Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/ityliana

Author's disclaimer: I can't begin to say how sorry I am that I don't own them, but considering how mean I am to Blair, I'm sure that they're awefully glad that I don't.

Author's notes: Big angst warning, though this is no-where near what Penny Prophet was. As the series continues, however, it'll get incrementally worse, then, hopefully, better. This is going to be a rather long series of short to medium-length stories, so please be patient while I work them out. Thanks to the American Brain Tumor Association, which had a ton of useful information to help with Blair's symptoms.

It's in the nature of a human being to make plans for the future. Where to go to college, what to do for a living, what type of person to marry, where to spend vacations... Everything, anything, is typically laid out by the amazing human brain, catalogued into various degrees of importance as we got through life, checking off deeds accomplished and things yet to be.

I never thought to plan for this.

I'd always assumed that when I died, it'd be in some great fireball of glory somewhere in the line of duty-- I'd been shot at, kidnapped, threatened, and beaten too many times for me not to expect death on the wings of violence. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that instead I would exit the world with the soft sigh of diseased genetics.

Define irony.

Death has never frightened me quite the way that it does now. Then, I suppose, I was too wrapped up in the fight to stay alive, but it's hard to fight against something that's inside of you, creeping swiftly through your brain and destroying that oh so delicate tissue in it's wake.

God, I'm scared. I'm so, so scared. I don't know how to fight this, to understand this, to wrap my mind around the possibility that I may only have weeks or months left in my life. It's eating up inside of me, gnawing on who I am, stealing my very self as even my thoughts are perverted or destroyed by the alien creature inside of me.

Cancer. Damn. Cancer.

And, somehow, Jim Ellison, Sentinel of the Great City and the only person that I'd give up anything to protect-- somehow, he found a way to blame himself for my... condition.

That man has more talent for self-blame than anyone I've ever met.

God, how I love him. And how it hurts me to see him hurting for me.

The darkness chased him out of his fragile sleep, pushing him forward with a choking gasp as his eyes flew open in shock, staring blindly at the smooth hospital ceiling without recognition. His heart hammered in fear as he desperately tried to remember where he was, until the typical, familiar institutional noises of Cascade Memorial Hospital washed over him, and Blair sank back into his sweat-dampened pillows with a relieved sigh, lulled back into calm by the familiar surroundings.

"Oh, man," he groaned lightly, swiveling his head to check out his body, looking for the tell-tale signs of gunshot wounds or broken bones. "What happened to me?"

Blair blinked in surprise at the absence of bandages or IVs, his brown brows drawing together as he cast back in his memory, drawing a mental blank whenever he tried to conger what the latest threat had been. No gun wound. No burns. No missing limbs or any other obvious indicators of trauma. Shrugging philosophically, Blair began to sit up, blanching mid-way and falling back onto his back with a hissing sigh, his eyes squeezing shut against the nausea that threatened to rise up within him. "Head wound," he spat through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his clammy forehead and he tried to take in soothing breaths through his nose, imagining sunny expanses of sand and warm, peaceful jungles.

Slowly, the fierce, blinding pain receded, taking the nausea along with it, and Blair carefully let his blue eyes open, ridiculously thankful that the lights were off and the blinds closed. Thank God for small favors. Oh, shit, ouch. He winced. Whoever decked me one over the head, I hope that Jim went Blessed Protector on him and knocked him a good one.

Imagining the faceless perp getting mauled by his huge, protective partner was enough to bring a small smile to Sandburg's lips, and he was still smiling and humming slightly to himself when the door opened.

"Hey Jim!" he called happily, wincing as the noise of his own words shot through his skull. Jim was standing still on the threshold of the room, looking sick and wounded, eyes too large and face too pale as his gaze tracked over his partner on the bed, lips tightening and tell-tale line deepening between his brows. "Come on in, man," Blair continued, quieter this time, motioning towards a chair, "and tell me what happened."

"You don't remember?" That deep, faintly gruff voice held a note of... something... within it as the older man stepped into the room and shut the door quietly behind him, cutting off the rush of hospital noises as he stepped towards the bed and took the proffered seat. His face, Blair noted, was lined and grin, as if he hadn't slept, and he felt a fist of worry tighten within him as he began to wonder what could have sparked that deep, torn look within his Sentinel's gaze.

"No, no man, I don't remember anything." He tried to sit up again, wincing at the sharp pain but ignoring it as he stared at his partner, worry etching his mobile face. "What happened, Jim? Are you all right? Simon?"

"God, Blair," Jim choked, eyes going suspiciously bright as he stared at him. His large, thick hands tangled together as if in prayer as he tore his gaze away from those beautiful, shadowed blue depths, recognizing the hard core that rose into his throat. "Simon's fine, Blair. I'm fine."

"Is everyone else okay?" At Jim's strangled noise, Blair pounded his fists onto his legs, fury sparking sudden and hot. "Damn it, Jim!" he yelled, face reddening as he glared at the older man, feeling oddly triumphant when that harried, hurt gaze turned to meet his, "why don't you stop pissing around and fucking tell me!"

"Blair..."

And then, as suddenly as the anger had come, it was gone. "Oh, God, Jim-- I'm sorry," Blair gasped, the red draining from his face as he stared at the other man, mouth gaping. "I didn't mean... I mean, I didn't want to yell... Shit." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, as if attempting to block out his own fury of moments before. "I don't know what I was thinking, man." Sighing deep, he opened his eyes again and met the still-dark gaze of his best friend, swallowing down his own shame. "Are we good?"

"We're good." It seemed to cost Jim much to say the words, and for the first time, Blair began to wonder if perhaps there was something the matter with him that he should be worried about.

"Okay, Jim, just come on out and tell me." The older man started up in surprise, and Blair nodded at the confirmation, reading the other man's expressions with the ease of many years close observation. "I know that there's something pretty bad going down here or you wouldn't be looking like someone just kicked you in the stomach." He leaned forward and lightly touched the tense shoulder, gaze trained on the incredible blue of his Sentinel as he tried to coax the stubborn man out of his pity-funk. "You can tell me, Jim."

Fine, sharp tremors shuddered through Jim's body as he stared into the gentle depths before him, blessing a God he no longer worshipped that he had been given such a man and cursing that same God who was now taking him away. "It's, it's about you, Blair," he began, almost tentatively, a large hand reaching up reflexively to clench Blair's fingers in a tight, reassuring grip. Who're you reassuring, Ellison? Blair for being ill, or yourself for possibly losing him? "I..."

His next words were cut off by the opening of the door.

"Ah, Blair," the female doctor smiled, hefting her filepad as she cast a glance at Jim. "And Detective Ellison, I presume?"

"Jim Ellison," he nodded, standing and releasing Blair's hand. It remained up in the air for a moment, still and white before it fluttered back onto the hospital bed where it rested, looking small and fragile. The damnedest things you notice when the world goes to hell.

"Jim. My name is Doctor Ellen Kimbell."

"Dr. Kimbell, I..."

"Please, Ellen." She smiled over at Blair, plain face warm as she included him into their conversation. "There's no need for formality here."

"Fine. Ellen, have you learned anything new?"

She looked at him with large, dark eyes, her face warm and compassionate. "Not yet, but that's why I'm here." Then, turning away from Jim, she approached the hospital bed where she perched at Blair's side, pad resting in her lap at she looked at her patient. "And how are you feeling today, Blair?"

"I'd be a lot better if I knew why I was here." An impulsive grin broke out as he smoothed back his dark curls, eyes gleaming. "What do you say, Ellen-- you got any information for me?"

The famed Sandburg charm was out in full force.

She smiled. "I will after we run a few short tests." Jim moved closer to the bed, hovering behind her as he were silently beckoning her to hurry and make Blair healthy again. "Will that be all right with you, Blair?"

He glanced over her shoulder at his partner, eyes a question. "Sure. I don't see why not." Then his eyes trained back on hers and he smiled. "If you tell me what you think's wrong with me."

She sighed, reaching up to push back her glasses as she studied him. "Okay, that sounds fair to me." The doctor paused as if considering what she should say, and Jim tensed behind her, waiting for her words. "Well, Blair, many of your symptoms as catalogued sound alarmingly like the symptoms for certain types of cancer. Now, it's not certain that..."

"Wait, wait, wait," Blair cut in, hands gesturing for her to slow. She let her words trickle off as she gazed at him, patience and understanding making damning evidence as to the truth in her words. "Are you saying that I've got... that I've got cancer?" His gaze flickered up to Jim's, but the larger man wasn't meeting his gaze. "No way," he breathed, flicking his tongue over his dried lips, shaking his head in weak denial. "There's no way."

"Blair," Dr. Ellen began, reaching out with a soft, cool hand to touch his arm, forcing him to look at her. "Blair, I understand that this is quite a shock for you, but I want you to keep in mind that this is not a definite diagnosis-- we have to run several tests, check and recheck the results before we can definitely say that you have anything. At the moment, that's just an educated guess, something that you should keep in mind as a possibility, but not a definitely prognosis. All right?" Numbly, he nodded, not quite able to process her words. Cancer... "Good." Sighing, she glanced over her shoulder at the silent Ellison. "Jim, if you would please shut the door on your way out?"

"No." He shook his head in redundant denial, eyes training on Blair. "I'm not leaving him."

"Jim, I..."

"No."

Blair leaned forward and touched her arm. "I'd really prefer it if he could stay."

Dr. Ellen glanced between the set-jawed man and her patient, recognizing the twin lights of determination shining in their eyes. "Oh, all right. He can stay, if he promises to stay quiet and out of the way. This shouldn't take long anyway." Standing, she pulled out a pen and uncapped it, looking down at Blair with a warm, professional gaze as she flipped the pad to a new page. "All right, Blair-- what can you tell me about your symptoms?"

Casting a startled glance at Jim, Blair said, "Well, I've had a cold."

"For how long?" Steadily, she began jotting down notes.

"A couple of weeks, I guess. Maybe longer."

"And what were the symptoms of this cold?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable. "Headaches, mild nausea, and a little bit of dizziness-- they all seemed to fade as the afternoon came. That's about it." He gave a weak laugh. "Nothing to get concerned over, unless you're a woman."

"I see." She paused for a moment, as if uncertain how to procede. Then, slowly, she began, "Blair, have you suffered from any disorientation or memory loss?"

"No, I don't believe so."

At Jim's sudden, pained sound, both doctor and patient turned to look at the older man. "Jim?" Ellen said softly. "Do you have something to add?"

"Ah." He couldn't quite look at his partner. "You have been acting strangely for a while, Blair."

"Strange mood swings? Uncontrollable behavior?" At Jim's silent nod, she began to jot something down. "I see."

"That's bull shit!" Blair objected, glaring between the two. "That plain bull shit! I have not been acting strange, I've been... I've..." Tears welled in his eyes suddenly, making the blue orbs bright and hurt. "Oh, God."

Drawn to his Guide's side, Jim placed a large hand over Blair's trembling fingers, his grip tightening as the younger man turned his hand to lace their grips tightly, drawing strength from the man next to him. "Maybe," he began falteringly, voice low and weak. "Maybe I have been acting out of character lately."

"It's okay, Blair," Dr. Ellen assured him, setting down her pen and pad with a slight sigh. "I understand that all this is very upsetting to you-- to both of you," she included Jim in her compassionate look. "Things like this are very trying, and we're doing all that we can to make this easier for you." She smiled slightly, tucking back a strand of mousy brown hair. "I'll tell you what-- I can get the information that I need from your Captain and Jim here a bit later. Now, though, we're going to have to run through some small tests."

"Tests?" Jim's sudden gaze was piercing, and Dr. Ellen took a step back despite herself, alarmed by the fierceness in those eyes. "What kind of tests?"

"Hey, Jim, it's okay," Blair assured him immediately, grip tightening. "I'm sure they're perfectly harmless tests-- right, Doc?" He looked at Ellen with pleading eyes.

"You're right, Blair-- we're just going to do a very basic neurological exam. Okay?"

"All right." His voice was weak, but he smiled bravely.

"Great! The first thing I want you to do is follow the motion of my finger." Smiling gently, she held up a hand, all fingers folded over except for her pointer finger, which traced the air as Blair watched, following the motions of the digit with his eyes. "All right, good," she said, leaning down to jot down something on her pad before coming up again, this time with a metal pen light. "Now I'm going to check your pupil dilation..." The light flicked onto his eye, and Blair flinched briefly before steadying his gaze, his fingers lacing through Jim's as he sat.

"Okay, that's good," she murmured, pulling a wrapped bundle out of her lab coat pocket and laying it on the bed-side table. "I'd like you to close your eyes, please Blair." Obediently, he let his eyes flicker closed as she rustled through the small pack. Then, "What side is the noise coming from?"

"Nois..? Oh, right." There was a pause. "Right again. Left. Um... right?"

"Good, good. Now, keeping your eyes closed, touch your index finger to your nose." Blair took a moment to untangle his fingers from Jim's tight grasp before he raised his right hand, hitting just below his nose as he touched it to his face.

"Damn."

"It's okay, Blair. Try again." He did so, this time just reaching the tip of his nose. "Great! Now, I want you to think about something for me."

"I'm good at that."

The smile was evident in her voice, "I'm sure you are, Blair. So, can you tell me what 'a stitch in time saves nine' means?"

A pause, then, "Excuse me?"

"Keep your eyes closed, Blair. What does 'a stitch in time saves nine' mean?"

"Um..." his brow furrowed as Blair searched through his brain for the reference. "Well, a stitch, uh..."

Reaching into her pouch, Ellen drew out a capped needle and a cotton ball, her eyes meeting Jim's briefly before he nodded, his face twisted in pain as Blair struggled with his words. "It's, it's right there on my tongue..."

"Keep thinking, Blair." Gently, she brushed the cotton ball against his hand and nodded when it did not twitch. Concerned, Jim watched her write something down on her pad-- he could've zeroed in to see what, but found himself feeling faintly sick at the thought of knowing what any of this could mean-- then, methodically pulling off the sterilized cap, jabbed the sharp edge of the pen into Sandburg's finger.

Blair didn't even move.

"A stitch is, uh, something with thread..."

Shaking her head, Ellen looked up to meet Jim's eyes again as she drew the needle tip out of his Guide's numb finger, reaching into her lab pocket to pull out a small paper packet which she effortlessly tore open and pressed the damp cleansing cloth against the small bead of blood that welled up on the pale finger.

Swallowing reflexively, Jim forced himself to remain calm, even though inside his mind was screaming.

"All right, Blair," Dr. Ellen said softly, breaking into his stuttering monologue as she turned around to work at the bedside table. "You can stop now."

Eyes flickering open slowly, Blair turned to look at Jim, blue gaze wide and pleading. "I really do know," he assured his partner, hands shaking as he wet his lips. "It just wouldn't... I just couldn't..."

"I know."

It was all that Jim could manage to say.

"I'm going to give you a shot, Blair. It'll put you to sleep almost immediately, which will be good for your body regardless, and prepare you for a MRI scan should we decide that it's necessary." Lifting up the syringe, she nodded towards his arm. "If you'd let me..."

"So, what... I mean, how... Damn it!" Tears welled up within his eyes as the words would not come, and he looked up at his Sentinel pleadingly, lip trembling and achingly child-like.

Looking away with a shuddering sigh, Jim Ellison felt something tear inside of him.

"There," Dr. Ellen smiled softly, stepping away as she recapped the syringe and began to bundle up her small pack. "All done."

Dark curls swung as he turned his head to stare at her, eyes wide. "But you never even. You didn't."

She sighed as she slipped the black pouch into her lab coat and lifted up her pad, face worn and serious. "You're going to be a bit numb for a while and may experience some strange sounds and smells. You'll feel a bit confused and out of control, but... It's all right, Blair," she added softly, squeezing his hand briefly, face saddening as she noted his alarmed surprise. He doesn't feel my hand on his. "We're going to take care of you. For now, just sleep." At his weak nod, she looked up to meet Ellison's gaze and motioned for him to follow her out of the room.

Jim paused, torn between leaving his hurt Guide and following the Doctor before he shook his head fiercely and followed her out of the silent room, his face set in stone and mortar.

Shutting the door softly behind them, Dr. Ellen turned to look at the silent man. "I'm going to speak with Dr. Evans-- he's the area's top expert on brain tumors. That's not the definite prognosis as of yet, but..." she sighed as she glanced at the closed door, "It looks very likely." Lips tightening, she continued, "The injection I gave him should keep him sleeping for several hours-- in the meantime, I'm going to be working on finding him a MRI table so that we can get scans of his tissue as soon as possible, while the syrum is dying his brain cells for detection. In the meantime, I want you to watch over him-- when he wakes up again, he's going to be disoriented and very frightened, and he's going to need you to help him through this." Her keen dark gaze cut into him, opening the Sentinel up before her as she continued. "He doesn't need to be worrying over you as well. Remember that. This is hard enough for him." Then, with a motherly squeeze of his hand, she hefted her pad and headed off down the hall.

Jim stood where he was for long, timeless moments, his face frozen in stoicism as his heart shattered.

Impossible. This was all so impossible.

But too unbelievably true.

Blair. Blair's sick. He's... he's very, very sick. Oh, God. "Oh, God." Eyes squeezing shut, Jim stumbled against the cool white wall, unable to block the soundless sobs that rise up from within him like a mindless flood, like a... a...

Like a cancer.

Shoulder's hunching, Jim shook his head, denying what had just happened, denying the destruction of that beautiful brain and needed smile, as vital as air and far more precious. Don't die, Blair. Please, please, please don't die.

"I'll give you anything," Jim whispered huskily, eyes casting Heavenwards in desperation and pain. "Anything, if You'd just... just, ah please..." Shoulders jerking, he dropped his head into his hands, unable to stop the wash of black terror, yet unable to cry. The tears jammed behind his eyelids, building and building as they tore restlessly through his body, choking his heart and lungs in emotion that he didn't know how to express.

"Blair..."

Then, hands squeezing tight as he mustered his strength and pulled it all back inside where the unfettered tears could break against the wall of his denial, Jim Ellison stood, took a deep, steadying breath, and headed back into Blair's cold, silent room.

He had a Guide to protect.

Author's notes: There you go-- I promised that I'd finish the next chapter as soon as possible. Hopefully, this cutting off point isn't quite as bad as the last one. There's a lot more to go, and I had planned to put more into this story, but decided that it would be a lot easier and faster if I worked in a piece-meal fashion-- considering I had thirty items in my notes and Fragile Flame represents a total sum of two of them... :) All feedback to palthanas@hotmail.com And thank you to everyone who sent me feedback on Penny Prophet-- the tons of support (and threats :) that I received are what made Fragile Flames come out of me so effortlessly. Usually it takes me quite a while to write. :) The next chapter deals with further testing and angst and is tentatively entitled Uncommon Strengths.