, I expect."
"I'd appreciate it."
"Appreciate nothing. If an officer saw you walking around Cascade in a designer sweater and scrubs, they'd pull you over and think you had just gotten out of a mental institution and rolled some rich guy for clothes. Then I'd have to come back here and get you out."
As he walked around the loft, Blair couldn't focus his mind on any one thought. The intense emptiness pervading the loft haunted him. He had things he needed to say to Jim, not to mention just the simple fact that he missed him. He found himself cleaning the kitchen, and then the bathroom before realizing what he was doing. Then he began packing a bag for Jim, of essentials he thought Jim would need, even Blair's discman so that Jim could listen /when he could hear/ to his boxed set of Santana singles.
He had already called the hospital to check on him. "Is this Blair?" the nurse had asked. She told him Jim was still asleep. "Now you get some sleep, too," the nurse said. As Blair hung up the phone, it struck him as odd that she recognized his voice, and although the voice was familiar to him, he couldn't place the face. /We really are there too often./
In a fit of optimism, Blair began packing the clothes Jim would wear when he would be released. But as he stood in front of Jim's closet, Blair reached out slowly to touch Jim's clothes. /In all the times that I dated Jack, and afterwards, Jim never stopped touching me./ Blair ran his fingers down the length of a flannel shirt sleeve. /He's always been so physical toward me. But, Blair, he's a sentinel -- touch is one of his bonds with you, with his guide./
He sighed.
Blair pulled the cloth to his nose, then cursed himself for not being a sentinel. /I can't smell Jim on this./ He sat down on the bed and hugged his arms to his chest. When he did this, it was Ian's sweater he felt.
The first thing Blair had done when he got into the loft was to change into jeans, but he left the soft, warm sweater on. Now, sitting on Jim's bed, he could smell the cologne Ian wore. Without moving a muscle, Blair withdrew into his thoughts.
/I want Jim. Last year, I fell in love with him. And I couldn't have him./ Then Blair remembered how quickly he had fallen for Jack. It had happened so fast, like Jack was a life preserver. /I ran away to Jack. Just the same way as my mother would run to a place when she had problems with a guy, I ran away to a person./
He closed his eyes and remembered nights with Jack. Of Jack running his hands down the length of his body, feeling his muscles strain into his own. Jack had taught him one thing -- loving another man can be just as passionate an experience as loving a woman.
Now, there was Ian. Blair pulled the sweater to his nose again. Ian had sparked something in him today. The handsome eyes, the defined features, the thick hair. He had the aesthetics to make him noticed. But there was something else. There was a humanity to him, a charm and a charisma. And even more than that, there was a interest, an attraction, that Blair could feel coming from Ian. /Ian's attracted to me./
Blair stood up to flip through the shirts in Jim's closet. /Jim. Am I running away from you again?/ He pulled his hands back as if shocked. /Blair, why do you put yourself through this? Jim is straight. He loves you more than any straight guy ever has and . . . and what's more, I bet if you asked Jim to sleep with you, I'm sure he would. Not because he wanted to but because you asked him. Now, would that be worth it? . . . Blair, you have a choice -- you can stay in this unrequited love with Jim, or you can pursue Ian, who seems to be a nice guy and seems to like you a lot. So what is it? Do you take love or not?/
Blair arrived at the hospital at eight. As he walked past the nurses station, he recognized most of the nurses there. "Janice, Elaine, how's it going?"
"Blair?" Janice pushed her long red hair from her face. "Why are you here?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Elaine interrupted. "Detective Ellison's in room 450." Then she whispered, "He's restrained though."
Blair sauntered into Jim's room, tossing Jim's suitcase along with his coat and back-pack on the empty bed he had occupied the night before. Looking once over his shoulder for any nurses, he pulled Jim's velcro restraints loose and dropped the guard rails down so that he could sit on the mattress. Then he took Jim's hand in his and waited.
Jim's eyes opened an hour later, but they seemed dazed and unfocused. He reached out. "Blair?"
Blair heard the vague croak of Jim's voice and caught his other hand. "It's okay, Jim. I'm here."
"Blair? I can't see anything." Jim sat up, placing his right hand on Blair's flank and his left on his shoulder. "I can't see. I . . . can't see."
"Shhh. It's okay, big guy. Can you hear me?"
Jim nodded.
"You can feel me, right?"
Jim nodded again, running his hand from Blair's arm pit to his hip. Blair closed his eyes -- the motion was so erotic. He sighed slightly and Jim stopped.
"What's happening to me, Chief?"
"Huh? Did you say what's happening?" After Jim nodded, Blair continued. "We don't know, yet." Jim took a quick, worried breath and Blair added, "But don't worry. It's nothing more than a world-famous Jim Ellison reaction to a drug. That's all. Okay, big guy? Okay?"
Jim nodded. Then he froze, and his eyes grew wide.
"Jim?"
"Blair, it's happening again," he said, shouting so that Blair could just barely hear him.
"What?"
"The sound." He pulled Blair tighter toward his chest. So close to his ear, Blair could hear him much better, even as Jim's voice became blocked by fright and emotion. "It's going away again. Blair, don't go away." /Don't put me back in there. It's dark, and quiet, and lonely./
Blair pulled Jim into a tight hug. "I'm right here."
"It's dark in here. It's dark. Don't leave me. Don't. Blair? Blair? Where are you going?" Jim's grasp on Blair became looser.
/He must be losing his sense of touch/ Blair thought as he pulled away. He began to push Jim back onto the bed, when Jim started fighting him.
At that moment, Dr. Yoshito entered the room. He rushed to the other side of the bed and pushed Jim back, grabbing for his arms.
"Hey!" Blair shouted. "Not so rough!"
Ian secured one of Jim's hands, then said, "Blair, I would appreciate it if you would let us keep Mr. Ellison restrained until he can stay calm." After the second arm was secured, Ian looked up at Blair. He could tell Blair was angry. Smoothing his ruffled black hair, Ian added, "I'm sorry. It's for his own good." Blair didn't say anything, but only sat on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed, staring down at Jim. Sighing, Ian pulled out his stethoscope. "His heart is racing."
"He's scared," Blair snapped at him. "You would be, too. . . . I know I would."
Ian took a tuning fork from his coat pocket and struck the edge of the bed. Moving it around Jim's face and ears, he didn't notice any reaction from the detective. Then he flashed his penlight into his eyes. Nothing. Finally, Ian stood up straight, shaking his head.
"What?"
"I just don't understand it. Physically, he's fine. But nothing's working."
"He could hear this morning."
Ian eyed Blair quickly. "He could? How do you know?"
"We spoke to each other. And he could feel, but he couldn't see."
"Could he smell?"
"I don't know. I didn't think to ask."
Ian remembered tossing Jim's file on the other bed when he had entered the room. Crossing to Blair's side of the bed, he opened the file and began reading. "The drugs he was exposed to shouldn't have had this effect."
"Oh, here," Blair turned to grab his backpack. "Here's part of Jim's medical journal."
He took the heavy three-ring binder from Blair. "Part of it? Blair, there's over . . . 400 pages here."
"Yeah, well, Jim's had some sort of reaction to just about everything."
"Why do you keep such a journal for him?"
"Uhm . . . well, he's my partner. I have to keep an eye on him in the field."
"In the field? You said you were an anthropologist. You said you taught at Rainier."
"Yeah, I do. But I also work for the Cascade PD, as an official observer. I work as Jim's partner, and in return, I get to research the social structures of the department for my dissertation."
"But you're not a cop?"
"Well, no, not really."
"So, why do you work with him in the field?"
Blair remembered something Ian had said last night. He tapped the notebook with his finger and said, "There's your answer."
Ian shook his head slowly in disbelief as he opened the notebook. "You have a bloody table of contents?"
"Yes, I have a bloody table of contents," Blair replied in exasperation. "Do you think any of these chemicals is related to the ones Jim was exposed to?"
Ian scanned the list. "Aspirin?"
"We were exposed to aspirin?"
"No, no." He looked down again, then eyed Blair with a confused expression. "Aspirin?"
"Will you look at these things?!"
"Fine. Here, let's look at these. Page 271." Ian flipped the pages over awkwardly before he had to finally set the heavy notebook down on the empty bed. "These over-the-counter medicines have a similar chemical structure." Ian read one page, then flipped to the second. He paused to see how many pages he had to read, flipping and flipping and flipping until finally he looked up at Blair again. "This is what you do for him?"
"Ian, stop looking at me like I'm crazy. Yes, this is what I do for Jim. It's my job." He hooked his thumb at his partner. "And you can see why."