Archive of Our Own ^beta

Author's disclaimer: Like anybody's going to pay attention to me saying, no, no no - I didn't write that, you must be mistaken, and if I did, I had official permission, honest. I did. Really.

A Life Half Lived

By
Jack Reuben Darcy

He saw it all happen. Every single moment of it. He saw it, heard it, felt it and god help him, he even had to smell it happen, right there in front of him and he could do nothing, nothing at all to help or hinder or stop it from happening. He couldn't stop it happen because it was too quick, just too damned quick for him or for anybody.

And he didn't even see it happen in slow motion. He should have, but he didn't. Only one part was, the worst part, that was slow, too slow and not slow enough.

He couldn't help seeing it, couldn't miss the cordon of black and whites stretched across the road, the yellow police tape, the flashing lights, the black SWAT team trucks, the crowds held back, the black clouds filling the morning sky at the end of the street, the tall buildings either side of the bank, and the space in the middle, empty of movement, empty, just damned empty.

Simon was there, as he should be, phone to his ear, trying to negotiate. Rafe and H and Connor and Taggart. Everyone was there.

Everyone.

And the moment Simon saw him coming, he frowned. He actually frowned. Connor saw him as well, and pushed her way through the crowds to get to him, asking him if he was okay, like he could answer a question like that at this point.

He had to assume that the news wasn't bad. He had to assume they would tell him if it was.

Connor took him forward to the cordon, behind a bullet-proof barrier near where Simon was talking, giving out orders but he didn't need to pay too much attention because Simon would do his best, he knew that now, god, didn't they all know how much they had to do?

So he was near the cordon, and with his sight, he could see everything and he did see everything, the window of the bank peppered with bullet holes, the smattering of glass on the pavement and the emptiness. Total lack of movement.

He couldn't see anything else.

But he heard. He listened and stretched and tried harder than he'd ever tried before . . . no, he'd tried harder once before, by a fountain, on an icy cold morning when he'd needed to know the same thing, whether Sandburg's heart had really stopped or not, but then it had and then it had started again and today, today it was still beating, fast, yeah, but the guy was likely to be terrified being caught up in a bank job gone wrong. Who wouldn't be?

First week at the Academy - and this happens to him.

But the heartbeat was there, amongst others and it was a minute, maybe two before he realized that he knew that one heartbeat out of all the other hostages. When Sandburg came out, he'd probably have to tell him that but fuck, how could he and what was the point now that the dissertation was dead?

So he listened, to Sandburg, to Simon, to other noises, orders crackled around him, evidence of the waiting game that was standard procedure these days. He just waited along with them, watching, not hoping, not thinking, just waiting and breathing and willing Sandburg to survive this one as well.

And then Simon was turning to him, signaling with his expression that something was happening even as he spoke into his radio, even as the cops around them shifted, getting into position. Then he heard it, the voice, calmly urging the gunmen to take it easy, that everything was going to be okay, and he heard Simon say the words 'They're bringing some hostages out. Sandburg's among them.'

He breathed then, breathed a little easier because for Sandburg, it would be over in a minute, he would be out and then he'd be able to breathe properly and let go this steel band across his chest. So he stood there, Connor at his side, her weapon at the ready because she was on duty and she was watching as well, and so together they saw the door to the bank open and nothing happened for another minute. Then a hostage came out, a gunman right behind him, and then another hostage and this one, this one was okay because it was Sandburg and his face was white as a sheet and he wasn't looking into the crowd for Jim but instead at the gunman in front of him. Another hostage followed behind and really, it was her fault, all her fault because the moment she got clear of the door, she began to run and Sandburg . . .

Sandburg reached out to stop her.

And then time slowed down.

Hand reaching out, touching a blue jacket, grasping, holding, stopping the woman and the gunman didn't care. He pointed. He shot. Once. Twice. Three times.

The woman was the first to fall, a bloodstain already marking her shoulder.

Sandburg took longer to go down. A second, maybe two. A lifetime.

Two marks. On his chest. Blossoming red against pristine white.

His knees buckled, his body folded and he landed on his side, blood already pouring out onto the concrete, absorbed into it, marking the place.

And Jim saw it all.

Chaos exploded around him as the gunman fired again into the cordon then dashed back into the bank, his last hostage used as a shield. Voices called out, EMTs called but nobody dared move. Nobody. Nobody could help him and Jim just had to listen and listen and he could hear his own voice yelling at Simon, at Connor, just yelling and they were holding him back, and he was fighting them because he just had to get over there, had no choice. Sandburg was bleeding, Sandburg was dying, damnit, can't they understand? Sandburg was dying and if they didn't get to him soon he'd die. Again. Die again and he had to stop it this time he had to.

He fought and pushed and the minutes ticked by and he counted every single one of them. One after another. And they held him back and his throat hurt from yelling, calling, he knew he was calling Sandburg and he wanted, needed to see some movement because the heartbeat was getting too fast, way too fast, the breathing too shallow and he had to make Sandburg hear him, make him hold on, make him know that he wasn't alone this time, that he wasn't alone that someone was here to help him if only he'd hold on, please god, please Sandburg hold on. . .

He did see the SWAT team finally move in. In the corner of his eye he saw the movement, heard the noise, the shots fired, the smoke and stench. Yes, he saw all of that and still counted the minutes until somebody said it was clear and he broke forward then, running, like his life depended on it and god, didn't it? So he ran forward and he fell, right there, beside Sandburg, rolling him onto his back, ripping his own coat off to press against wounds, to stop the bleeding but there was already so much, so much blood pooling around him and this time he was drowning in a pond of his own blood and really, Jim wished it could have been water because Blair needed this blood to live, to breathe and he wasn't doing either too well right now.

EMTs arrived. Connor with them. Connor took his arm, pulling him back so they could work and he did move back, he stood there, near Blair, listening to the heartbeat go faster and faster and getting nowhere. EMTs calling out things to each other, putting a line in, bagging him, pressing dressings to the wounds, no major organs they guessed, no major organs but god, so much blood so much blood ...

And they worked and worked and they put a monitor on him but Jim didn't relax when he saw the blip going across the screen because there was something missing and Blair still wasn't breathing and there was still too much blood. Connor's hand on his arm got tighter and tighter and he didn't need her to say anything because he knew already, knew what the others didn't know.

Not enough blood to pump. Not enough. Heart kept up the electrical pulse, but not enough blood left. Faster and faster it ran, as though he were still alive and when it stopped, god, when it stopped, they shocked him, did CPR, shocked him again and there still wasn't enough blood and the heartbeat didn't start again and he heard it all.

But they didn't stop. They kept trying.

And so he was standing there, watching, seeing it all happen when one of them sat back on his heels, put his equipment down, listened with his stethoscope once more then turned and looked up.

"He lost too much blood. I'm sorry. "

And the EMTs moved back then as he fell to his knees beside Blair, Connor's hand on his shoulder and he reached out but couldn't touch, didn't want to feel, didn't want to know and he caught the scent of salt on the air over the blood, Blair's blood and he knew it would be Connor's tears but he couldn't look at them.

Blair lay there, skin white, lips blue. Still, silent. Curls sticking together with blood. Blood everywhere, around his knees, soaking into his jeans.

Vacant. Eyes closed. No movement. Empty.

Lifeless.

"No," his words fell out of him, like lost stones. "No, Chief. Don't die."

And he put his hand on either side of that face and tried, reached out and reached in because hadn't they done this before and hadn't he been able to bring the man back, hadn't it worked once before so yeah, it had to work a second time, had to...

Didn't it?

No.

And it didn't.

Didn't work.

Never would again.

The hand gently shaking his shoulder only freed him from the cobwebs of sleep. With a sharp intake of air, Jim opened his eyes, turning his head until a familiar face smiled a little at him.

"Thought you might like to wake up. People are leaving now. You want to say goodbye?"

Jim nodded as Connor stood up. He rubbed his hands over his face and sat up on Sandburg's bed.

He remembered coming in here. Remembered leaving the gathering of people in the lounge and coming in here just to close his eyes for a few minutes. Nobody had said anything and why would they? They'd buried Blair and of course his partner would be in mourning.

"How do you feel?" Connor's voice was soft, her smile gentle.

"Fine. Could do with some coffee."

"Coffee we have plenty of." She turned to go and Jim got to his feet.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"How are you doing?"

Connor raised her eyebrows a moment, pressed her lips together and glanced around the room, as though she didn't dare look at him. "I'm okay, I guess. Naomi's been . . . talking and well . . ."

"Telling everyone baby-Blair stories?"

"Something like that." Her head dropped then and he came closer, not touching her, but finding the words emerge from him as though by instinct alone.

"You and Sandburg . . . you ever . . ."

"No." Dark curls shook as she took in a hitched breath. A deeper one had her looking up at him, more composed now, more able to watch him. "Won't say I never thought about it, though. What about you?"

"Me?" Jim frowned.

"Yeah. You know, love, sex, all that kind of thing. You and he ever . . ."

"What makes you think we . . ."

She put her hand on his arm. "It's a joke, Jim."

"Oh, okay. Sure." Didn't feel like a joke. Then again, how could he tell when he didn't feel anything at all. "Come on, I'd better say goodbye to those people."

With another smile, she led him out. The loft was still a little crowded and they smiled at him as he spoke to them, soft, gentle smiles, full of sympathy and understanding and questions they knew they could never ask and that he would never answer. So they would shake his hand or hug him or kiss him on the cheek and they'd put coats on and leave, one by one, spreading the desertion over an hour or so.

Lots of people from the station, people who had known Blair and not paid too much attention to the press conference but too few people from Rainier, and those, mostly students. Nobody senior, nobody official.

Connor and Rafe stuck to the kitchen, washing dishes, keeping the drinks flowing, making more coffee. Simon stuck as close to Jim as he was allowed but even so, the moment came when there was just the four of them left.

Jim collected a few last glasses and put them on the kitchen island. Then he turned and headed out to the balcony, more than aware of the glances that were being exchanged behind his back.

The city was cold, the sky bleak with blue-grey clouds looking for an excuse to open. A grim moon shone from behind, giving the night a ghostly air. This kind of weather had always depressed Blair because rain, hours of rain, was only moments away.

"Jim?"

"I'm fine, Simon." He said the words automatically, like he had a micro-chip in his jaw which made it open up and produce the right noise on cue.

Why did people ask? Did they expect him to answer?

How was he doing?

He didn't have fucking clue.

Blair was dead. How was he supposed to be doing?

"Jim," Simon came to a halt behind him, lighting up a cigar. "I was just wondering how your . . . senses were doing. I know in the past that . . . er . . . trauma has affected . . ."

Jim shook his head, turning to face his captain. "No problem, Simon. They've gone off-line for the moment. I'm back to normal."

"Oh," Simon nodded, looking like he wanted to ask more, but deciding not to. "You want me to stay tonight?"

"No. Thanks anyway." His voice sounded as dead as Sandburg. He couldn't muster enough inflection to make even genuine gratitude sound real. "I'll be fine on my own."

"Are you sure? I mean, it's been four years since you lived in this place alone. Don't you think . . ."

"I've had people with me since Sandburg died. . ."

"Jim, that's not . . ."

"And I really would like some time alone, okay?" Jim pressured the muscles in his cheeks to form a smile. Like everything else, they felt numb. In fact, they could have performed surgery on him right now and he doubted he would feel it.

"Okay, Jim, okay. But you know, you need anything and you call. Me or Rafe or Joel or Connor. Just one of us, okay?"

"Okay."

Simon frowned at him, stubbed out his cigar and turned to go - but paused. Without looking at Jim, Simon said, "When he . . . when he sacrificed his career to protect you, I thought he was crazy. I'm not proud to admit it . . . but I'm not sure I would have had the courage to do what he did - not with fame, fortune and three million dollars being waved in my face. And . . . what he did for you . . . before that . . . I never said anything to him. I wish I had."

"Yeah," Jim breathed, his eyes suddenly stinging, his throat suddenly tight, the pain in his chest suddenly looming up to fill him and take him over.

"Jim?"

"I'm fine." The microchip kicked in and abruptly, the pain flattened out again, relinquishing control once more. "Really, Simon. You go home. I'll call if I need anything."

He followed the bigger man back inside, closing the French windows behind him, pulling the blinds down against the encroaching night. Rafe and Connor had the kitchen back to normal and were already pulling on their coats. Jim stopped by the door, noticing something missing.

"Where's Naomi?"

"She left about an hour ago." Connor replied.

"How was she?"

Connor shrugged, "Hard to tell. Holding up okay, suppose. She said she'd call you tomorrow."

"Oh, okay."

One by one, they said more words to him then, the death platitudes that never seemed to go out of fashion and then at last the door was locked behind them and he was alone.

He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

It should never have happened. He should have gone to the bank as he'd promised, not left it for Blair to do again.

He should have said sorry.

He should have said thank you.

He should have said . . .

He opened his eyes and walked back into Sandburg's room. He made straight for the bed and laid back, resting against the wall.

Hell of a time for his senses to go into hibernation. Just when he needed to be able to feel and hear and scent the last traces of Blair before they vanished.

He shouldn't have died.

Twice.

After they'd got back from Sierra Verde, they'd talked a little, about some important stuff and somewhere in there, Blair had said something about it being a part of becoming a shaman. Dying twice. But after the first time, Jim had strangely assumed he'd have a long time to go before the second time.

Why didn't he feel anything? Not even anger or remorse at his own actions - or his own inaction. There was so much he should have - no, could have said to Sandburg and hadn't. And words would have made a difference. Just two months ago, he'd seen the look on Blair's face, in the hospital, after the press conference. He'd seen how the right words could affect the man - and yet, he'd stopped short. Again.

He didn't feel alone. Not yet. He wouldn't. Not for a while. If he closed his eyes and imagined, he could tell himself that Blair was just out grocery shopping and would, any second, come bursting through the door, arms full of bags and talking a mile a minute about some girl he met in the street and how Jim was going to just love this vegetarian lasagna he was going to make for dinner.

No, he didn't feel alone.

He didn't feel anything at all.

1 week

The rain poured down, leaving the air inside the loft damp and clinging. Jim put another log on the fire and returned to his chores, changing the sheets on his bed, sweeping upstairs before pulling out the ironing board and setting it up. He was on his second shirt when a knock at the door disturbed his rhythm.

Frowning a little, he put the iron down and went and undid the locks. He pulled the door open to find Naomi and Connor standing there, expectant smiles on their faces.

"Hi, Jim." Naomi swept in, giving him a hug he didn't have time to return. Connor entered more slowly, making a point of not looking around the loft.

He closed the door behind them and waited, no idea what they were doing here. Naomi glanced at the ironing board, almost looked at the closed door of her son's bedroom - then turned back to Jim with a smile.

"What are you doing here, Naomi?" Jim asked, as pleasantly as he could. This . . . intrusion sat uncomfortably around him, as though they'd brought some kind of evil spirit into the loft with them.

"We were passing and I thought we could drop by, see how you're doing?"

"I'm doing fine, as you can see."

She tilted her head and gave him another benign smile, "Of course you are."

Something inside him rumbled at her tone but he did his best to be the dutiful host. "I was just going to make some coffee. Want some?" He wasn't, but he could. And if he did, their visit would have a fixed time limit. One cup of coffee, some short conversation and then they could leave him alone again.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

Jim nodded, glanced at Connor who shrugged and headed into the kitchen. As he fiddled with the coffee machine, Connor came up alongside him and murmured, "I'm sorry, Jim, she insisted and I couldn't talk her out of it."

"That's okay," he replied, even though it wasn't. Still, it was nice to know somebody appreciated his need to be alone at the moment.

He'd been amazed how easy it had been to return to his old life, the life he'd had before Sandburg had exploded onto the scene. Sure, he knew he was in mourning and he knew he'd pay for it at some point, but so far, it hadn't been too bad - and he resented Naomi's implication that he couldn't deal with it. He could. Hadn't Blair taught him anything?

"Megan says you're going back to work tomorrow."

Jim glanced over his shoulder and nodded. "That's right."

"You don't feel it's a little early?"

"I feel it's time I got back to work." He pulled down mugs, took milk from the fridge and placed them on the island, leaving his hands flat on the surface so he could look at her.

She'd aged over the last week. A lot of the earthy glow she'd always exuded had faded but still she smiled so easily, as though her world had been shaken to the core, but not her faith.

He felt like hitting her.

"So, you want to tell me the real reason you stopped by?" He had no idea where those words had come from, but he went with the feel.

Naomi clasped her hands together and tried to look about sixteen. However, she didn't have the puppy-dog eyes her son had had, so it had nowhere near the affect she'd obviously hoped for.

"Jim, I understand how you must be feeling at the moment, but do you think you've allowed yourself time to grieve?"

"With all due respect, Naomi, my grieving has nothing to do with you."

"It does when . . ."

"Get to the point."

"Jim," Connor laid a hand on his arm, urging calm in the way Blair had done a thousand times - but this had a limited affect on him.

"I'm feeling a lot of negative energy flowing from you, Jim, and I just want to help."

"Do you?"

"Of course. Blair was my son. I loved him. I know you loved him too. I know we can help each other through this."

"I don't need any help." Jim said this through gritted teeth. How much more of this would he have to endure? He was okay if he thought about Sandburg - but talking about him was impossible. Totally impossible.

"No," Naomi murmured, abruptly subdued. "Jim, I'd . . . like to go through my son's things, if that's alright with you?"

Go through his things?

Pick over his life?

Throw some of it away?

Pack the rest up?

Slice him into bite sized pieces nobody would ever recognize?

"No."

"Jim . . ."

He held up his hand. "No. Now if you don't mind, I have things to do so perhaps it would be best if you left."

Naomi would have protested this, but Connor intervened, taking Naomi's elbow and leading her out, closing the door gently behind her.

Jim's gaze lifted, carried and rested on the closed door, the horrible brown paint and dusty glass, the clash of coloured curtains beyond. A little bit of privacy, he'd said when he'd put them up. Some privacy for a grown man who was living with a sentinel.

Walls to keep things in or out?

With brisk steps, he strode around the island and pushed the doors open. Not pausing, he went straight to the windows and pulled the curtains aside, allowing the bleak sunlight to peer into the room, no less an intruder than Naomi.

Things lay about the place. Blair's things - even a few of Jim's things. Stuff that had been borrowed and not returned immediately. Jim hadn't been in here to tidy up. He'd never done that when Blair was alive. Had wanted to occasionally - but he'd never given in to the urge to create order out of chaos. Blair had been chaos personified and only in moments here and there had it bothered Jim enough to say anything. For some reason, this chaos had had a calming affect on him where he'd only thought order could.

He didn't want to move this chaos. Didn't want to do more than simply look at it.

"You can come home now, Chief," Jim whispered into the terrible silence. "Whatever it was that I did, whatever got you so pissed off you could just walk away, I'm sorry and I promise I won't . . . I just . . ."

He found his hand reaching out to touch the back of the chair, left half turned away from the desk, as though Sandburg had only moments ago, leapt from it to do something else.

He wanted to cry. Wanted to open up and let loose the flood that was wallowing inside him - but Sandburg had been the only one who had ever been able to make him do that. He should be crying. Hadn't he lost his best friend?

Lost.

Yeah. He'd lost Sandburg and now he, himself was lost.

Blair couldn't be dead. He couldn't be. Everything was just as he'd left it so he couldn't be dead. Life didn't just stop mid-sentence, mid project. Blair had decided to be come a cop. Had started at the academy, even had an appointment to get his hair trimmed a little; the concession being a very big deal.

God, the hours they'd spent talking it over, each time, Blair becoming more and more attuned to the idea and getting more comfortable with the prospect of becoming a cop, more than happy to be Jim's permanent partner, for real this time.

The hours they'd spent talking.

So Blair had started at the academy.

But Jim had been busy so Blair had gone out to the bank, to pay a couple of bills before heading off to a late class and then he'd been held hostage and he'd been shot and then he'd bled to death on the pavement in front of Jim, his eyes closed, no words of goodbye whispered just everything coming to a great screaming halt.

He couldn't be dead.

Couldn't be.

Jim picked up the phone and dialed the number with slow fingers. He listened to the beeps, vaguely remembering what it once would have sounded like, when his hearing had been so sensitive.

"Megan Connor."

"Hi, it's Jim."

"Oh. Jim. How are you?"

He swallowed and forced the words out. "Could you do me a favour?"

"Yeah? What?"

Her voice had just the right level of concern overlaid with a hopelessly normal tone. If she'd been there with him, he would have kissed her for it. "Could you call Naomi and apologize for me? I didn't mean to snap at her today, I just . . ."

"That's okay, Jim. She understands. If you're not ready then it's okay."

Not ready.

Not ready to lose Sandburg a second time. Hadn't been ready to lose him the first.

No. He wasn't ready at all.

Never would be.

"Could you call her anyway? Say I'm sorry? I just don't think I can talk to her at the moment."

"Yeah, I can do that." She paused and he could almost hear her thinking. "Jim, do you want me to come over for a while?"

So he could talk? About Sandburg? So she could help him grieve?

He had no idea how to start.

"No, I'm fine. I'll see you at the station tomorrow."

"Okay. Sleep well."

He shut the connection with a firm thumb, pressing an end to the conversation as though he could end all such conversations. He tossed the phone onto the couch and sank down, putting his head back with a sigh.

The loft was as clean as it could be. He'd moved bits of furniture around, scrubbed cracks and edges he'd never had time for when he was working. In life, Blair had made his world a mess. In death, he'd given Jim time to make amends.

Why couldn't he get his head around this? Why didn't it feel like Blair was gone? How many times had he seen people die? God, Danny had died in his arms - and it had felt nothing like this.

He could almost hear Blair talking to him, calmly urging him to open up, to rely and trust, to lean on a friendship that had cost him so dearly.

"Chief," he whispered into the darkness. "We need to talk."

And they did. Badly. Because he didn't understand any of this. Didn't know why he slept so soundly, why he woke without listening for other sounds in the loft, why he never accidentally turned to speak to Blair or cook enough for two.

As though Blair had never really been a part of his life and now gone, his space had swallowed up his existence.

Jim turned to look around the space he lived in. The furniture, the pictures, hangings, books and other bits and pieces that filled this place. Not too long ago, he'd cleared it all out, disposing not only of Blair's things, but his own until it had been stripped bare. The stark simplicity had been imperative at the time, to his coping with the . . . infringement of his territorial boundaries. He'd not known that at the time, but that's what it had felt like - and now, looking back, that was all it could have been because he would never, ever in his whole life, have kicked Blair out.

"Come back?"

The silence answered him, no ghost remaining to appear in a mirror, no smile to greet him in the morning.

"Please?"

Blair couldn't be dead - but he was.

And Jim, for all his mistakes, Jim was still alive and still didn't understand.

5 weeks

Jim sat in Simon's car and said nothing, his jaw aching from clenching it too hard for too long. The bigger man grunted a few times, chewed on his cigar and drove carefully through the traffic. Jim didn't bother looking at him; he already knew the censure he would find there, the disapproval.

When they pulled up before 852 Prospect, Jim was the first to step out - but Simon was close behind, following him inside like a shadow, never letting go. The ride in the lift was equally quiet but Jim could feel his guts rumbling, ready for the argument he knew was brewing. Simon waited until they were safely inside the loft before he launched his attack.

"You are no longer going to work alone - and there's nothing you can say to me to change my mind."

"No?" Jim shot back, grabbing a beer from the fridge. "What if I said I'd resign first?"

"Then go ahead - because that way you'd be safer that you were today. Goddamit, Jim, what made you pull a stunt like that? Did you stop for one second and think maybe you were going to get yourself killed? Jeez, if Sandburg had been with you, he would be the one chewing you out now."

"Sandburg's dead!" Jim snapped, heading for the balcony. "I don't need a babysitter. I knew what the risks were and I judged them to be fair. Why don't you trust my judgement any more? Is it because I haven't fallen to pieces yet? Is that it? Is everybody waiting for me to break down in tears?"

He heard Simon pull in a deep breath but he didn't turn to face the other man. Instead, he pushed the doors open and took a step outside, swallowing beer like it was salvation.

"Jim," Simon's voice was abruptly conciliatory. "We both know grief takes everybody differently, right? Nobody's expecting you to conform to any pattern. You deal with this however it suits you. We all know how much Blair meant to you . . ."

"Really?" Jim spun around, unable to still the sudden rage burning inside him. "And how the fuck do you know that, eh? You have this place bugged or something? Secret cameras watching us watch a game on the TV or sitting at the table eating dinner?"

Simon raised his hands, "Jim, just calm down, okay? Nobody's been spying on you. It's just that, with the sentinel thing and everything . . ."

"Oh, right, so it's because I was a sentinel that Sandburg had such a big part in my life, right? Well, I've got news for you. He was just a friend, okay? A friend. That's all. My life hasn't come to an end because he's dead so can we just leave it the fuck alone?"

He came to a halt, realizing with surprise, that he was gasping in short breaths, the pain in his chest so bad he was feeling dizzy with it.

Simon reached out a hand, clasping his shoulder, "Come on, Jim, sit down."

The rage flew back then and Jim shook the hand off. "I'm fine. Please go."

Simon stared at him then, his jaw lifting, eyes narrowing. "Fine. We'll talk again when you've calmed down."

Jim didn't see the man leave. He didn't look. Instead, he reached out to the French window and held on, hoping to get some air inside him soon.

Some days, it was just too hard to breathe, when lifting so much as a hand seemed too great an effort, when blinking was beyond him.

Oh, he knew what Sandburg would do if he knew. He'd be crouching on the floor next to where Jim had landed, fingers laced together, hair tied back, glasses glinting in the streetlight. He'd be squatting there saying something like, "Jim, I want you to do your breathing, okay? In, out, in, out. That's it. Now just clear your mind. Concentrate. Shut out everything else and just float on the peace. . ."

Peace.

Rest In Peace.

He was never going to have any. Not at this rate. The memories wouldn't leave him alone. Not just here, either. Everywhere he went it seemed there was something of Blair left behind, some word or expression or smell or sound. So full of life, Blair had managed to inflict his passions on the world, leaving it almost as scarred as Jim.

But he had left it and Jim could only long for the numbness of those first few days because now the pain was so bad he knew he'd never recover from it.

He wanted Blair back. Now.

Right now.

Didn't want to have to imagine those words being said, he wanted to actually hear them. Wanted to have his senses back on line so he had to shut out all the little daily noises the young man had made living here - wanted it to be a chore to do so. Wanted the awkwardness and the inconvenience and the irritation and the noise and the mess.

Wanted him back.

Now.

2 months

He wanted to stop pacing. He really tried to stop, put all his efforts into controlling the urge - but none of it made any difference.

She was in there. In his room. Going through bits and pieces. Touching his things, shedding a few tears - like that would make a difference. Doing the whole grieving mother bit, in gentle waves, almost predictable in length.

He couldn't stop pacing. Everything she touched shrieked a warning inside him and it was all he could do to not go in there, grab her by the arm and throw her out of the loft.

"Jim, try to relax, okay?"

He stopped and it took a second for him to start breathing again at Megan's quiet words. She sat on the couch facing him, not even pretending to read a book or anything.

He went back to his pacing.

"Please, Jim. You're not making this any easier on yourself. You know this has to be done."

"Why? Because it's a custom?" He turned, keeping his gaze on the open doorway, not giving a damn if Naomi could hear him or not. "Why can't she just leave the stuff where it is? I never used to use that room anyway. I don't mind if it stays there."

"That's not the point and you know it. This is an important part of the grieving process and she needs to do it."

"Well, what about what I need?"

"What do you need, Jim?"

The question didn't come from Megan but from Naomi. She stood in the doorway of Blair's room, hands laced together, eyes a little red from weeping.

He couldn't answer - because it would sound too silly to these women who had no idea what he was going through.

How could they when he didn't know himself?

"I need you to leave his things alone," he grunted, heading for the kitchen - but Naomi blocked his way.

"Jim, you need to face the fact that he's not coming back. You've been in denial since he died and it's just not good for you to keep doing this."

"And it's all fine for you, is it?" he snapped back. The anger rose again and he clenched his fists to keep it under control because he was way too afraid of what would happen if he didn't. "I suppose you've spent the last couple of months on a retreat somewhere, meditating, learning how to let your son's death go, right? Naomi, do me a favour, take what you want and get the fuck out of my life!"

She smiled a little at him, nodding her head in a fashion that made him want to knock it off. "I hear your anger, Jim."

"NO YOU FUCKING DON'T!"

She blinked at his bellow, taking a step back - but that didn't stop him. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. This is all your fault and you don't even see it, do you?"

"My fault?"

"If you hadn't been such an idiot to send his dissertation in the first place, he wouldn't have gone to the academy, wouldn't have gone to the bank that morning because he would have been in class. He died on a Tuesday, Naomi - Anthro 101. He wouldn't have died because he wouldn't have been there! Fuck, you have no idea! You are unfuckingbelievable!"

He turned and paced away, the rage filling his blood, coursing through him in tidal waves and he no longer had a choice about controlling it. "You treated him like he was a library book you kept forgetting to return. Breezed in and out of his life - and made judgements on him without knowing anything about him. You think you were good friends with him? Well, do you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, letting his feet pace out the fury. "You told each other stuff - that's all. You visited, that's all. I lived with him, every day, worked with him so I know. I don't want you touching his stuff because you don't deserve it. Now just get the fuck out of our home!"

He kept his back to her. He didn't dare look at her because he would see Blair in her eyes, see his hurt. He wouldn't want Jim to treat his mother like this - but that had always been part of the problem. Blair had always had such a tender heart, he'd never been able to turn away from people he loved, no matter how much they hurt him. He'd always just taken the wounds and let them scar over, deciding to have the relationship he could have rather than the one he wanted.

He almost jumped when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find Megan watching him with wary eyes.

"She's gone."

He couldn't speak. No words would take away what he'd done to a woman Blair had worshipped. No apology would cut it this time - even if he'd been capable of it.

Megan's gaze held his steady - and abruptly, her eyes filled with tears. "God, Jim, you can't do this, can you?"

"Do," he swallowed, his mouth was too dry, "what?"

"Grieve. Live without Sandy. You can't do it."

"What the hell do you think I've been doing for the last two months?"

"I don't know," her voice dropped to a whisper. "It's like . . . you're afraid to face what you're feeling - because he's not here to catch you any more."

Jim gasped as a shot of familiar pain lanced across his chest. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor. Megan followed him down, one hand still on his arm.

"It's okay, Jim. It won't kill you. I know it feels like it might, but it won't."

"You don't understand," he forced the words out, habit forcing him to suppress and repress, the only weapons he'd ever had in his arsenal. Blair had taken them away and forced him to find new ones but without him here, Jim did the only thing he could do.

"What don't I understand?"

What was he talking about? How could she understand when he didn't either? Some bastard had put two shots into Blair and blown away the inside of Jim's soul. There was simply no way in this universe to put it back.

"It's all my fault," he whispered around the pain, unable to look at her. He was doubled over now, his arms across his stomach, holding it in but it was so hard, so hard to do. "My fault he's dead. I may as well have killed him. Both times were my fault."

And why? Why?

Yeah, why? Why hadn't he seen it? Why hadn't he paid attention and actually noticed what was going on in front of him . . .

"Jim, you didn't kill him. . ."

Oh, but he had noticed - and that's where his crime really lay.

Right there in front of him.

How could he have missed it? Any idiot could have read the love in Blair's eyes any time he looked at Jim. A love that had long since gone way beyond simple friendship and into the realms of impossibility. Fuck, the man had given up his entire life to protect Jim - and had done it without a single look back . . .

At the hospital, shrugging, trying to make his sacrifice seem like nothing, as though it didn't really matter to him, as though he'd lost nothing of significance . . .

And, Jesus, he had looked so damned vulnerable that day at the station when he'd asked if Jim really wanted a full-time partner, grasping at whatever crumbs Jim was prepared to throw him, like he was a beggar or something . . .

And he'd done it, taken on a life that hadn't suited him, giving up everything that had meaning for him, sacrificing his position on guns and everything so he could be with Jim, keep working with him, still have some part in Jim's life . . .

It was his fault. All his fault.

He'd noticed but he'd ignored it, hoping, pretending, praying that he was wrong, that it would go away but it never had and he'd been left with trying to give Blair as many crumbs as he could afford because he was so fucking terrified of admitting that he felt the same way.

"I loved him."

"I know you did," Megan murmured gently.

"No," he swallowed, pulled in a breath and turned to look at her, the pain drenching every part of his body now. "I mean, I was in love with him."

Megan nodded, "I know you were."

He blinked but the surprise had no affect on him. "And he was in love with me."

"Yes, he was."

"Oh, god," and he crumbled then, his body giving up and she stayed with him, keeping her hand on him, not trying to hold him, or stop him or tell him to calm down because she knew, she'd been there when Blair had left, she'd seen and she knew so she didn't say anything and she couldn't take the pain away.

Nothing could.

11 months

A flat grey sky greeted him as he climbed out of the truck, the wind little more than a tugging breeze now; the gale force winds of last night having gone some time before dawn.

He was under orders. That - and only that - was the reason why he was here. If he could have, he would have stayed away permanently.

If he'd told anybody about this, they would have locked him up for sure. As it was, they were having a hard time believing that he would willingly give up working on the streets for a full-time desk job - and he'd made no attempt to explain it.

Not that he could. Not in terms they would understand.

The truth was, if he could have afforded to, he could have given up work altogether.

He locked the truck and glanced around. The place looked pretty much the same as it had done almost a year ago, when he'd last been here. Nice trees Sandburg would have liked, some bushes along the fence which would come out in some kind of flower during the summer months. Not quite the wilderness Sandburg had loved so much - but it was better than a concrete jungle.

He stepped onto the path, not allowing his feet to slow, ignoring the first warning shots across his chest.

Sandburg had told him to come and so he was here.

Or rather, the voice he wished was Sandburg had told him to come. The same voice that reminded him to eat and sleep, to go to the gym and get out into the woods every now and then. Like a kind of imaginary time-piece, marking out where his boundaries were now. It had felt a little strange at first, but after six months of hearing and listening, he was becoming accustomed to keeping himself in one piece.

The path took him up a gentle rise where a small pond hosted ducks in the summer. Now it was iced over and grim. He continued to the top of the hill where the rows of headstones marked where he needed to go.

Blair was in a corner, on his own. A stone set his place, grey and simple, his name and dates, nothing more. Naomi hadn't even wanted that much - but Simon had insisted. Jim hadn't cared either way - but now he was glad.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone he'd brought from his camping trip last weekend. He carefully placed it on the top of the headstone and stepped back. He wasn't much of a one for praying and this really didn't seem to be the right place for it - but some words seemed necessary, especially since it had taken him so long to get here.

"I don't know what to say to you."

The headstone stared back at him, unmoving.

"I miss you."

Jim blinked, clearing his gaze.

"I do. I . . . still miss you." He took a deep breath. He'd known this was going to be hard, but hell, it was almost a year now. In fact, he'd deliberately done this now, before the anniversary because he'd known it would be even harder then.

He tried again. "I . . . um . . . apologized to Naomi. I talked to her and well . . . she said she'd been blaming me a little but we . . . you know, cleared the air. She writes to me now and then, wants to keep in touch. I don't know if I can, though, Chief . . ."

And the pain slashed through him then, gutting him, winding him, slicing him in two.

"Chief . . . I . . ."

The words. The words he wouldn't say before he couldn't say now - because they came too late. What was the point of talking about love now? About need and desire and fear? Instead, what came now was equally too late - but unstoppable. Tears, huge and blinding, fell out of his eyes and tore down his face. The tears people had despaired of seeing, which he had assumed he would never shed.

Tears. From saying his favourite nickname to a headstone.

Half a laugh escaped him as he wiped his hand across his eyes. "Yeah, it is a joke, isn't it?"

And the tears dried up of their own accord, the pain sinking down to the level he lived with each day.

He said nothing else. Whatever words he could have said a year ago, had no power any more.

He'd dug his own grave. He had the rest of his life to lie in it.

7 years

He was walking across the parking garage, almost at his car when the call brought him to a halt.

"Hey, Jim!"

He stopped, turned and frowned. "Simon?"

The big man limped towards him, a grin on his face from ear to ear. "How are you? God, how long has it been?"

Jim shook the man's hand and shrugged, "I don't know. A year?"

"More like two. You were at the game year before last, weren't you? I saw you in the crowd but you didn't stay."

"Game?" Jim tried to think back but couldn't pinpoint the correct day. "No, I guess not. How have you been?"

"Well, this leg's been giving me hell but apart from that, I'm fine. You?"

"Fine. You still married?"

"Yep. Sarah's got the house looking great. You should come over for a drink one night. You won't recognize Daryl. You know I'm a grandfather?"

"You are?" Jim smiled, "Congratulations!"

"Thanks. And what about you? I heard you and the new medical head were quite an item a few months back. Something serious?"

"Oh, Cheryl? No," Jim shook his head and fished his keys out of his pocket. "Haven't seen her for a while. I don't get down here that often any more. Not since they moved the Academy to the suburbs."

"You still there? I would have thought you'd be running the place by now."

"Not me. That's more your line."

"Listen, are you doing anything on Friday night?"

"I'm not sure. Why?"

Simon pulled his jacket on and glanced at his watch. "Um . . . you know I'm retiring this week?"

"Retiring?" The surprise didn't register - but then, it never did. It had been so long since anything registered, he'd lost the ability to worry about it. "Why?"

"I can't get around like I used to and to be honest, I'm a little tired of it all. I've moved upstairs about as far as I can get and they just want young minds in there these days. Figured my pension was good so I may as well get out now, while I can still walk."

"Well," Jim nodded, "I suppose that's wise."

"I'm having the usual retirement bash on Friday night. You should come along. A few of the guys would love to see you, catch up and everything."

Jim grimaced and glanced away. "Look, I'd love to but you know, I don't really socialize with work any more. It's been so long since I saw anybody, I wouldn't know what to say - and neither would they."

"Oh. Okay. Well, just thought I'd ask."

"But good luck with it. Enjoy it." Jim held out his hand, shook Simon's and turned for his car.

"Hey, Jim?"

"What?" He glanced over his shoulder.

"You still hear from Naomi?"

"Naomi who?"

"Sandburg. Blair's mother."

Oh. "No, not for a long time. I've no idea where she is. Why?"

"Just curious. I'll see you round."

"Bye."

Jim got into his car and drove off. He headed to the market first to pick up a few things, then back to the loft. It was such a nice day, he opened all the windows to let the breeze in. He hated it when he couldn't air the place.

He paused on the balcony, to take a deep breath of fresh air. It was odd, but back in the days when he'd been a sentinel, he'd never done that, not liking the things he could smell. Now however, he didn't mind at all, even though he knew the things he wasn't smelling were still there.

He set about preparing dinner. Fish and vegetables, a stock standard now. Quick and easy was his policy. He ate as he was clearing up, washing his plate last. Then he set about getting his paints out.

He'd cleared a lot of the living area. He'd removed one of the couches and now used the dining table as a work space, where it sat up against one of the brick walls. He no longer had people around to visit and living on his own meant he had no real use for a dining table. The TV was in the corner, the couch facing it. The bookshelves he'd moved upstairs where he'd once slept, his bed in the downstairs room. He liked it better this way. More practical.

He newest canvas still had it's protective sheet over it so he drew it off carefully and examined the work in progress.

Dark greens and light blues. A jungle scene in the making. He'd once tried painting other things but the jungle kept drawing him back. Perhaps it was something in his subconscious, something about the time he'd spent in Peru and how he wasn't a sentinel any more - but he didn't mind. The jungle, for all the trouble it had caused him, was something he'd felt a true affinity with so he didn't mind recreating it like this.

While the light was still good, he picked up his brushes, shook them out and began work.

Long after midnight, the ghost came to him again, as it did so often. Soft, encroaching on his sleep, forcing him awake with promises and secrets and nothing substantial.

It had to be a ghost. It had Blair's scent.

He woke. He lay in bed, not moving but simply listening, wishing he had those hyper senses back just once, so he could be sure it was Blair's ghost.

He saw nothing - but then, he never did. No, it was more subtle than that, more painful, more aware - but on these nights, when the ghost visited, he didn't feel lonely.

It seemed the air was alive with something, perhaps Blair's energy crossing between worlds. The first few times this had happened, he'd sat up, heart pounding with fear and hope - but now he'd learned to lie back and simply live in it.

And some nights, he could almost hear the voice. That distinctive sound like no other, tones which had been engraved upon his soul that no loss of sentinel senses could erase.

And tonight?

He felt it, dry, soft, caressing. A touch on his skin, bringing back memories of things that had both happened and not happened.

They'd never been lovers. They should have been - but he'd been too scared so it had never happened.

But on these nights, when the ghost came to him, bringing parts of him alive, he could pretend that they had loved, together, entwined in each other's bodies, taking and giving the joy between them. He could allow himself to imagine what Blair's face would have looked like in pleasure, sensuous and erotic. The soft sounds he would have made as Jim touched him, made love to him.

All the things he'd never allowed himself to do while the man was alive.

The bitterness would take it's toll in the morning, but for the night, the darkness, he wallowed in the dream, the ghostly presence talking to him, making him hard, touching him in a way nobody ever had before.

He was no longer sure that he even felt love any more - but this had become just as an important part of his life as painting - more so, for in this, there seemed to be a direction, a meaning he couldn't ignore.

He'd once tried to paint Blair. He hadn't tried a second time.

The voice came to him then, soothing and comforting, easing the night and bringing him alive and aware. His whole body responded, skin tingling, pulse increasing, erection growing.

Why had he been afraid? It seemed so long ago now he couldn't remember - but he had been. Terrified. Scared of losing something perhaps, possibly his freedom, afraid of finding that he had become so totally dependent on another person?

His hands slipped over his body, pulling the sheet away, letting his skin breathe. He loved this, this feeling, this ghostly presence, loved the way it affected him, the way it made him feel. His hands took up the story, touching him where he liked to feel it, caressing his cock, his balls, his perineum and further, to where he could push a fingertip inside himself.

He would have given Blair this, shared it with him, taken whatever Blair had wanted to give back to him.

As his hand enclosed his cock, he stiffened, closing his eyes, setting his imagination free. He never just dreamt that Blair was doing this to him - instead, he pictured the two of them together, loving each other and it was enough, always enough to see that, to conjure up a love he'd never permitted, giving it a chance to be free.

His finger sank further and he curled up on the bed, pumping with one hand now, fucking with the other. He no longer remembered the last time he'd slept with anybody - he neither looked for it nor wanted it. This was the only pleasure his body wanted now and he took it, thrusting into his fist with a passion he'd always kept hidden. His finger slid in and out of his body, needing to be more - but he refused to use some toy, some thing that wasn't flesh and blood. He needed to feel the connection, feel the inside of his passage as he felt the invader.

And the pictures rolled across him, Blair's eyes, so blue, so wide, smiling at him, laughing, being a part of him and they kissed and held each other, moving inside each other and it was almost enough, but enough to make him come and he did, coming in his hand, the fluid hot and surprising, then calming and then bitter.

He didn't lie there. Instead, the moment his body stopped shuddering, he withdrew his fingers, got out of bed and went straight into the bathroom. There he washed himself off, scrubbing his fingers, his nails, everything that could leave some scent he might recognize later. These moments were for the night - he didn't want to remember them during the day.

Only when he was thoroughly cleaned did he return to bed, curling up again to find the ghost gone.

Blair had been dead more than seven years - and still he kept Jim company.

16 Years

Jim was out the back when he heard the doorbell go. Stifling a curse, he put down the shovel and ambled back inside, shaking his head when his visitor, whoever it was, pressed the buzzer again.

He turned the lock and pulled the door open to find a man standing on the step, a little older than the last time he'd seen him. "Steven!"

"Hi, Jim. Can I come in?"

"Sure." Jim stepped back to let his brother in and closed the door. He took him through into the kitchen and put the kettle on as Steven turned to survey the place. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing special," Steven grinned. "I was just in the area and thought I'd drop in. This place looked small from the front but it's not so bad inside."

"Nothing like your palatial mansion, I suppose."

"Why don't you come over one night and see for yourself?"

Jim shook his head and chuckled, turning to make the coffee. "You know I don't visit."

"But I'm just saying you should."

"Fine. Milk?"

"Thanks. Hey, you know they pulled your old building down?"

"What?"

"Yeah, your loft has gone. Good thing you sold when you did. I understand the building was condemned a few months ago. Still, I think you're too young to be living in a retirement village."

"This isn't a retirement village - it's a court. It's close to work and it does me just fine."

The water boiled and he poured it out, handing Steven a mug before ushering him out the back to where the sun was a little warmer. He'd really begun feeling the cold the last couple of winters, making the most of the summer when it decided to show its face.

"Done any new paintings?"

Jim put his coffee down and picked up his shovel again. He worked as he spoke. "I haven't painted in three years. Gave it up when I sold the loft."

"Why?"

"Not enough light here. Besides, I was running out of places to hang the canvases."

Steven nodded and wandered around, ostensibly looking at the garden Jim spent most of his time tending. "And you're taking early retirement?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Is this a twenty-questions visit?"

"Hey, Jim," Steven grinned, "I haven't seen you in a year. I'm just trying to catch up."

"I'd rather stay home than go to work - how's that for an answer?"

"Okay, I guess." Steven stopped his wandering and sat down on the stone bench Jim had put in last spring. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"What?"

"Well, I have this friend on the museum board. He's a professor of archeology at Rainier. Well, we were having dinner last week and he mentioned something I didn't quite understand and I wondered if you'd explain it to me."

Jim raised his eyebrows, but kept digging. He had seeds to plant before it got dark.

"This friend of mine is married to a woman who's in the school of anthropology and she told him that you brought in a manuscript for evaluation. The one written by your friend, Sandburg. He says that you've asked them to review it and grade it accordingly."

"That's right."

"Jim, why? Sandburg's been dead almost twenty years. What possible difference could it make now? God, even his mother's passed away. Your senses have been normal since he died - so why is it so important for you to announce that you were once a sentinel? Don't you know what will happen if anybody finds out?"

"Who's going to find out - and why should they care?" Jim stopped digging and straightened up, stretching his back out. He glanced aside at his brother. "I read the dissertation, Steven. It was worth a doctorate and who knows, there might be some poor guy out there somewhere with heightened senses who just thinks he's going crazy - like I did. Why shouldn't it be published now? And what can happen to me? I retire in six weeks, I live in the suburbs, I keep to myself. I don't even talk to my neighbours. I no longer have crazy senses so even the government wouldn't be interested - but Blair deserved his doctorate and there's no reason why he shouldn't get it."

Steven stayed silent for a moment, then shook his head, glancing away. "You've never really recovered from his death, have you? It's like you don't want to."

"Maybe, maybe not." Jim shrugged and put the shovel aside. He picked up the pack of lettuce seeds and knelt down to push them into ground he'd prepared. "Does it matter?"

"To me, yes."

Jim smiled, shaking his head. "You know Sandburg was the one who told me to trust you, back when I thought you were a murder suspect. He kept telling me to talk to you, get to know you, forgive you for those petty childhood crimes."

"He was a good man."

"Yeah."

Steven said nothing else as Jim sowed his seeds and when he stood ready to water, Steven rose as well.

"I guess it's time I was going. I don't suppose I can talk you into coming around for dinner one night, can I? I know you don't keep in touch with your old friends any more."

"No point, really. I'll see you out."

Steven drove away in a new car, something bright and flashy Jim couldn't identify. He went and finished watering his garden then started preparing dinner while his email downloaded. As usual, there was one from Megan, telling him news from Australia, her family, her children, the man she'd married. As usual, he gave her the same dull replies then switched the computer off and ate his meal.

Truth was, it was nice of Steven to worry - but there was no need. He'd been assured of secrecy when he'd submitted the manuscript and the chances of the book ever getting published now were very slim. But even so, even if it did become big news once more, even if his life was turned upside down again - it was a small price to pay for justice.

It had taken him sixteen years to work out how to repay the debt - he couldn't turn his back on it now.

22 years

The soil was moist and warm in his hands, something he always loved about gardening. There had been moments over the years when he'd wished he'd had his sentinel senses back so he could dial it up, really feel it properly - but wishes made no difference.

He pulled weeds from the front garden bed, fingers lacing around the seedlings he'd planted, but he couldn't work for long. He straightened up, brushed his fingers off and grabbed his walking stick. With a silent groan, he got to his feet and looked around. There was no point watering - it would rain some time soon. Great black clouds filled one side of the sky, hovering in waiting, timing the strike.

He paused, looking up, frowning into the clouds. He'd seen a sky like that before, the day Sandburg had died. The same configuration of shades pressed against the heavens. Odd.

Before he could move, a car pulled up in front of his fence and his brother waved through the window. Jim made his slow way to the gate and pushed it open, stepping onto the pavement to shake Steven's hand.

"So, how are you, Jim?"

"Fine, fine, you?"

"Very well. I brought some wedding photos to show you."

"Great. So it all went well?"

"Not a hitch," Steven grinned. "My little girl is now officially off my hands."

"Congratulations," Jim replied, his gaze returning to the sky. For some reason, he couldn't stop looking at it, like it was trying to tell him something.

"I guess that means it's going to rain, right?"

"That's a safe bet in Cascade."

"Oh, I meant to call you and tell you - I have a friend in New York who bought Sandburg's book. He wanted to know if it was my brother in there."

"What did you tell him?" Jim turned back to his brother. Maybe he should go inside. He wasn't feeling too good - but if he went inside, he wouldn't be able to see the sky and he . . . needed to.

Steven shrugged, so much about him still the young man despite the grey flecked through the fair hair, the wrinkles creased around smiling eyes. "I told him that Blair Sandburg and my big brother had been best friends and that anything else . . ."

Jim gasped. The old pain stabbed deep into him, making his hands shake. God, it had been so long since it had been this bad. . .

"Jim? Are you okay?"

"Fine," but he had to reach out to the gate to steady himself. Damn this pain - he should be done with it by now. It had been so long, so much of his life. . .

Another wave of agony splashed across him and he felt his knees go.

"Dammit, Jim, you're having a heart attack. I'm calling an ambulance."

Steven hovered, pulling out his cell phone but Jim could hardly wave a hand to stop him. "Not a heart attack. I'm okay, really . . ." but more words were cut off as another, bigger pain seared through his flesh, radiating up to his shoulder and down his left arm. He sank to the ground as his fingers cramped up.

Was he having a heart attack? Was that what this was?

Steven rushed words into his cell phone, while easing him down onto the pavement. Jim rolled onto his right side, but that didn't make any difference. The pain stayed with him, followed him, just as it had done all his life only this time, he wasn't scared of it. Maybe it was time for him to die and get it over with. God, Blair had died twice, surely it was Jim's turn.

Why wasn't he afraid?

"Jim? Just try to relax, try to breathe. The ambulance will be here soon. You just have to hold on."

He could see the sky, the clouds in the distance, looming closer, darker, ready to let loose.

The pain sharpened.

He was going to die. It was so obvious, he wanted to tell Steven not to worry, that it was okay but he couldn't form any words. But he'd never been able to do that, had he? Never been able to say anything that really mattered. He'd stood there in that hospital, talking about how Blair was the best cop he'd ever met and the best friend he'd ever had and while that was all true, it had been nothing like what he'd meant to say, wanted to say but the words just hadn't come to him and so he'd given that tiny droplet, aching inside with the tiny look of hope Blair had given him.

Another wave of pain made him groan. He tried to take in a deep breath but his lungs couldn't cope and so he made short pants, feeling sweat tickle his brow.

No, it wouldn't be long now. If he could just go before the ambulance got here, that would make things so much simpler.

Why wasn't he afraid?

Why, when his whole life had been filled with one fear after another, could he feel none now? Ever since Blair had died, he'd inured himself against pain, never getting involved, never getting close to people, never wanting to once more go through the pain of losing somebody he loved because it had been just too fucking hard to do, too impossible without somebody there to help him. He'd had to bury it all, the pain, the love, the longing, the desperation. Blair had said he had a problem with fear-based responses and god, he'd been so right and yet still so short of the mark. Yes, it was time for him to go but how fucking ironic that he wasn't afraid. Afraid of living, but not afraid of dying.

Blair would have killed him for doing this. For spending his whole life living on the edge of a fear he refused to acknowledge. Blair would never have let it happen - but if Blair hadn't died, then it would never have been a problem.

How long had it been? Twenty-two years? God, so long? So long since that day when the sky had looked like this? So long since he'd lost half of himself?

Didn't feel that long. Felt more like days, hours, no more. The pain was the same, the awful, blinding, killing pain had never let up, only subsided from time to time but it had been with him all this time and even if he'd wanted to get over Blair's death, the pain would never let him.

He could hear things now, people gathered around him, talking, tones of horror and concern and Steven, his face close, his frown of worry, saying words he could hardly hear.

"Come on, Jim, just hold on, please. The ambulance is just turning into the street."

And he could hear it, hear so much, his senses abruptly back on line after a twenty-year break and abruptly, the pain doubled and his body shuddered with the shock.

He could hear Blair talking to him. Telling him to dial it down. Dial it down dial it down . . .

"Come on, Jim! Please . . ."

Movement, hands touching him, turning him, sticking needles into him and that pain, the physical pain was nothing to what was going on inside . . .

Blair's voice . . . closer now . . .

"Dial it down, Jim. Dial it down."

More movement, rough, urgent, voices shooting across him but it was all nothing now.

He should have told Blair. Should have said. Should have done something to make it better.

Should have told him about the love, about the fear because if anybody could have helped, it was Blair. He'd fallen in love with the man and never said a word, making out they were just friends, partners and yet, what part of their lives hadn't they shared apart from a bed?

Yes, he should have said something, should have let the man love him, allowed himself to love in return. They should have spent the last twenty years together, fighting and laughing and loving.

God, what a fool he'd been. All his life he'd pushed people away because the one he'd wanted was dead. And worse, he could have had that person with him, at least for a few years, spent some time with joy and then maybe, if Blair had still died that day, maybe losing him would have been easier, maybe he would have recovered some time before now . . .

"Dial it down, Jim!"

Blair's voice. Come back to haunt him - or to make him try? Did it matter? It was just so good to hear it after so very long. So wonderful, his body shuddered with relief. He wanted to reach out, hold that voice and drown in it, let his last moments on earth be inside that voice.

Yes.

Hands pressing on his chest, pushing, again and again, pumping blood through his body and he could hear it, almost feel it, spending his last seconds as a sentinel. Blair would have been proud, wouldn't he?

That voice again, "Come on, Jim, try! Damnit, you have to try!"

He couldn't. What was the point? A life without love was simply not worth the trouble - especially when it had been his own fear that had made it that way.

"God Damn it, Jim! Don't you dare die on me now! You have to fight! Please, Jim! You have to! I can't lose you now!"

The voice, yes, the voice. He wanted to go where the voice was, where Blair was. He wanted to be there, wanted to be wherever Blair was and so, if there was an afterlife well, hey, he could go there and maybe he'd get a chance to say all those things to Blair he should have said before . . .

"Damn it, Jim! Don't die! Please!"

Yes, be wherever Blair was, that's what mattered, to be with Blair because, even after so long, he still loved the man, wanted him, needed him. Even in death, his feelings had not changed.

"JIM, PLEASE!"

He pulled in a breath, let it out, let it all out, let go, relaxed, let go, following the voice to wherever Blair took him because Blair had always taken him safe places, places where he'd felt loved and wanted and needed.

Yes. Time to go. . .

. . .

"Jim?" The voice again, calmer, softer, but unmistakable. Such a beautiful voice. "Jim? Can you hear me?"

As soon as he could talk, he'd tell Blair that, that he had a beautiful voice to match the rest of him.

"If the pain is bad, you have to dial it down. I can't let them give you any more pain meds or your senses will go haywire. Can you dial it down for me?"

Pain? What pain?

Quickly he searched inside, feeling out with senses still awake. Yes, he had pain, but it felt different, numbed, throbbing and localized in two places. But no, he didn't need to dial it down.

"Jim?" The voice came again, a little distraught now, rough and husky as though from hours spent pleading with God. "I really wish you'd wake up, you know? You're scaring me here. Please, can you just open your eyes?"

Open? When had he closed them?

Sure, he could do whatever Blair wanted because he was here.

His eyes felt strange, unwilling and seedy - but he opened them anyway. Sudden bright light filled his vision and he shut them again. When he tried a second time, the light was much more subdued and he blinked at it until his vision cleared and he could see . . .

"Jim?"

Blair, sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning over him, blue, blue eyes red and puffy, face pale, shadows under the eyes, hair tied back, ancient flannel shirt on . . .

But, oh god! It was him! As though he were still alive! God, god, god, thank you, thankyouthankyou. . ..

"Jim? How do you feel?"

Feel? For a dead man he felt fucking fantastic.

He opened his mouth, but not a lot of sound came out. He contented himself with mouthing the words, "Feel okay."

Blair's smile was worth all the sunshine in the world he'd just left, a world becoming more dim and less important as each second passed.

"You're going to be fine, so don't worry."

"Okay."

Blair smiled again and looked, for a moment, like he was blinking back more tears. He nodded, as if to himself, then began, "Do you know where you are?"

Jim's eyes tried to take in the room, but they refused to leave Blair's face long enough to really grasp anything.

God, he was just as beautiful. More so. Those incredible eyes, filled with so much love. Wonderful mouth, glorious hair. Beautiful, beautiful man.

"You're in hospital, in intensive care. Do you remember what happened?"

Of course he remembered. He'd been there, hadn't he? He'd had a heart attack and Steven had called the ambulance and . . .

"You were in the bank, to pay some bills," Blair began gently. "Some guys came in, waving guns around and someone behind the counter pressed the silent alarm. By the time the robbers wanted to leave, Simon and the SWAT team had the street blocked off and we went straight into a hostage scene. Do you remember any of this?"

Jim frowned. Yes, some of it was familiar but . . . damnit, he couldn't grasp it properly . . . like it was fading away . . .

"Well, it was a couple of hours at least. Megan called me and it wasn't long after I got there that . . . well, that the gunmen started to bring hostages out. You were in the first lot and just as you got out the door, one of the others, a woman, started to run and you tried to stop her. . ." Blair caught in a breath, held it a moment then continued. "You got shot, twice. And it took, like forever, for the SWAT team to move in and the EMTs thought they'd lost you like six times or something. You'd just lost so much blood. But you're okay now. They stitched you back together and you're okay now. You're going to be fine."

Shot? At the bank?

No, that wasn't right. Blair had been the one to get shot.

Blair had died.

Hadn't he?

Jim tried to lift a hand but it felt like lead. Blair saw it however, and took it between his own. Again, he tried to speak, letting out only a whisper, "How long?"

"Yesterday morning. It's now almost nine on Wednesday night. Simon's been here every couple of hours and Joel, well, he's been great - keeps bringing me food and stuff. Megan though, she's been so good. I just . . ."

Jim summoned the strength to pull his hand free and raise it to touch that face, brush under the eyes where tears had been so recently. "You've been crying."

"Yeah, well," Blair shrugged, his gaze lowered as though he should be ashamed. His chin quivered just enough to set alarm bells going off in Jim's confused mind. "You had a rough spot a few hours ago. We thought we were going to lose you. I guess I . . ."

"Hey," Jim took one of those hands, squeezed it with what little strength he had. He wanted to comfort, needed to - even though none of this made much sense. "It's okay."

Blair looked up then, his eyes filling with new tears, taking the tiny crumbs Jim gave him - as he had always done. But -

Hadn't he died? Hadn't they both? So why was he the one lying in hospital with two holes in his chest and a weepy Blair sitting at his beside, hope and delight warring with despair and fear.

Had he dreamed all that other stuff?

Everything he'd gone through . . . a whole life . . . god, it felt so weird, so strange . . . so unreal . . .

Yes, it did feel unreal now. Now that Blair was sitting there beside him, just watching him. This had a feeling to it more solid than anything over the past twenty years . . .

Good God! That . . . that life had been a dream! Blair hadn't died . . . he wasn't dead . . . It seemed impossible but . . . but . . .

He was here and so was Blair and it all just felt so much more real, so much more than anything he'd experienced in his dream except for the pain of losing Blair.

The memories were fading, as though they'd been no more than his imagination - but the pain, yes, the memory of the pain remained with him and he couldn't live with it any more. Couldn't go back to that pain, the life he'd lived on his own, without this man.

"Chief?" he whispered.

"Yeah?" Blair smiled, more hope in his eyes than Jim had had in a lifetime.

He summoned a little more strength, gave his words a little voice, more than a whisper - but not much. "You're in love with me, aren't you?"

Blair froze, his mouth open, eyes wide. Abruptly, he dropped Jim's hand and slipped off the bed. "I . . . I . . . Jim, I'm sorry . . . I . . ."

Jim tried to stop him but Blair was out the door before he could say a word.

He slept without dreaming, dreamed without sleeping, warm, comfortable, bound up with bandages and dressings and IV lines and quarterly obs. It was a strange half-life of desperation and worry, where he woke only when there was movement around him, drifted when things were quiet.

His bed was surrounded by curtains on three sides, pale apricot curtains that hid bright lights beyond. He learned the name of his nurse, saw the surgeon who had put his body back together, was given a thumbs up on his recovery and he went back to drifting, to trying to contain the terror.

How could he have ruined it all so soon? How could he have been such a fool?

It was midnight when the curtains parted again and he caught hold of reality once more. He'd thought he'd lived a whole life without Blair but now it seemed that was the dream.

"Hey," Blair's voice drifted into the quiet ward and Jim turned to look at him, barely able to contain his hope. Blair looked a little less haggard now, a fresh shirt on, hair brushed back. A little more like his old self.

The old self Jim had lost for so long.

"Hey," he replied, anxious for this last chance, and it would be his very last chance. He'd thrown away far too many. "Come here."

"Look, Jim," Blair stood by the bed, not coming closer, his hands in his back pockets, shoulders raised and stiff. "I know this is not what, you know, you paid for and if it bothers you then, I'm sorry. I never wanted you to know but I guess I let on too much, right? But look, if you don't think you can, like, live with it or anything, then that's cool, I can deal with that - but could you just say so? I mean, you don't have to say right now or anything 'cause you've still got a lot of drugs in your system and I know thinking clearly must be a bit tough at the moment. But if you want me to move out or something, then you just have to say the word and I'll go but I really don't want to stop being friends if that's okay with you."

"No," Jim swallowed, "it's not okay with me."

Blair raised his eyebrows, pain evident on his face - but Jim didn't give him the chance to run again.

"Please, Chief, come here." Blair paused a moment, then came forward a few steps until Jim could reach out and take his hand. "Some time," he began carefully, "remind me to tell you about the . . . dream I had, okay?"

Obviously confused, Blair nodded, "Okay."

"I never said thank you," Jim let his gaze drop to where their hands were joined and it seemed stupidly symbolic that they'd never held hands before now, before the shooting. "You did so much for me - stuff nobody should be expected to do. And I behaved like an asshole over your thesis . . ."

"No, Jim, you had every right to be angry. You were right, I hadn't solved the problem with your identity and if . . ."

"I know - but I still blamed you and I just want you to know that I was just scared, okay?"

Blair nodded, a little smile on his beautiful face, "I knew that, Jim."

Of course he did. Knew and forgave. Always forgave so easily. An open heart, an open life, afraid of getting hurt but always ready to go back for more, regardless of the pain.

Was this the most important thing Blair had taught him?

Jim put the words together in his head, formed them, phrased them - but when he looked up and saw the sadness in Blair's eyes, they vanished, like they always had and he was left empty, alone, just as he'd lived in his dream.

What if this was the dream? What if he never got this chance again?

"I lost you," Jim blurted out, sudden panic sending his heart rate soaring.

"When?"

"In my dream . . ." he blinked, unable to stop tears forming, slipping down his cheeks. "I lost you. It was you who got shot and you died and god, Blair I never said I loved you, never once said how much you mean to me. I never said it and I'm sorry because I love you so much and I want to be with you if you can ever forgive me for being such a total, complete absolute idiot . . ." He gasped in air, noticing how Blair came much closer, held his hand tightly. "I knew you loved me," he continued, "but it just scared me and I couldn't do anything and god, I'm still scared but I just can't . . . I can't live a life without you, okay? So don't go moving out and get rid of all your girlfriends and move your stuff upstairs and don't be a cop unless you really, really want it okay? Okay?"

"Ssh, it's okay, Jim, it's okay," Blair's whisper sang to him, seeped into him in places that had never been alive in the dream, making him feel things he'd never felt in that whole weird life. "It's okay, just relax, I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay," Jim swallowed, taking a few steadying breaths. He'd said it. At last. Perhaps not too poetically, but at least the words had come out and Blair had heard them.

He felt . . . better.

"I didn't know," Blair murmured after a while, his voice gentle, almost wistful. His gaze remained steady on Jim's, blue eyes glistening a little with moisture. "I mean, I saw things and like, thought maybe you did - but I had to put it down to wishful thinking."

Jim turned his head, pulled on Blair's hand until the young man was sitting on the side of the bed. It took him a long time before he could find the right thing to say - and for once, Blair didn't try to fill the silence. Jim didn't need to dial up his sense of touch to feel the warmth of the hand held in his. He felt . . . like he was ready to burst with something so good he could hardly imagine it.

Finally, when it became to much to contain, he lifted his gaze to Blair's again, searching, looking for something he needed to see. "So . . . you think we might . . . be able to . . ."

"What?" Blair whispered, hardly moving.

"Be . . . you know, you and me."

"Together?"

Jim would have smiled if he hadn't been so scared. "Yeah."

Blair took a short breath, as though steadying himself. "Lovers?"

Blinking, Jim nodded, "If that's how you see us. Do you?"

"Do you?"

"Please, tell me what you want."

"To love you." Blair swallowed, his eyes tearing up again, his expression grave. "Can I?"

"Yeah. That's what I want, too."

Blair nodded, seemingly unable to decide whether he wanted to smile or cry. Jim didn't doubt for once second that his own face said the same thing. It was getting kinda hard to swallow, his throat felt so heavy.

"So . . . this is it, huh?" Blair decided on a tentative smile.

"Yeah. For good?"

"Oh," Blair finally let out a small chuckle, "definitely for good."

"Good." Jim took in a deep breath and felt the last edges of the dream fade away, leaving this the only reality that was believable. "Come here."

"Why?"

"Because I want to kiss you and I can't when you're so far away."

Blair's face began to crumple then and Jim tugged on his hand until Blair stretched out on the bed beside him, close enough to hold. Jim turned then, brought his lips close and brushed them over Blair's.

It was impossible to tell who shuddered - but it went through both of them. With his free hand, Jim pulled Blair closer, taking a real kiss, a proper kiss, one which sent his senses soaring and his body tingling. Blair's flavour was so familiar. He tasted of love and warmth and companionship and friendship and loyalty. Unashamed, Jim dived down for more, immersing himself in all the things he'd missed over a whole imagined life.

It had been worth it. To find this at the end, to discover the end was in fact the beginning. Totally worth it.

He kissed Blair with everything he'd lost for twenty years - and Blair kissed him in return as though he'd shared that terrible dream of loss and despair.

There was so much tenderness, it made him ache inside - but in a way so beautiful, he knew it came from Blair.

Kissing Blair was about the best thing he'd discovered in forty years.

"Well, it's about bloody time!"

Blair jerked up, twisting around as Jim started to grin. Connor had pulled the curtain apart and was now standing there, a smile on her face, hand on her hip like she owned the place.

"Yeah," Jim replied, "it is about time."

"Fine. I'll leave you to it. And Blair, just be careful of his stitches, okay?"

With that, she vanished and Blair just sank his head back onto Jim's shoulder, breathing heavily. "Man, that was just . . . oh, man!"

"Don't worry about it, Chief. She's known about us for a while."

"She has? She said something?"

Well, no, not really. Not in this life. "How long am I going to be in here?"

"A couple of weeks."

"Then you should go home and get some sleep. And tomorrow, when you're rested, you can start moving your stuff upstairs. Just make yourself some room. We'll work the rest out when I get home."

"Jim, are you sure about this?"

Jim smiled, burying his face against silky curls. "Chief, I've had a whole lifetime to think about it. Yes, I'm sure."

"And you're not scared any more?"

"Yeah, I'm scared. But you know, you only live once, right?"

"Right."

Jim didn't try to move. Why should he? Instead, he just let Blair snuggle down beside him, knowing the nurse would come along soon and protest.

But for the moment, he just lived with what he had, loving it for exactly what it was.

Epilogue

Jim levered himself up from the couch and went into the kitchen. Blair had made something for dinner that not only smelled great - but also about perfectly cooked. He peered into the oven but all he could see was the side of the baking dish.

Did he dare take it out and look? Perhaps take a little taste? Though the weeks of hospital food were now a dim memory, they weren't quite so dim that he couldn't continue to appreciate what real food tasted like.

Three weeks in hospital. He'd been out another three and only now was he starting to feel like a human being. He was walking each day, doing a few light weights, spending less time lying down and dozing. He got visitors almost daily, the guys just dropping in for a while or for meal or a game of poker. The atmosphere in the loft changed on a regular basis and only in odd moments did Jim remember what it had once been like - for him.

It was odd how little had changed. Though Jim had been an invalid and Blair had been looking after him, the way they talked to each other, behaved, acted - almost as though they'd never said those words in the hospital.

Almost.

Except that their favourite way of spending an evening now was to settle on the couch together, in any number of different configurations. Just as long as they were together. Some nights, like last night, they spent most of the time simply looking at each other, kissing, making out.

But last night . . . oh, last night had been very different.

For the first time, Blair had gone upstairs with Jim, had slept in his bed - and for the first time, they had touched each other, tentatively at first and then more boldly. Gently and carefully, they had made love for the first time and Jim was sure that no matter what else happened in his life, that was an experience he was never, ever going to forget.

He hadn't thought it would be possible to love Blair more than he did already.

It wasn't the promise of what the future held that made him smile as he picked up the oven gloves. It was the reality of what he had now that did it.

He pulled the oven door open and reached inside -

"What do you think you're doing?"

He froze.

"Stand back."

He stepped back.

"Close the door."

It snapped shut.

"Drop the mitts."

They landed on the floor.

Blair appeared before him, bending down to pick up the oven mitts. Carefully, he placed them on the bench, then turned to face Jim, his right hand hidden behind his back. Trying for distraction, Jim caught that beautiful face between his hands and bent his head for a gentle, moist kiss, teasing and playing before diving a little deeper.

Yeah, this was certainly something to be terrified of. Feeling love like this was indeed frightening.

It was also perhaps the most wonderful thing ever invented.

Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's neck, pulling him closer. Warm lips nibbled on his ears as his body snuggled close. "Wanna go upstairs?" Blair whispered conspiratorially.

"Yep." Jim replied, all suggestion of romance gone with those few words.

"Now?"

"Uh huh." Jim's hands were already sliding down Blair's back to cup his ass. Mmmn, so much to explore.

"What if I have a small present for you?"

"Can I unwrap it in bed?"

Blair giggled and shook his head. Then he stepped back a little, eyes meeting Jim's. "That's your other present and yes, you can unwrap it in bed later, after dinner. This one's for now."

With that, Blair let go of Jim and reached behind him to the bench. He brought forth a small square wooden box, about a foot long, sanded so smoothly, Jim could feel no imperfections.

"What's this?"

"Open it and see."

Carefully, Jim fumbled for the catch then placed the box on the bench before pushing the lid back. Inside, laid out in perfect lines, were tubes of oil pants. Brushes were packed along one side, a small palette fitted into the lid.

For a moment everything faded into darkness, leaving him stumbling, screaming inside - but just as quickly, it disappeared and Blair was standing there, a wonderfully hopeful smile on his face, waiting for Jim's reaction.

How had he known? Jim had never told him the details of the dream. How could he have known?

He swallowed. "What's this for?"

"Something to do to help you relax. I know you can draw - maybe you can paint - and I figure the light here has got to be good, with the balcony and everything. It will give you something to do while you're convalescing." Blair paused, trying to keep still. "So? What do you think?"

"I think I'm in love," Jim replied, unable to take his eyes from the paint set. He allowed his fingers to slide over the smooth wooden surface a moment longer before he turned back to the man in his life. "And I think I want to go upstairs and prove it."

"Now?" Blair kept most of his face under control - but Jim could tell he was really pleased. "What about the dinner you were about to peek at?"

"Will it keep?"

"I don't know," Blair turned, about to open the oven and find out. Jim didn't let him get that far. Instead, he caught the man, pulled him close, kissed him again and simply settled for a moment.

"I love you," he whispered, still afraid but enjoying it now, understanding that he could take the risk and live with it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Blair smiled, then his face fell a little. "Jim? What you said, about me not being a cop unless I really want to?"

"Yeah?"

"I . . . I don't think I really want to."

Jim smiled, placing a soft kiss on Blair's forehead. "Okay. You have something else in mind?"

"I've got a few ideas."

"Good."

"You sure?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure." He waited until Blair relaxed in his arms before adding, "As long as I get to unwrap my other present now."

"Before dinner?"

"Yep," Jim grinned at Blair's laughing eyes. "Always said you looked good enough to eat. It's time I started my own sentinel tests, don't you think?"

"Um, Jim, I think you could have a very good point there."

"Oh, I hope so, Chief, I hope so."

~finis

A life lived in fear is a life half lived. Spanish Proverb