Author's disclaimer: Pet Fly's, Paramount's, yadda yadda...

Author's notes: This is a prequel to "In the Silences". It has gone through several um, difficulties, but I'm happy with the finished product, for the most part. Many thanks to those of you that wrote me about In the Silences, and I think I'm going to start working on a sequel soon. I guess this might be turning into a series. We'll see. At any rate, I promise, the next one will have some sex in it. :-) Oh, and I think this qualifys as a tiny bit AU..

I awoke to the delicious, and totally unheard of, scent of bacon frying.

My nose twitched, bringing me out of a deep sleep a little sooner than I would have liked, and one eye squinted open, not entirely sure that this wasn't some diabolical master plan my Guide had concocted to get me up to do tests on my day off.

I blinked a few times, then closed my eyes and scented deeply. Eggs, already cooked. Real butter. Green peppers. Monterrey Jack cheese. Salsa. All overlaid with the delectable scent of the bacon frying.

I smiled, and my eyes slid open again, only, by the narrowest margin, restraining a groan of lust.

Sandburg was making Mexican omelets.

Not at all sure that I wanted to get up, just yet, even for the lure of Mexican Omelets, I rolled over, and stared at the ceiling for a moment, debating.

"Jim? You awake man?" I rolled my eyes a bit. Sometimes I wondered just who the Sentinel was in this relationship. Sandburg always displayed an eerie ability to know my every waking movement, something I wasn't too sure I liked, at times.

/Little like the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it, Jimbo?/ At times, my subconscious was a bit schizophrenic, and I realized that, if nothing else. I didn't even want to admit to myself just how often I listened to my roommate. Blair Sandburg was the first thing I listened for in the morning, and the last thing I heard at night, as I lay down to sleep. I could sleep without my partner in the loft with me, but it was restless. Ill-at ease, until the tiny part of me that was waiting, heard that familiar scrape of a key in the lock, and the soft shuffle of shoes being slipped off, and sock-clad feet, sliding almost noiselessly across hardwood floors. That was the sound that said it was all right. My tribe was accounted for, even if it was only a tribe of one, and the Sentinel could rest easily.

Sandburg would never find out just how closely he was watched and listened to. Free-spirit that he was, he would take off for parts unknown so fast my head would spin, everything in his make-up threatened by the fact that he had no privacy.

For someone as ostensibly open, and easy with himself; friendly, and quick with a smile, Blair was amazingly private, and closed off. He just didn't flaunt it, the way I did.

I reflected that I was more like the fortress. Blair was more like the deceptively easy maze that you could find yourself wandering in forever, if you weren't careful.

"Jim!" The Voice was more impatient now, a tone of: 'I'm going to come up there, and kick your ass out of that bed in five minutes, if you aren't down here' lurking in it. Steel hidden under a satin coat of sweetness.

That was something else that had always amazed me. I had never seen anyone that could spit out three paragraphs in one word before.

For all of Sandburg's chatter, it always seemed that he said more when he was being stoic, which certainly didn't happen very often.

"Jim, if you don't get down here soon, these omelets and this coffee are going to the Ruthorford's down the hall. I'm sure what with sitting their grandkids, they could use the refueling."

I had pulled my robe on, and was coming downstairs before my Guide had even finished speaking.

After all, introspection in the morning, was an inherent danger, but nothing was worth missing out on a breakfast like this one.

I swear to God, he is the slowest human being known to man, sometimes. I get all the guff at the station, because I'm late, and he's Mr. Punctuality, but if they could see him in the morning, on his day off, they'd be singing a different tune.

"Jim, if you don't get down here soon, these omelets, and this coffee are going to the Ruthorford's down the hall. I'm sure what with sitting their grandkids, they could use the refueling."

Ah, there he comes. I knew a threat to his food would get him down here.

"All right, all right, Sandburg," he grumps, and I grin. There's just something about him, that looks so adorable, with what little hair he has, all mussed like that. Bedhead looks good on him, whereas, it only looks hysterically laughable on me.

"Siddown," I mumble around a mouthful of toast. He looks down at me, surprised, but slowly moves to sit down at the table. I bring his plate, and a cup of coffee, fixed just the way he likes it, over to his place setting. His eyes narrow in suspicion, and I almost laugh.

I don't know, myself, why I'm doing the wifely bit this morning. I just woke up with the urge to cook breakfast. I've been doing things like this a lot lately. Little odds and ends that don't really have to be done, but I feel compelled to do them anyway.

"Breakfast is served."

"What the hell did you do, Sandburg? Who do you want me to kill? Or do you want to make sure I won't kill you?" If I were really guilty of something, I would act affronted, but as it is, I just shake my head, letting him know I'm as confused by it as he is. After all, it isn't my usual MO to be getting up at eight o'clock on my day off, either. I tend to like to sleep in until about nine-thirty, if at all possible.

"Nothing, Jim. Nothing's wrong. You need to hurry up and eat," I said distractedly, as I was fixing my own plate.

"Why?" I opened my mouth to answer him, then shut it again, as I realized I had no idea. To cover my sudden discomfiture, I shrugged, and sat at the table.

He was still looking at me, as I picked up my fork, and began to eat quickly, trying my damndest to ignore the fact that he was looking at me with uncomfortable perception.

Hell, he was a detective, after all.

But what the hell is he going to detect? Hmm. And just what is the hurry on getting breakfast out of the way? It's not like your going to have a whole lot to do today.

It was true. I knew it was true. We had both been looking forward to a day off for a while, and there wasn't anything we had going on the itinerary. There was no reason to be in a hurry.

I ruthlessly forced down the desire to hurry, and finish the meal, and picked my fork up leisurely, taking a ridiculously small bite of omelet.

Jim looked at me as if I was insane.

I cleared my throat, and took a large gulp of way hot coffee, paying for it with a scalded tongue. That broke a little of the tension, and he found himself snickering helplessly. After a moment, I joined in, my impulse to hurry forgotten at the moment.

As I was picking up the dishes, and rinsing them off to load the dishwasher, the phone rang. I absently loaded the plates as I focused on what Jim was saying. Not that it was too difficult.

"What!! Damn it Simon, this is my first day off since- Yeah. Yeah. All right. Yes sir. Give me forty minutes." A pause, then. "Yeah, no problem, sir." This last was said with a streak of disgust one would usually reserve for excruciatingly nasty odors coming from one of the dumpsters forgotten in an alley on the East Side.

"So what's the new plan for the day, Boss?" His mouth quirked up for a moment, as I knew it would. He knows damned well that the only time I'll call him Boss, is in jest.

"Believe it or not, serving warrants." I couldn't help myself. I boggled.

"What? They called us in on our day off to spend the goddamned day doing foot patrol?" I should probably have been a little nicer about it, and I really expected him to lay into me a little for bitching about it, but he shocked me by sitting back, and smiling a little, secret, smile. Before I could question him about it, he continued.

"Patrol has the "blue flu"." I know I stood there looking at him stupidly.

"The what?"

"It's kind of like a short strike. If they're wanting a raise or better conditions, or whatever. It usually has to be pretty bad for this to come up. The entire division gets a terrible case of the flu on the same day. Usually lasts for a couple of days, and they usually get what they want, since they almost never want anything they aren't supposed to have in the first place."

"Oh." I kind of liked the sound of that. Peaceful conflict resolution. I always admired that, especially in police officers who were trained for action more than words. Well, I guess this was action after all...just more like passive aggression.

"So why does this entail calling us in on out day off?" There was that damnable smile again. What in the world was going on with him this morning?

"Well, the thing is, Conner is still visiting family in Australia. Her vacation won't be over for another five days. The strike will be over by then, most likely. And Rafe and Brown really do have the flu. I think they caught it from that little brat they hauled in a week ago."

"The pickpocket?" I remembered he had been sick, and he had made it a point of sneezing and coughing violently all over anyone unlucky enough to be in the same room with him.

"Yeah," Jim said glumly. I had no problems wondering what he was thinking. I was thinking about the same thing. Our day off had been ruined by a nasty, spiteful little thief that probably hadn't had more than twenty dollars or so to his haul, and had been brought in solely by the bad luck of Rafe and Brown sitting next to the old lady the kid had picked as a mark.

Murphy's Law all the way around.

"Anyway, they need people from every department to cover the loss, and we drew the short end of the stick for MC."

"Lucky us," I said as I finished up the dishes, and headed to the bedroom to get a change of clothes. By the time I came out, the bathroom door was shut, and the steam seeping out pretty well ensured that I was going to get the joy of an icy deluge when my turn came.

I turned, and flopped down on my bed.

Turns out, that pretty well set the tone for the rest of the day.

I know he thought I was insane, but I just couldn't help myself.

I never once thought that it would be us going to the station today. I mean, why would he? He's been working a killer schedule for over a month now, and there's no reason on earth that he should have to go walk a beat with me today, when he should have the day off to lounge in bed, the way he likes to on lazy Saturday afternoons.

Not that he has very many of those anymore.

When he just started talking about our day, and our non-existent time off...well, I just couldn't help myself. It just made the day a whole lot easier to stomach, with the thought that he was going to be there with me.

So saying, I was feeling very content, and oddly pleased with the world, never mind the fact that this was going to be my thirteenth day of work in a row, and promised to be filled with the unparalleled excitement of tracking down overdue parking tickets.

At least Sandburg stood a moderate chance of coming out of the day unscathed.

I've never seen a person who could get into such trouble without even trying. God help us all if he should ever go on some kind of a self-destructive bent.

Content, I might be, but stupid, I was not.

While he was in his bedroom, in a masterful piece of military precision, I swooped in, and claimed the hot water for the day.

All's fair in love and war, and being left to shower with ice water definitely calls for a war, my friend.

I emerged ten minutes later, all but whistling happily.

"Thanks a lot, Jim," he muttered dryly.

"No problem." I watched in fascination, as his eyebrows drew down, in that incredibly cute expression of extreme irritation only I seem to provoke in him. The door shut a little louder that strictly necessary as he went in to get ready.

By the time he was out, and his hair was partially dried, I was standing at the door, and waiting impatiently, though not as impatiently as he thought.

I hollered at him every few seconds just for the pleasure of watching him scurry about, until he finally had everything, and we were out the door, and headed for the station.

Simon looked me over a little as I walked into the bullpen with Jim.

"Sandburg, what the hell are you doing here? Jim said you weren't coming in today." I looked at him blankly.

"Where else would I be?" Simon just looked at me a moment, and I turned to look at Jim, only to catch his back as he turned to mess with some files on his desk.

"Whatever. In my office, gentlemen." He turned on his heel, and strode back into his office, and I found myself, as I often did, envying him the natural authority he wore so well. People have no trouble talking to me, but respect is hard-earned, on my part.

Not that Simon doesn't earn respect. He does. But being a leader just seems to come so much more naturally to him than it ever will with me.

I earn respect. He commands it.

He moved around his desk, and picked up a stack of thin papers at least three inches thick.

"Here you go, gentlemen. Enjoy your day." I goggled at stack. As thin as those papers were, I really didn't think I wanted to find out just how many made a stack that thick.

Jim was looking at them much the same way I was. He looked like he was hoping they would spontaneously combust while we watched.

I know I did.

"Was there something else?" Simon asked with exaggerated politeness. We turned, and, rather numbly, walked out of the office.

This is hell. That's got to be it. This is just...hell.

The only redeemable thing about hell, is the fact that Sandburg is here with me.

At least it's not a lonely hell.

We pulled up in front of the sixteenth, count it, sixteenth house of the day. And for the sixteenth time, we got out of the truck, trudged up to the front door, and I knocked dispiritedly on it.

"Cascade PD. Open up, we have a warrant." I sounded much like a guy doing a TV voice-over for the hundredth time that day.

Nothing from inside the house. I knocked again. Harder this time.

"Cascade PD. Open up!!" I heard the soft, snick-click, of a round being loaded in a shotgun, and even with pretty damned quick reflexes, it was only by a hairsbreadth I slammed into Sandburg, and thew us both into the bushes beside the house, and out of the line of fire.

The door exploded. There was no other word for it, and I found myself party to a reluctant admiration for anything that packed enough firepower to blow a heavy wood door apart like it was so much plywood..

"Fuck!" Sandburg was a squirming weight underneath me, which at least, was a reassurance that he was all right.

I pressed a hard hand to his shoulder, making it abundantly clear that he wasn't to move. Yanking my cellphone out of an inner jacket pocket, I tossed it at him.

"Call it in, and get some back-up out here, and for God's sake, stay down," I hissed at him, worry making me a little gruffer than I could have been.

I listened hard, and had no trouble hearing the slam of the back door as my perp headed out into the alley behind the house. Scanning the house hurriedly, it became obvious that there wasn't anyone else inside, and I slammed through the mostly obliterated door, and out the one at the back of the dingy living room. Pounding footsteps lead me unerringly in the right direction, and I took off, this time with a little more caution, as I had no idea what type of weapon he might be carrying now. He was moving way to fast to still be hanging onto that shotgun, though, and that was a blessing.

Getting blown into a few large chunks while rounding a corner wasn't my idea of the best way to go out. Not to mention the fact that Sandburg would kill me if I died on the job.

I rounded the corner behind a local Chinese eatery, and damn near tripped over him. He was sprawled half-unconscious, with a small trickle of blood oozing across his forehead, lying next to an ill-placed dumpster. A quick look down showed me the evidence of a small spill of what looked like moo-goo-gai-pan and rice, well-smeared now, that had provided the lubricant for his unexpected meeting with the dumpster.

Grinning a little, I slapped the cuffs on him. Damn it was nice when fate helped me out a little. Too bad it didn't happen any more often than it did

"Come on, I'm not hauling your ass all the way back to the house, so get your feet under you." His head rolled a little, but he looked to be a little more coherent. Enough so that he started spitting, and cussing at me.

Sighing, I started marching him back to the house, to meet up with the back-up, though they'd probably reach us first. The foot race had been fairly short, but it was amazing how much ground can be covered quickly in a foot pursuit.

Having a semi-quiet moment, I looked over the man who had tried to kill my partner and I.

He was a boy. Probably no more than fifteen, though he promised to be a large man when full grown, as he already stood 5'10" at least, with a stout build. The soft yellow bandana around his neck proclaimed his allegiance to the Hawks, a relatively new gang, that had started causing us trouble with increasing regularity.

Strangely, I felt none of the anger I expected of myself when I looked at him. He was a boy, trying desperately at playing a man's games, and like as not, would get himself killed before he ever reached maturity.

The sadness beat out any anger I might have felt at his increasingly vitriolic threats and curses, and I simply pulled him along silently, letting him say anything he pleased.

The back-up uniforms met me about a block from the house it all started from, and I stopped for an ironic smile at the realization that if he had just opened the door, and agreed to pay the parking ticket violation, he would have avoided all of this in the first place.

I didn't think that he was aware of that fact yet, but judging from the smile on the patrolman's face, he soon would be.

I handed him over, and let the man have his fun, as it certainly wasn't hurting anyone. I wanted to get back to my partner, and get this day over with so we could go home.

"Call it in, and get some back-up out here, and for God's sake, stay down!"

Well duh.

It wasn't as if I was planning on going and asking him out for a night of dinner and dancing, or anything.

Jesus Christ. I've been partnered with the man for almost four years, and he still feels the need to tell me to keep my head down when there are shotgun blasts going on all around me.

I would definitely hold that truth to be self-evident, you know?

Sitting up, I brushed the worst of the grass off the front of my jacket, extremely thankful of the fact that I had been wearing it in the first place, as the bush we had landed in was apparently a bramble bush.

Of course.

We're talking about Blair Sandburg's luck here. What other kind of bush would it be, I ask you?

Scooting backwards, I leaned against the wall of the house, pretty well resigned to the fact that I was just going to have to sit and wait for back-up this time. The fact was that Jim had taken off way too fast for me to even think about catching up to them. He would have the perp in custody by the time I could get halfway there.

Sirens sounding in the distance indicated a pretty good response time, and I stood, with an effort; some...all right, most of the adrenaline was still pumping, and making me more than a little shaky as I tried to calm myself enough to fool Jim into thinking I was perfectly fine.

The image of that door wasn't one that I particularly wanted to dwell on.

Another image that wasn't very pleasant, was the one envisioning what that blast would have done to my stomach, had Jim been two seconds slower than he was.

I shivered convulsively, and clutched my hands together to try and stem the shaking in them before the rest of the officers could arrive on scene. No reason to embarrass the hell out of Jim on top of everything else.

With uniforms swarming all over the place in very little time, I thought it prudent to just take my consultant ID out, and pin it on my belt to save time and humiliation. I.E., so that I wasn't arrested as part of the drug set-up in the house.

Regardless of how well I was known in Major Crimes, most of the uniforms didn't know me from Adam, and I just had the sneaking suspicion that Simon would enjoy it too much if he had to come, and weasel me out of an arrest.

At long last, I saw Jim walking the man...well...the kid, back around the house, escorted by a uniform that promptly took the perp, and headed off to a squad car with him.

"Everything go all right?"

"Fine," he said tersely. Someone else might have been put off or fooled by that. I might even have been at one time. But not anymore. That wasn't anger I saw, it was sadness. I didn't blame him.

Our perp looked like somebody's little brother that had gotten a bad case of hero worship for the wrong group.

"Narcotics is going to take it from here. We still have about fourteen more warrants to serve before we can go home. We need to get started." I opened my mouth to say something. Some platitude that really wouldn't help anything, but stood a good chance of making it worse. Until he looked over at me. His eyes were practically begging me to just drop it so we could go on.

Suddenly, I was just as tired, and worn out as he must have felt, and I wanted nothing more than to finish these damned things, and go home to some kind of a safeguard against things like this, that only happened in some fairy-tale place called the 'real world'.

"Yeah, Jim. Sure. Let's go"

God help me, I have never been so grateful to anyone in my life, as I was to Sandburg at the moment that he shut his mouth on everything I could see wanting to spill out, and just agreed to go on as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

It wasn't really. That was the truly sad part of this. This was ordinary for me. So much for that good mood of this morning.

He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the corner of the truck, looking at me like I was fixing to snap his head off at any given moment, but he never said anything else, and, as the day wore on, my mood brightened a little. I finally stopped thinking about the kid, and focused on getting something halfway decent for supper when we finally finished up.

"How about Carlotta's for supper tonight?" I could see he was pleased by the suggestion, if a little surprised. I had nothing against Carlotta's , but the delicatessen wasn't my restaurant of choice very often. I just had a hard time envisioning anything particularly heavy for dinner that evening. I wanted to make sure whatever I ate was going to stay down the entire night.

"Sounds great, man."

"That last one finished us up for the night, so we can pick up a couple of sandwiches on the way home." He didn't even try to hide his relief, and I winced a little. He had to be tired. More so than I was. I never browbeat him with the reality of how much I needed him, but he always seemed to know, and make it a firm point to be there when anything important was going down. The fact that the last few weeks had shown us case after case of heavy hitters, and high tension exams at the University, had almost driven him crazy with the need to be in two places at once.

No one ever drove him anywhere near as hard as he drove himself.

At Carlotta's I handed him the sack of food, which he accepted a little listlessly, and we spent a companionable ride back to the loft. He got out, still carrying the food, and slinging that damned backpack over his shoulder.

Sometimes I wonder if that fucking thing is attached to a tether, as I almost never see it leave his side. It's a constant reminder of school, and his many other responsibilities, and I idly wonder, at times, if that's why I resent the thing so much. Right now, anyway, there's nothing I want more than to grab the thing, and take it from him, so he doesn't have to carry anything.

He jokes about the Blessed Protector instincts I have, but at times like this, when I can tell that he's been pushing himself too hard, I can actually feel it there. Nothing too obtrusive, but as I watch him climb the stairs because the damned elevator is out again, I see that his step is a little heavier than normal, and the smile that usually graces his face is absent.

It's nothing that actively bothers me, but more like an annoying itch that needs to be scratched. A little tickle that tells me it needs to be taken care of, and lets me know that I'm the one to do the taking. Because he's my responsibility, and his well-being is of the utmost importance to me.

He's mine.

And just try and get me to tell him that. Although, on second thought, he probably wouldn't even bat an eye, just start expounding on the territoriality and possessiveness instincts of the modern-day urban Sentinel, or some such bullshit.

That annoying little buzz is still there, in the back of my mind as I watch him hang up his jacket,<at least I finally taught him something > and drop the food off in the kitchen before he heads silently to his room to get undressed.

With more of an effort than I thought it would take, I turn, and start pulling the sandwiches out of the bag.

Jesus God.

I don't know what his problem is tonight, but if he doesn't loosen up, I'm going to scream. I swear, every minute or so, I look over at him, and he's staring at me like he's stalking me or something.

It's making me jumpy as hell, and I'm too damned tired for any of this tonight. I just want to have my dinner and go to bed.

Slipping past the kitchen, I can feel his eyes on me as I slink into the bathroom, feeling like a cornered animal. A quick shower later, and I'm back out, and sitting down to a sandwich that tastes like ambrosia.

It disappears quickly, and I pretend not to notice him watching me the whole time.

"I'm beat Jim. I'm gonna brush my teeth and hit the sack."

"Gonna get to sleep in tomorrow, Chief?" I glanced guardedly up at him. The tone is normal, even if the unnerving staring isn't.

"No. I've got a seven a.m. lecture in my Psychology class, then I teach classes until noon, then office hours until one-thirty. I can be at the station about two, I guess." He nodded, his mouth full with a bite of sandwich.

"Tomorrow's the last day, Chief, then Simon promised four days in a row to make up for this." God, I had to admit that it sounded like Heaven.

I was going to have to see if there was anyone who wanted to trade out some of the early classes for the next couple of days. I really wanted to get to sleep in for a change...

"Night Chief."

"Night, Jim," I replied on a yawn, as I slipped in my room, and fell on the bed, completely wiped.

I fell asleep to the domestic sounds of Jim doing the dinner dishes I had so considerately left for him

Sorry Jim..

It happened the next day.

I get the feeling that Jim thinks of it as something like, "the day everything got weird".

I think Simon does too.

I think of it more like, "the day everything came together." Sort of. I mean, it didn't iron out all our problems, and yes, it created as many questions as it did answers, but it also made us work as a better unit as well.

Understand? Good. Me either.

I actually finished up on time for a change, and got to the station at about two-fifteen, only to find no Jim.

Simon, however, was in rare form. One of the worst moods I had ever seen, as was evidenced by the bellowing coming from the office, and the rookie that was sent scurrying, pale and shaking, from the lion's den.

I decided it would be better not to disturb him, and went over to Jim's desk to do old paperwork, and wait for him to come back from wherever the hell he went.

Paperwork was a staple of my work at the station. There was always some on his desk, and I had the sneaking suspicion that he just set them all aside, and laid in wait for me to come in, and do them.

I wondered how the man ever got a report finished in his life before I started working with him.

Paperwork takes time and concentration, and time flies when you're having fun, even though you aren't when you're doing paperwork, well, it still moves right along.

I had been working at the desk for about forty-five minutes, when I felt a sharp sting on the back of my neck, like an insect bite. I slapped at it, rubbing absently, and going back to my work as the sting slowly faded away, thinking no more about it.

I was shocked out of my complacency about an hour later, when a sharp stab of pain washed over the ribs on my left side, bad enough that it sent my halfway out of my chair, and drove a gasp from me before I could stop it.

The other detectives in the bullpen looked up at me curiously, but by that time, I really couldn't have cared less what they thought, because even as the ache in my ribs was fading, there was a feeling stealing over me, of tense disquiet. This odd feeling of wrongness that seemed to capture all my attention, and drive me to act.

I stood, without any conscious decision to do so, and my feet steered themselves to Simon's office door. I reached out unhesitatingly, and opened it, walking in and latching it closed behind me mechanically.

His mood had not improved, and I saw his mouth opening to blast me back out the door, even as he was in the process of looking up at me.

I have no idea what the look on my face was like, but I could see the words die in his throat, and the expression that came into his eyes would have been fear on another man.

"What is it? What's wrong?" The words came out as a soft, frightened whisper, instead of the usual, somehow comforting bellow that he uses with me, and with a start, I realized that the mere tone of that voice was enough to drive me almost to the point of terror.

My mouth opened, and I had no idea what was going to come out of it.

"We need to go." Idiot! What in the world was that? You think a busy police captain is just going to drop everything, and say, 'oh, well, sure. Let's go right now,' without even knowing what the problem is? He's going to think you're a lunatic.

"Let's go, then."

The amazement I felt didn't show on my face. I was fairly sure that nothing was showing on my face, as I let Simon take the lead out of the office. The feeling of tension was unpleasant, but an odd siren's call at the same time. It seemed to pull all the focus to it, leaving no room for anything else, and I was glad to leave Simon to do the talking.

Simon's idea of talking seemed to compare favorable with Jim's.

"We're going out. We'll be back later." Intellectually, I knew that we left a bullpen full of open-mouthed detectives behind, but, once again, I couldn't bring myself to care. I followed Simon wordlessly down to the parking garage, and we climbed into his new Lincoln LS, pulling smoothly out, only to sit, waiting at the exit to the garage.

I had to restrain the urge to shout at him to just go already. Didn't he feel that God-awful pulling sensation? Didn't he feel it?

No, of course he didn't.

"Right."

I expected him to say something. Almost hoped he would, though I was terrified that if he did, I would say or do something I'd regret later.

He said nothing. Just drove. It took a moment, but as we drove, I gradually became aware of two things at almost the same time. There were more injuries that I could feel, even as I sat here.

The throbbing in my ribs was back, but at a lower intensity than it was. My left wrist was aching unmercifully, even as it lay unmoving in my lap, my eyes staring sightlessly out the window. I knew perfectly well that it was broken.

Not mine, of course.

My right eye was tender, and becoming more so as I sat there, and idly thought that they had hit him there several times by now.

The second thing that I noticed, directly on the heels of the first, was the anger I was feeling. I didn't really know where it had come from, but there it was, staring me in the face, so to speak. It was irrational, but the tension in my body was increasing as the throbbing became more noticeable, and fed the anger that was gnawing at me.

An unfocused, free floating rage, that seemed to be swelling, and made me very glad that Simon was sitting there so quietly, for there was no other available outlet in the area .

"Left."

He turned, glancing at me worriedly, and I realized that my breathing was coming in short little huffs. He was worried that Jim was seriously injured. I could see it in his eyes, as he fought with himself to keep from asking me what was going on, knowing instinctively that was the wrong thing to do.

Simon is not a stupid man.

He knew very well what was going on, he just didn't want to admit it, even to himself. It was a little too far out in the blue for his comfort, and he was moving on the same, odd, compelling instinct I was, I knew.

I didn't have the luxury of choosing to bury my head in the sand, and only see what was comfortable to me.

The anger swelled again, and I gritted my teeth as hard as Jim ever had on his worst days, biting back on the words that were dying to come out.

An intensely focussed, cold, rational part of me that cared for nothing but getting Jim back, right now, whispered that, friend or not, I couldn't say anything to Simon, simply because he was the only way I was getting to Jim.

I couldn't drive, and track at the same time. I would kill myself, and then who would save him? That predatory part of me was what bit the words back, when the rest of me probably couldn't have.

I settled back in the seat, and unclenched my jaw with the most supreme effort.

"Left."

We were getting closer now. I could feel it as we rounded the corner, and a moment later, I saw the place they had taken him. I didn't have the sense to determine it physically, of course, but it was bathed with a dirty, orange glow, over the ground, mostly, but also scraped across the wall of the building beside the spot, as if he had dragged his hand across the brick in weakness.

The sting on the back of my neck

Drugs. They had drugged him. The glow moved off from the spot, forming a trail, floating in the air, before my eyes, and I sought it hungrily, itching to tell him to drive faster.

The dark orange color was ugly, and practically reeked with his distress, though he would surely have still been unconscious still, and I found myself wondering what it would look like when he was healthy. Simon seemed to be back on track, and he didn't look at me any longer as he drove, just going slow enough to give me time to tell him when to turn.

"Right." We were almost there. The tension was building. The need to move almost unbearable. My whole body ached now, but instead of being debilitating, it was infusing me with a restless, angry energy that wanted nothing more than to leap out of the car, and race to get there.

"There. He's there" I opened my eyes, and looked up to see a rundown three story apartment building, with the front door standing open like an engraved invitation.

I took it.

I had opened the door, and was out of the car more quickly that Simon would ever have anticipated. I even surprised myself at the speed I could move when properly motivated, as I raced across the pavement, and was at the entryway door, before a large hand grasped me by the collar of my coat, hauling me backwards.

I rounded on him, feeling my upper lip curl in a snarl, and reached out, using both hands to remove his from my coat. I was incredibly tense, ready to fight. I let the knowledge that I would fight him shine in my eyes. If he tried to stop me, I would physically fight him ever step of the way.

"Jim's in there," I informed him. That should have been all he needed to know. It was all I needed to know. My partner was inside the building, and I was outside of it, though not for much longer.

"They're hurting him." I thought I was making a huge concession by taking the time to spell that much out for him. He looked at me, hard.

"We need to call for back-up. Wait for the others to come and-"

"We aren't waiting for back-up while they're up there doing God-knows-what to him." Simon sighed, and hissed,

"Stay behind me, and if it looks like there are too many of them, we're coming back down here, and calling for back-up."

I agreed with him just to save time, the new and improved, harder part of myself acknowledging the fact that I wasn't coming out of that building without my partner.

We crept up the stairs, and I whispered,

"Third floor." He shot me a somewhat disgusted look, but kept moving up the stairs towards the third floor. We paused on the landing, and he finally stepped forward, and poked his head cautiously around the door, peering into the corridor.

"It's empty."

There was no guard. Well, of course not. After all, there was no way anyone would know they had anything to do with it, whoever they were. There hadn't been enough time yet for the police to become suspicious, therefore, no need for a watchguard outside the door.

I looked at the orange light, that was brighter than ever, where it disappeared under one of the doors.

"Third room from the end of the hall." Simon turned, and looked at me for a moment, and I could see him wrestling with a decision, which I, apparently won. He reached down, and gave me his back-up piece from his ankle holster.

I silently acknowledged the fact that, if I had to shoot and kill someone with this weapon, chances were high that he would be standing in the unemployment line the next day.

We had done nothing by the book, and it would take a hell of a lot of smooth talking to get us out of the jam we were already in right now. He had put his ass on the line for us.

"Thanks Simon." He nodded shortly at my whispered words, and as we crept closer to the door, he motioned for me to go low, and he would go high. For a moment, I had to suppress a snort.

He's 6'4". I'm 5'7". Who the hell else would go high?

My breath caught in my throat, as he lifted a foot, and sent it smashing into the door.

"CASCADE PD!! EVERYBODY FREEZE, AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!!"

They took me by surprise.

I had known the informant that supposedly had a tip on the Henderson trafficking case for a long time. Long enough, that I didn't suspect anything, when he called me, and gave me a rendezvous point in a back alley in one of the poorer parts of town.

That's what he always did.

The rest of it was just luck. Good luck for them, and bad luck for me that they happened to pick an alley that was rank enough to dull my senses. And I was just off enough that I didn't hear the whine as the tranquilizer dart sailed through the air, and hit me.

It didn't last as long as it was supposed, to, I gathered, as I awoke in a van, to a lot of cursing, and yelling, and was soon hauled unceremoniously out, and up three flights of stairs to the third floor of this old apartment building.

I was still dazed from the drugs as they sat me down, and tied me to a chair that was bolted to the floor, but at least I was awake.

As my head began to clear, I looked around, and saw the soft blue bandanas that were worn on the heads of the three boys in the room. I recognized the gang. It was the Blades, currently in a turf war with the Hawks. Two of the boys looked to be uncomfortable, to say the least, and probably no more than fourteen or so.

The other one was older. At least nineteen or twenty, and he had a glint in his eye that I really didn't like.

'Hey, Cop." His voice was gentle, and his smile was soft, but his fist felt very hard as he slammed it into my ribs. I felt at least one crack, and lost all my air in a rush. Damn, he was strong!!

I soon found, that it infuriated him, when I gave him no response. And I gave him very little. My time in Covert Ops was at least enough that I could control my own reaction to pain. The only time he got much of anything was when he broke my wrist, and my ribs. The rest of the time was spent mostly with him screaming and cursing at me, and the other two looking increasingly uncomfortable.

He was just finishing up his cigarette break, when I heard them round the top of the stairs.

I cursed him virulently. The fool. How could he be so stupid as to come up here with this psychopath in the room? How could Simon be so foolish as to agree with him?

Then Simon kicked in the door, and I didn't wonder any more, as I took in the pale complexion, and the burning eyes of the stranger wearing my best friend's face. Simon had never had any choice in the matter, that much was obvious.

There was no way anyone would be able to say "no" to the man in front of me.

There would be no cajoling.

No pleading.

That face said what it wanted, and that was what happened. It was perfectly clear.

Sandburg never looked over at me, which I thought was odd. I was surprised that he didn't even take the time to see if I was alright, or how I was injured, not that it was anything life-threatening. The angle of entry put Simon taking care of the two younger ones, and placed Sandburg right in front of the sadist, as I had taken to calling him.

As I looked at him, I saw the most astonishing thing. My pacifist, gentle, loving friend, had in his eyes, the clear desire to kill the man. It wasn't anger, or rage, but a cold, calculating desire to end his life.

The gun was pointed unwaveringly at the man's head, and they stood, and stared at each other silently, each recognizing the signs of the animal in the other.

The sadist held his hand up, very slowly, and I saw Sandburg's eyes widen, before they flooded with white-hot rage. I whipped my head around, and saw the man standing there, showing off my blood, which coated his knuckles liberally, ground, and worked into the skin from continuous reinforcement. His eyes were soft, and that same, gentle smile was on his face as he looked at Blair.

"Simon!!!" I bellowed. "Simon, stop him!!" Simon had just finished cuffing the other two, and he turned around just in time to see the stark terror enter the eyes of the sadist, as he realized he couldn't pry the hands off from around his neck. Hands that belonged to a man six inches shorter, and sixty pounds lighter than he, and he couldn't pry them off, no matter how hard he tried. For a moment, I wondered if Sandburg was going to bypass the whole strangulation thing, and just crush the larynx and spine, saving the time and trouble.

"Sandburg!" Simon's hands went around Blair's, and he ripped them off the sadists neck by sheer force, actually dislocating the first finger of the left hand in the process, as we found out later.

The man hit the floor gasping, and Simon had his hands full for a moment, struggling with an enraged Sandburg.

The official story, was that the man was too disoriented to run, but I think all of us secretly believed that he didn't run because he expected completely, to get a bullet in the back, courtesy of Blair Sandburg, if he had.

I still like to hope he wouldn't have, but I don't profess to know for certain any longer.

Neither does he.

Jim doesn't like to talk about it much.

Simon won't talk about it at all.

I talk about it occasionally just to make sure the lines of communication are still there, so to speak. I don't want us to ever reach a point that we don't talk.

Not again.

It scares us all, a little. Each in a different way, I think.

We don't talk about it, but it has helped us, in a bizarre way. Jim treats me a little differently than he used to. I won't say he's afraid of me, because we could never fear each other, but there's a new respect there that wasn't before, purely on the ability level. It's something nice, that you didn't even know was missing until you had it.

More like the power of the Sentinel acknowledging, and respecting the power of the Guide, rather than an interaction between Jim and Blair. It has made us more comfortable, and secure in the roles we play in our partnership.

The tap-dancing we all had to do would compare favorably with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

It was with only the greatest difficulty that the department was able to keep the sadist from pressing charges of police brutality.

A deal was quietly made, and Simon ripped me up one side, and down the other.

I sat there and took it quietly, feeling that I was getting off easy.

The why of it was a little more complicated, but didn't take to long, once the two, terrified brothers that had been in the room started talking. The kid Jim had arrested the day before was the younger brother of the leader of the Hawks.

The Blades had taken Jim, and were going to kill him, and dump him so that it looked like a retaliation killing by the Hawks. It was a surefire way to destroy the competition. The police would have gone after the Hawks with a vengeance for killing a fellow officer, and the Blades would have been left with all the turf they wanted, and a whole bunch of gangs that were scared to death of them.

The really frightening thing was, it would probably have worked. There would have been so little physical evidence, and it would have been the logical conclusion everyone would have reached.

Weird or no, I was thankful for what had happened, because it had clearly saved Jim's life.

In the biggest piece of bullshit line I have ever fed anyone, I went up, and told IA that I had found Jim through a "deep session of Transcendental Meditation that I learned to use on a religious retreat in the Far East, during which I followed the trail of his aura until it led me to the physical manifestation of the spiritual entity I was following."

The IA investigator left the room looking like a bulldozer had run him over, but they backed off quickly at the mention of a religious trance, no doubt seeing the screaming headlines proclaiming religious discrimination and oppression in the Cascade PD.

Simon felt so badly about the dislocated finger, that I actually felt bad for him. I told him it was nothing to worry about, as I really didn't even notice it until hours later when the adrenaline wore off. Besides, we both knew anyway, that if he hadn't done it, I would have strangled the man to death without any problem. It was healing up quickly enough anyway, and I got to take a break from the typing for a while.

Not that Jim cared for that very much.

I wanted to be able to run some tests on this, but I was completely unwilling to hurt Jim to do it.

The look in his eyes when I tentatively suggested me being on the receiving end of the pain was enough to table that discussion permanently. We both gave it up, figuring that life would throw enough at us all by itself without having to help it along any.

Everything would work itself out though.

We were together, and stronger than ever, and that's all that really mattered anyway.