Author's webpage: http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html

Disclaimer: Everyone belongs to Pet Fly with the exception of Allyson, Burton and Sonquo. They belong to me. As usual, I make no financial claims to these characters yada yada yada so send the lawyers elsewhere.

Notes: This slash is dedicated to Iroshi. For days I had been pouring over Beverly's Vamp Chron slash with a wonderful Lestat/Louis/David slash that had me just whipped. I was haunted by the idea of three men torn apart by love, and I wanted to write something similar but didn't know how. Then Iroshi showed me her incredibly hot "Birthday Wish" with Jim, Rafe and Blair and I knew. So this slash belongs to her because she inspired it.

A special thanks to Jack R. Darcy for giving me the courage to do what I needed to do, and to trust my subcon's path, even when my heart didn't want to go there. This would have been an entirely different, and much worse, story if I hadn't listened to his advice.

And hugs to my new-found friends on the senslash IRC chat group! Thanks guys for giving me the URL's for the Quechua links. See y'all in the room!

Warnings: violence, language and graphic sex. Okay, so that's expected with me. Oh, and angst, but then, you wouldn't be reading this if you didn't like angst. But here's the biggy. I killed one of the canon characters. I didn't want to. I don't really like to read them, even, but it just sorta happened and it felt right and I'm not about to tell you who. I cried like a baby writing this story and if you want a huge catharsis, there you have it.

That said, I must rebut by saying this slash has a HAPPY ENDING!

Don't believe me? Then just read it. :-D

No more I love you's
The language is leaving me
No more I love you's
The language is leaving me
in silence
No more I love you's
The meaning is shifting
outside the words
-- Annie Lennox

May, 2002

With her age-speckled hand on the stainless steel door, the doctor paused for a moment, trying to marshal her energy before she stepped into the cold waiting room. Three men paced, their exhausted eyes on the flecked linoleum floor, their minds trapped in their own personal hells. She watched them, and she couldn't help but take in and read these three like a mediaeval romance -- the tall black captain with his unlit cigar, the muscular detective with the short, military style haircut and the arctic eyes, and the dark-haired, model-beautiful detective, sharp in his stylish suit, his yellow silk tie loosened about his neck -- and how none of them would make eye contact with each other. And how none of them would speak to the other. /Was it guilt? Anger? Blame? Or . . . something entirely different?/ But when they realized she was standing in the half-opened swinging doors with her respectful white robe, all three snapped to attention.

"How is he?" they asked in unison.

The doctor sighed. She had been in surgery since four that afternoon when they had flown Blair Sandburg in by helocopter. It was now past eight and her bedside manner had been exhausted. "Which one of you is his partner?"

Both Jim Ellison and Brian Rafe answered, "I am." Then they glared at each other like fire.

The doctor took a deep breath and restated her question. "Which one of you is Detective Sandburg's domestic partner?"

Rafe shoved Jim hard in the chest, his face barely disguising his burning rage. "I am." Then he turned to the doctor. "When can I see him?"

She pulled him to the side, but Jim could easily hear her words. "I'm afraid Mr. Sandburg's suffered very severe trauma. Both lungs were pierced, and we're having problems getting oxygen to him. We were able to close the nick to his aorta, but he's lost most of his blood. He . . . died twice on the operating table." Brian's face grew pale at her words, and his entire world contracted into a single point of desperation. "That he is even alive now is a miracle." Then she touched his arm, trying to temper her harsh words with some comfort. "He must love someone very deeply."

At the word "someone," Jim's chest clenched tightly.

Simon interrupted the sentinel's thoughts. "What's she saying?"

Jim waved his hand, unable to speak, hiding his panic behind the signal for silence.

"I've moved Mr. Sandburg into intensive care. You may see him for ten minutes." With that, she pulled Rafe by the elbow through the swinging doors.

Jim collapsed into one of the ugly, uncomfortable vinyl chairs that lined the white wall. As he closed his eyes, again the haunting scene played out for him. He and Taggart had been so focused on the car bomb planted in the Ford station wagon that neither of them had realized a second bomb lay hidden in the car parked on the opposite side of the lot. Jim heard the electronic ticking so clearly in his memory, and seconds after he had clipped the red wire and the counter stopped, the iron remembrance of how his mind suddenly opened like a flower -- knowing -- that the ticking he now heard was not the echo he had convinced himself earlier. It was a second bomb. And Blair was leaning on the car next to it.

The same one he had made him stand near. "Don't move, Sandburg."

"But--"

"I mean it!"

"Jim, I'm a fucking detective now! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that?!"

"I said I mean it!"

His sentinel vision had damned him now, to envision the lurid details, again and again like a clicking metronome, as the white Chrysler Cirrus burst like a red shell, the hot shards of metal blasting through the air. How Blair had turned ever so slightly, his child-like blue eyes wrinkling, clouded by misunderstanding, before the metal daggers sliced through his innocent chest. Then the shock wave mixed with fireballs lifted him, throwing him almost fifty feet into the air, crumpling him in a ball on the rasping asphalt.

Jim felt his bitterly-constructed world breaking apart, unable to stop it, so out of control. He barely noticed the shrapnel whizzing past him, scratching his skin.

All over again.

Like three years ago, when he had seen Blair Sandburg floating face-down in a murky, algae-stained fountain at the university. He was so certain he had died then. The silence of his lover's cold, hard heart deafened his sentinel ears. But the gods had spared him. He had survived. And although they had pieced together their friendship, and although Blair had agreed to return to the loft with him, when Jim had moved all of Blair's furniture into their rightful places, only one thing remained changed.

Blair did not rejoin him in the upstairs bed. All that remained irrevocably altered.

Blair Sandburg could forgive anyone. For most things.

But Jim found out very quickly that Blair did not forgive rejection.

Jim dropped his face in his hands, feeling the weight of three hard, lonely years upon him. Tears flooded into him, and he felt the judgment reassert itself. He was a worthless piece of scum, and he deserved all the pain heaped onto his pathetic heart.

The hospital room was unforgiveablely dark. It chilled Rafe's heart to the core. Only a small light clipped to an angled, industrial piece of metal over the bed spotlighted Blair's prone form. Rafe's throat grew wrench-tight and his eyes filled, but he blinked back any tears before they could really form. With leaden steps, he came closer. He only had ten minutes, like an executioner's sentence. He couldn't waste that precious time with his neurotic fear.

The room seemed to move around him, as if the floor determined the motion. Suddenly, he was hovering over his lover's body and his lungs quivered. Blair lay so deathly still, his lovely face blistered and bruised. Blindingly white bandages covered most of his skin, opened slightly at both wrists to allow multiple IV's. A thick, wrinkled oxygen tube ran past his swollen lips -- lips coated in Vaseline to keep them from chapping. These were lips he had kissed every morning, and every night, with husband-like devotion. An angry Greek chorus of mechanical beeps and chirps from the many machines rising up around him sounded out his weakened vitals.

With trembling hands, Brian slowly reached out to touch Blair's swollen face. "B-B-Blair?" Then he noticed it.

The nurses had cut Blair's beautiful, long, curly hair, shaving it extremely close to his skull. It made him look like a bruised wraith from hell.

And like a sudden wave swamping him, the memory came, unbidden, unwanted --

From two and a half years ago. Blair Sandburg, anthropology's impresario, had announced to the disbelieving world that his sentinel dissertation was a sham. His promising academic career now lay shattered and irrevocably destroyed. And not long after, Simon had presented him with his official badge, and an offer, to become a detective. After his graduation from the police academy, there had been a celebration for it, and Rafe had had way too much to drink. For several years, he had known that Jim and Blair were lovers. Not many people had figured it out, but he did. And it pained him a great deal. For all of Jim's gruff attitude and military persona, Rafe just couldn't fathom how someone as precious as Blair could be his type. He expected Jim to go for someone more muscular, more butch, more GI Joe. And Blair, well, he halfway expected Blair to be more interested in another academic or an artist. Certainly no one like himself, and most definitely not a terror like Jim. Their pairing just didn't make sense.

Then, unexpectedly, Jim threw Blair from the loft. Rafe had been there, not really expecting anything to happen, even though he desperately wanted it. He had just offered his friendship and support. Like a good man. Truth was, he never really liked Jim that much. His impression of Jim was that he was too brusque and imposing, throwing his weight and bear-like anger about like a club. Expecting people to respect him but not earning it on a case by case basis. But even so, Rafe respected him, and worked with him, and allowed the comrade-in-arms mentality to grow, but he never really thought he and Jim would be the kind of men to be close friends after work. Not enough to buy a beer for one another, and certainly not enough to rack a set of pool.

So that night, during the celebration party, he had noticed how Blair continued to slide away from Jim any time the larger detective tried to draw him close. Enough to make him drink more than he should have, to give him courage. Because regardless of what type Jim was attracted to, Brian Rafe was brutally attracted to Blair. The long, silky hair. The earrings. The flannel. The energy. The friendliness. The mind that could speak on any subject. Brian Rafe burned for him. He had become the stuff of his dreams.

Then Blair was suddenly at his side.

Rafe lost the blood in his face, and he had stuttered, "Oh, uh, hey, Hairboy."

"Hairboy," Blair had repeated. "You like saying that word don't you?"

"Which one?" Brian had slurred.

"Hair."

Grinning, Brian could not resist as his right hand sank into Blair's gloriously curling hair, feeling the thick strands mesh with his fingers. "Mmmmm."

Blair caught him by the shoulder and pushed him back. "You've like had way too much to drink, man."

"Yeah, maybe I have."

"Don't do something in front of everybody else that you'll regret," he whispered.

Brian leaned in close as he replied sadly, "The only thing I regret is that I didn't have the balls to ask you out before Jim did."

Blair eyed him for a moment with those delightful blue orbs, confused. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. I wish I had had a chance with you." He finished his beer with one strong guzzle. After he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he added, "Guess it's too late now."

"You don't mean that."

"I do, Blair. I really do."

Blair smiled a blindingly hot grin, and Rafe felt his knees go liquid-weak. Suddenly, Blair was motioning for Jim, and Brian felt his heart jump in his chest. "Jim, help me get Rafe home."

"Sure thing, Chief."

Growing hot all over, Brian fumbled as Jim left to grab their coats. "Oh shit, Blair, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I mean . . . you . . . and Jim . . . I know you guys are together and --"

"Shhhhh. Relax, man. Jim and I aren't together any more."

"What do you mean?"

"I took a good hard look at our relationship. And we're partners. We have to stay focused. We can't afford to let something like a lover's spat separate us. A day in a cold fountain taught me that one. So, no, Jim and I are not together."

Jim returned, handing Blair his coat before helping a very awkward Rafe slip into his cashmere trenchcoat. "Come on, Rafe," the sentinel said. "Let's get your drunk ass in bed."

The room and time seemed to sway as Rafe felt a suddenly uncertain world rotating around him. Before he realized it, he was sitting between Jim and Blair in the truck, with Blair opening the door. The cold air brought Rafe to his senses for a hazy moment. "Where am I?"

"You're back at your place. Jim, you wait here in case somebody needs to get by," Blair said, pulling Rafe towards the door. "I'll see Rafe in bed and be back in a second."

Jim only nodded, his jaw tense with unspoken secrets, but he said nothing.

Once inside, Blair dragged Rafe towards his bedroom, dumping him on the mattress. "Do you need any help getting undressed?"

Humiliated suddenly, Rafe wanted Blair to leave, and quickly. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. If you say so." Blair rose from the bed and crossed the room. For a brief moment, he stood in the doorway. "And Brian?"

"Yeah?" the dark-haired detective had looked up as he struggled with the small buttons on his starched white shirt.

"Do you want to go out sometime? Maybe dinner or something?"

Now, two and a half years later, the man he would cut his heart out for, Blair, lay there, on an unforgiving hospital bed, his precious life perilously close to ending. And what had Brian said to him that morning as he waved to him from their townhouse door? "Don't forget to mail the water bill."

Tears fell down his face.

He hadn't said, "I love you." He hadn't said any term of endearment. Just something so banal and staid and meaningless.

Sobbing followed soon after.

The heavy hand of the nurse on his shoulders startled him. Brian swung around in shock. "W-what?"

"It's time, sir."

"Time?"

"It's been ten minutes."

Brian turned swiftly to look back at his Blair, both mind and heart-felt emotions in a daze. "No. No. I haven't even said anything to him. I didn't say anything." He looked back at the nurse, his face awash with panic. "I didn't say I love him. I didn't tell him anything. I just walked out and I didn't say anything and he may never know. Oh my god, I didn't say anything. I just didn't know!" He clutched at her arm. "Please, give me ten more minutes. Please."

"I'm sorry sir. Those are the guidelines."

"Please," his voice broke, the tears falling unashamedly from his red eyes. "Please." He begged as if she were the gods, as if she were the fates driving to separate him from his lover. "Please . . . five more minutes . . . one more minute . . . please . . . I didn't tell him how much I love him. Please!!"

The nurse took a deep breath, feeling her own eyes growing wet with sympathy. "Okay, okay," she relented. "I'll come back for you."

"Oh thank you, oh thank you."

He turned back to face Blair, seeing him again so broken and weak in the bed. For a few seconds, his hands hovered over Blair's body, not sure where he could touch. "Blair? Baby? I'm here, baby. I'm here. They're gonna make me stay outside, but I'm here. I'm out in the hall. I'm not leaving, okay? I'll just be right outside. I love you. Oh, dear god, I love you so fucking much. Please, please don't leave me. Please. I wish I had said that to you. This morning. I just didn't think. I'll never make that mistake again if you'll just come back to me. Oh, man, I'm so fucking sorry. I'll never do it again. Please, please give me another chance. I love you."

Simon placed his hand on Jim's shoulder, and the haggard detective glanced up, his blue eyes weary. "How you holding up, there, bud?"

Jim shrugged his shoulders, trying to be stoic. "I'll be all right."

"You couldn't have known."

"Of anybody standing out in that parking lot, I was the one who was supposed to know."

"Stop blaming yourself."

He peered into Simon's dark eyes, and he confessed his years of silence with the words, "I have a lot of blame, Simon." With that, he stood up, crossed the waiting room, then stared out through the dark window. He could hear Rafe's pleading voice, along with the slow, steady beeping of the machines in Blair's room. What he couldn't hear was Blair's too-weak heart.

Simon quickly read the comment. He came closer, their shoulders touching, when he whispered, "Rafe's a good man."

"You think I don't know that?!" Jim suddenly barked. "You think I don't wake up every goddamn morning in my empty place and say to myself that Rafe's a good man?" His voice came out soft, vulnerable, hurt. "I know he's a good man. That's what makes it hurt so much."

Simon frowned.

"Hey, guys, is something wrong?"

Both men turned when they heard the familiar Australian accent. Megan shucked off her light sweater, then folded it over her arm.

"No," Simon answered. "Nothing's wrong. Did you walk their dog?"

"Yeah. Brought Rafe some clothes and things. Figured he'd stay the night."

At that moment, Rafe pushed opened the ICU doors and without looking, fell into a chair, propped his elbows on his knees, then held his face, sobbing. Unable to witness it, Jim turned and leaned his forehead against the cold glass window with his eyelids closed tight. Simon's breath rolled out of him as he left one drained detective for another. Sitting beside Rafe, Simon leaned forward. "How's he look?"

"He looks like shit," Rafe answered with a quavering voice.

Simon peered back at Jim, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Every muscle in the sentinel strained with panic, and his heavy body began to pace like a cat. Simon turned again to Rafe. "He's alive, man. Nothing keeps Sandburg down for long." Megan came closer, then placed her hand on Rafe's knee as she bent down in front of him.

"We're here for you, mate. Whatever you want."

Still sobbing, Brian could only nod his thanks. "Sandy'll pull through. I know he will."

Jim approached, his arms still crossed, but rather than look on Rafe breaking down, he focused on the crack in the silver doors that separated him from his guide.

An ugly wind kept rushing through his hair, tangling it hard and painfully against his scalp. Blair did his best to fight the onslaught of air, his hands held up to guard his face, but even that was childishly futile. He forced his eyes open, though the dry dust stung, making then stripping the tears from his eyes.

Once he managed to hold his eyes open, everything snapped. He saw the air hanging still like cloth.

He dropped his hands. The wind had stopped. Blair looked around, standing in the suddenly motionless air. Strips of metal hung like ornaments, not shifting at all but frozen against the formless white backdrop. Slowly, in awe, he lifted his finger to touch the edge of a floating metal shard, and the moment his fingertip made contact, blood spurted through his skin in a thin, tight stream. Immediately he snatched his hand away and the bleeding stopped. All this time, the roar in his ears deafened him, a raspy throbbing industrial buzz that made his skin vibrate. And somewhere, deep within the harsh noise, there was another thread -- high-pitched -- like the sad wails of a lone wolf calling him.

Everywhere around him, the air was white. A smoky, hazy nothingness decorated with hanging shrapnel.

Then he remembered it.

The bomb. And Jim.

/He was defusing a bomb. Oh my god, he didn't succeed!/

"Jim!" he cried out into the void. "Jim!"

For most of that morning on the third day, Brian remained at Blair's side, stroking his lover's hand. Since midnight, the doctors had been telling them that Blair should be returning to consciousness soon. All of his vital signs pointed to it. It would only be a manner of time. They had removed the respirator after his stitched lungs had begun to inflate on their own, replacing the thick oral tube with a smaller one running into his nose. His condition had been upgraded the day before, and Brian had been allowed to stay in Blair's room continually and was not constrained to ten-minute visits every two hours. However, the number of visitors remained at a maximum of two. Brian refused to be budged, and Simon forced Jim to alternate with him and the others on the force.

The first thing Brian had done when Blair was removed from intensive care was the replace his lover's gold ring on his third finger. They both wore them, and Rafe remembered the shock when the nurse had handed it to him when he had first arrived at the hospital. He thought then that this meant Blair was dead. Now that the band was back in its rightful place, Rafe felt that a major step towards recovery had been taken.

As Simon slipped into the room for the first time that morning, he studied Rafe at Blair's bedside -- how he massaged Blair's hand, staring into his face, hoping, praying desperately. Simon wasn't sure when the detective had gone home since the explosion. Megan had gone over to their place yesterday and returned with yet another change of clothes, but Simon could tell that Brian had not even shaved in three days. "Hey, Rafe."

Brian turned his dark, haunted eyes towards his captain.

"Maybe you should shave. You don't want to scare him when he wakes up."

With one hand, Rafe reached up to touch his face, feeling the rough hairs growing there. The expression in his eyes spoke of shock, and surprise, and a little confusion. He seemed to stare into space for a while, his exhaustion so clearly evident. "I . . . want to be here when he wakes up." As Simon stared down at his officer, he suddenly felt a spark of realization bloom inside his mind. For years, he had wondered about Jim and Blair, and then Blair and Rafe -- wondered if it was just sheer physical attraction that kept these men together. But here, watching Rafe falling apart, he knew like a revelation that these men where in love with each other. Devotion. The kind of emotional bond that made mythic romance. Something he had never felt before. And at that revelation, there came a subtle taste of resentment from having never felt that in his own life.

As if electrocuted, Rafe jerked suddenly. His eyes snapped towards Blair as he felt his lover's hand move beneath his own. "Blair?"

Slowly Blair began to shift, his mouth gaping open like a stranded fish.

"Blair? Blair?"

Simon turned when he heard a loud noise behind him. Jim had forced his way past the nurses and was barreling into the room. "What is it?" Jim asked. "What's happening?!"

Blair's mouth continued to twitch and shake, his tongue forcing itself to work. Brian moved in closer. His hand touched the side of Blair's face. "Blair? It's okay. It's me. I'm here."

Softly Blair whispered one word . . .

"Jim?"

In an instant, Jim was on the opposite side of the bed from Rafe, his hand stroking Blair's face. "I'm here, Chief." His heart was nearly full to bursting.

"Jim?"

"I'm here. I'm right here."

Slowly, Brian pulled away, completely stunned.

"Jim?"

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm here now." Jim beamed as he continued to stroke Blair's cheek, and he could distinguish the subtle smile on his guide's face.

"Jim."

Rafe continue to move backwards until he noticed the unforgiving wall press against him. Blair relaxed into Jim's touch, almost purring, allowing himself to be soothed by his old lover's fingertips. He had stopped calling out, and his weak arm had reached out, cupping Jim's bicep. Rafe took a deep breath, and his eyes grew wet. Blair was folding into Jim's care so naturally, so lovingly, with an intimacy that his wearied mind couldn't recall in their own home. As the tears streamed down his wrenched face, the pain in his chest overwhelmed him, and he bolted from the room, feeling the rejection cold and hard in his ribs. "How . . . how could you?" he moaned, not sure if his heart was speaking to Jim or Blair. With unseeing eyes, he stumbled down the hall, knocking nurses and interns aside as he tried to escape. His thoughts were in turmoil, but his instincts guided his body towards the red exit signs. The electronic doors opened and Brian tumbled into the cool, humid spring air. The rough brick welcomed his body as he slumped against the wall, his knees brushing against the spiky holly bushes. Three days of no sleep and little food betrayed his paranoia and he sobbed pitifully.

Moments later, Megan approached the entrance to the hospital, and she noticed off-handedly the odd expressions on the other patrons as they avoided the weeping man against the side wall, crouched behind the bushes. Megan shifted the flowers she carried from her left to her right hand as she came closer, and her heart went out to the stranger sobbing in public.

Until she recognized the hair, then the clothing. In seconds, she was at Brian's feet, jerking his shoulders. "Brian? Brian, what is it?"

Brian couldn't answer her, and Megan's imagination compiled the worst, most dismal images as she pulled the man into her arms. At that moment, the doors slid open with a hiss, and Simon burst out of them. He instantly spotted his officers and he knelt down. "Rafe? Rafe, snap out of it!" He pushed Megan back against the holly and shook Brian's shoulders.

"What happened, sir?" Megan asked.

"I'll tell you later. Rafe, stop it!"

Brian continued to hide his face, pushing at Simon's hands.

"Rafe, he didn't mean it."

"Didn't mean what, sir?" Megan asked.

"Connor, help me here."

"Do what, sir?"

"Just get this man to his feet."

Both of them grabbed an elbow and pulled Rafe from the ground. He continued to fight them, and Simon slapped him brutally hard, leaving a cruel red mark on his skin. "Pull yourself together, man. That's an order."

Rafe fell against the brick, and he mumbled, "Just leave me alone, sir. For once, just leave me the fuck alone."

Days of exhaustion flared. "Fine, just sit here and cry like a baby! In the meantime, the man you say you love has just woken up. There's no telling what's going on in his mind. I mean," Simon added flippantly, "hell, he's only been unconscious for three days and he's died twice and there's no telling what's happening in his brain right now, but that's okay because your fucking pride is hurt."

Rafe eyes flashed red-wild and his fists clenched.

Then Simon shoved his long black finger in his detective's face. "But I'm telling you this. If the only thing that's bothering you is that Detective Sandburg asked about his fellow officer before he asked for you, I will personally, and I mean personally, beat you to a bloody pulp with my own hands, is that clear?"

Rafe could only stare at him.

"Any time you want to see your partner, you just come right back inside." Simon glared at him one last time before storming back inside the hospital.

Brian threw his head back against the brick, so hard that Megan instantly reacted, coming closer in case he tried again. But the distraught detective only stood there with his eyes squeezed shut. He was so tired. His back muscles ached, and his stomach felt weak and shaky. Disenchanting thoughts raced in his mind in a hot delirium and he could only distinguish snippets of images and phrases.

Simon didn't want to deal with what he knew he had to say as he stepped back into Blair's room, but he screwed up his courage with a deep breath and he said it quickly. "Ellison, get out of here."

Jim stared at him with astounded eyes. "What?"

"You heard me. I just ordered Rafe back in here, and I don't want you to be in this room when he gets back."

"No." Jim returned to caressing Blair's face.

"Ellison, that was not a request. It was an order."

"This is not a police matter, sir. You can't order me."

"Actually Ellison, it is."

Jim eyed him uncertainly.

"Detective Sandburg has been unconscious for three days. And I don't know what stunt you're pulling here, hanging over him like some wounded lover, but Rafe and Sandburg are together. Right now, Sandburg is not acting rationally and he's just coming back. Now you need to back off."

"I won't, sir."

"Yes, you will. Sandburg can't stand up for himself right now, so I will, as his captain. I would do the same for you, and you know it. If you have some sort of agenda to get back with Sandburg, well, you're going to have to do it when he gets better. Not when he's on his sickbed and not when the man who loves him -- your fellow officer -- is obviously falling apart."

"But Simon, I love him."

Simon closed his eyes, and his tone softened. "I know, Jim. I know. Just . . . just don't be here when Rafe walks back in. Please. The last thing he needs to see is you holding Sandburg's hand. Please."

Jim pressed Blair's knuckles to his lips, and he felt the chill of his gold ring.

"Jim, even you said that Rafe was good to Blair. After all he's done, after how well he's treated Blair, please don't hurt him like this."

Jim's eyes squeezed tight to fight his emotions as his tired shoulders sagged.

"Please, Jim, just give him some space. Just a little. This is not a lot to ask."

He kissed Blair's hand one last time, then rose slowly, unable to look Simon in the eye as he passed.

Megan guided Rafe back to Blair's room. She felt like her body had memorized the way, and she didn't need to see where she was going. Instead, she focused on her friend, his arm hooked with hers. Melancholy circles marred his stunning face, and she noticed lines that she hadn't seen before. His jawline was darkened by hairy stubble, and to break the tension, she ran her knuckles across the sharp beard. "I think you should reconsider this look."

Rafe huffed a short laugh, then the soft smile faded. "Thank you. For looking after Burton. And the clothes and stuff."

"Least I can do." She patted his arm. "Burton misses his daddies, though."

"I miss his daddy, too," Rafe replied sadly. Megan frowned, and they remained quiet until they reached Blair's room. She released his arm, and with a mother's care, began to look through all the many vases of flowers that filled the hospital room, replacing the blooms that had faded with those that she carried in her hand. Rafe didn't notice. And he didn't notice Simon standing in the corner. Slowly, and with some trepidation, he returned to his chair beside Blair. He took a few deep breaths, and took Blair's hand in his.

Eventually, Megan reached Simon. She pulled out a drooping bloom from an arrangement near his elbow and asked, "How's Sandy?"

"He's doing good. He came to for a little while."

"Oh?" She shoved the remaining stem she carried into the vase, then wiped her hands on her slacks.

Moving gracefully, Simon placed his large hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the room. Just as they crossed into the hallway, he whispered, "The first person he asked for was Jim."

"Bloody hell."

"Thanks for helping Rafe pull himself together."

"Poor chap. No wonder he was falling apart. Where's Ellison?"

"I made him take a break. Give Rafe some space."

Megan frowned with sympathy. "That's a tough lot, that one. I know Jim loves Sandy. And I know Sandy loves Jim, too. But he loves Brian just as much. Poor guys."

An hour later, Blair's hand jerked again. Like a fisherman guarding a line, Rafe felt the tug and he instantly lifted his head. Blair's fingers continued to twitch, and a minute later, his eyelids fluttered. In his chair, Rafe's heart raced. /Who's he going to ask for? Will he be disappointed that it's only me? Will he ask me to go get Jim? That would kill me. That would just kill me./

Those dark blue eyes opened fully, looked around, then his left hand wiped his face. When he brushed the awkward tube in his nose, he stopped, crossing his eyes to look downward. The pain struck him when he tried to take a deep breath, and his face wrinkled. Gradually, his eyes focused, the blurred colors growing sharper, taking edges and shadows. All this time, he could feel warmth, could sense the strength and concern holding his right hand. His vision settled on Rafe, and he smiled.

"Hey, baby," Rafe whispered, still uncertain.

"Where . . . where am I?"

"Cascade General."

"What happened?"

"There was a car bomb. You got hit."

"Is everyone else all right?"

Rafe swallowed. "They're fine. You were the only one close to the car."

"Am I . . . okay?"

Then Rafe's eyes glowed as he said with a rush, "You're fine now."

Blair ran his weak fingers through Rafe's thick brown hair, then he brushed his unruly new beard. "You look like shit."

With unabashed tears, Rafe continued to beam as he said, "You look like the most beautiful thing I have ever seen . . . in my whole fucking life . . . and I'm the luckiest man in the world to have had you as long as I have . . . and if you'll please stay with me . . ." Brian couldn't finish his sentence as the tears streamed down his face and his throat sealed around his voice box. He dropped his head down on Blair's lap.

Blair winced from the pain, and he tried to sit up but he couldn't. He rested his hand on the top of Rafe's head and asked with some confusion, "Brian, what's wrong? What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"I was so scared," Brian answered, his voice muffled by the gray blanket covering Blair's body. "I was so fucking scared. I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm okay, baby. I think I'm okay." He continued to stroke Brian, even though it felt like a struggle to lift his arm.

Brian craned his head, and he looked at Blair through red-rimmed eyes. "Blair?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still love me?"

Blair's brows wrinkled. "What?"

Rafe couldn't ask a second time. Instead, his troubled eyes stared into Blair's, waiting for the answer.

Blair ran his knuckles along the side of Brian's hairy cheek, and then a gentle, sweet, warm smile spread across his pale face. "Brian, I love you now as much as I did that first time I realized it. . . . Do you remember when that was? . . . We had rented that cabin outside of Snoqualmie. You built that fire, and we were sitting there, not talking, and you just held me. Oh, man, I knew it then. . . . and nothing's changed . . . nothing's changed . . . now, what's wrong?"

Tenderly, Brian placed both hands against the sides of lover's face and he carefully placed his lips against Blair's. He didn't let the kiss become too deep, too passionate for fear of hurting him, but he continued to kiss him, softly, gently, again and again. "I love you, Blair. I love you so much. I . . . didn't tell you that when you walked out of the house, but I swear to god I'll never make that mistake again."

Blair shifted his head against the pillows, and he felt the bizarre sensation of fuzz rubbing against his skin, so odd that it sent shivers down his spine. He strained to touch his head, then rolled his eyes. "Ah, shit."

"What is it, babe?"

"They cut off all my hair."

Brian grinned.

"What are you grinning at."

"I don't care if they painted green stars on your head, baby. I'm just glad you're back." Then he kissed Blair again.

Seconds later, they heard a boisterous cry and the thin mattress shook. "Sandy!"

Blair smiled weakly as he felt Megan grabbing at his hand. "Hey."

"Don't ever do a bloody thing like that again, do you understand me? You scared the hell out of me."

"I promise. I won't."

"How do you feel?"

"Like a tornado picked me up and threw me in another state."

Megan patted his hand.

"But, now," Blair added, "if you had shown up wearing that god-awful pink fur coat of yours, I might have thought twice."

"Oh, is this how I'm be treated, is it?" She rubbed her palm against his buzzed scalp. "After all I've done, walking that bloody dog of yours for days?"

"Days?" Blair looked at Rafe. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days," he answered softly. "Almost four."

"Four . . . ah hell . . . no wonder . . ." He ran his fingers down the side of Rafe's jaw. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry--"

"Don't--" Rafe shook his head frantically. "No wonder you look like this. I've put you through hell."

"It's okay, baby, it's okay. You're alive. That's all that matters to me."

"When was the last time you went home?"

"I . . . . I haven't."

"You haven't slept or eaten either, have you?"

"No. Not really."

"Damnit, Brian."

"I'm not leaving you, Blair," he said with a determined voice.

Blair sighed, and he sank his fingers in Rafe's thick hair. "Okay, okay."

Megan patted Blair on the thigh. "Leave him be, Sandy. You'd have acted the same way." She touched Rafe's shoulder. "Just shows you how much he loves you."

Smiling, Blair looked around the room. "Is Jim here?"

Rafe's heart dropped past his stomach, and he swallowed hard. The look of horror was so evident on the detective's face that Blair read it in seconds.

"Oh shit . . . is Jim all right? He's hurt, isn't he?"

"No, Sandy," Megan began, hoping to defuse the situation. "He was just here. Not long ago."

Blair relaxed slightly. "Good."

Staring down at the squares and stitching on the Blair's blanket, Brian focused on the thread's exact right angles and crosses. /Dear god, please . . . no./

Blair's recovery quickened once he came to consciousness, as if his focus were essential to the healing process. Rafe remained at his side, not even allowing Blair to argue with him. But seeing Rafe so tired, so haggard, worried him from the start. That first night, he stared at the ceiling, thinking, while Rafe snored beside him, stretched out in the chair. The next morning, when Blair woke up, he squeezed his lover's hand. Brian lifted his eyes. "Good morning, love."

"Hey."

"How are you feeling?"

"It hurts."

"They've taken you off the morphine drip. I've got your pills. Do you want to take them now?"

Blair's chest felt like daggers lay embedded in his flesh, digging into him with each breath. Closing his eyes slightly, he wanted one thing -- to be able to take in one long, deep, sucking gasp of fresh air. For now, he had to accept his petty sniffs of oxygen from a tube. "Yeah. Let me have them."

Rafe handed him the tiny paper container, then filled his cup with water. "Now, take it slow."

Swallowing the pills, Blair clenched his eyes tightly as he felt the pills painfully slide past his wounded chest and into his stomach. Once the discomfort subsided, he relaxed some. "Shit, that hurt worse than the stitches."

"Do you want to watch some TV?"

"Sure. I guess. I kinda feel like I'm a time traveler, you know? What's happened in four days? Did we declare war on somebody? Anybody die I should know about?"

Their small talk continued for most of the morning. Finally, Blair tugged on Brian's arm.

"What is it, baby?"

"If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it?"

"Of course."

"Would you go home? Get some sleep for a change?"

"I'm fine."

"No, baby, I mean it. This is starting to worry me."

"No need to worry. I'm okay. I just . . . don't want to leave you."

"Brian, these things happen. We're cops. As much as I hate to think about it, one day you're going to be in this bed and I'll be the one staying up late. You've done your vigil, man. I'm all right. I'm coming home. But, please man, please take care of yourself. For me."

"I don't . . . feel comfortable with that yet."

"I know. I'm not asking you to stay away. Just . . . take a shower--"

"Are you saying I stink?" With a teasing smile, he sniffed under his arms.

"Yes. And shave."

"Shave?" Brian ran his hand over his beard. "I was thinking of keeping this."

Very firmly, Blair raised his eyebrows and replied, "No you weren't." Rafe caressed Blair's arm, but he didn't budge. "Brian, I mean it. Go home. Check on Burton. Make sure he's okay."

"Megan's been watching him."

"It's not the same. Burton's got to be upset. When I see you tonight, I want to see you looking like your old self. Okay? Will you do that for me?"

"I--"

"Please. It would mean a lot to me, and I can't relax until I know you've at least gone home, slept for a few hours in our bed, had a real chance to get some rest. Please? For me?"

Brian shook his head, but finally, he said, "Okay."

"Thank you. I won't mind being alone. I'm about to fall asleep as it is." Then Blair considered something as he saw his lover slowly cower out of the room. "And Brian?"

"Yeah?"

"Be back around dinner, okay?"

Rafe smiled, and he stood up a little straighter. "I won't be late. I promise."

Rafe parked his car in front of their townhouse, and he suddenly realized he didn't remember how he had gotten here. Only instinct got him home without mishap. During his drive, unpleasant thoughts crowded together in his mind, each one jockeying for his attention. He knew Blair had focused all of his life on being a professor. That was his dream, and he knew in his heart that it still pained him greatly to think of what he had turned down. Blair refused to be interested in anthropology anymore. His aboriginal masks and all of his tribal artifacts collected over the span of 10 years now lay packed in boxes in their dusty attic. And each time they drove by Rainier University, Blair would grow strangely quiet.

Attending the police academy had been tough. He had been hazed mercilessly for his privileged position, and Jim was a bear about it. He wasn't the only one. Almost all the other detectives in Major Crimes excelled in retribution for every bruise and sad look Blair brought into the bullpen. Blair was already their brother in arms and they weren't about to let a class full of uniform-hungry punks mistreat him because of his long hair and bookish ways. And that only made Blair's classmates respond even harder. Rafe remembered how his crush on Blair had intensified as he watched the man's determination grow stronger and stronger. The night came when he graduated and Simon offered him the commission, that same night when Brian had filled himself with too much alcohol and had asked Blair out. His migraine-like hangover the next morning had seemed somehow tempered by the giddiness inside from knowing Blair had actually, finally, asked him out. Not long after they had started dating, Blair had confessed to Brian the details of his mysterious relationship with Jim. Rafe knew about the dissertation. He knew about the sentinel rumors and the media circus and he knew that Blair wasn't the type to falsify data. Even so, he just needed to hear Blair explain it, not so much because of the mystical, magical aspects of his bonds with Jim, but because it was such a closely-guarded secret. Having Blair share it meant that Rafe had crossed that final barrier into Blair's unreserved trust.

Now, two years later, Rafe still couldn't shake the idea that Blair didn't belong in the force. When he was a child, Brian knew he wanted to be a cop. His father was a cop, and he grew up in that world. He knew the dangers and he knew the small rewards. He could stare unflinchingly into the horrors of the city's underbelly and take up a rough soldier's arms against it. But Blair, he had a saint's nurturing heart that cared and sympathized and honored -- one of the reasons Rafe loved him so passionately. Moving from observer to participant had removed the objectification and scientific distance, even though Rafe knew that in Blair's case, it had become pretty ambiguous anyway. Removing that thin gauzy curtain and becoming one with the other detectives was a shock to his system. It was making him harder around the edges. More like Jim. Less like Blair.

And then, one day, he had removed his earrings.

Watching Jim and Blair remain as tight partners was hard. He knew that underlying their esprit de corps was a more intimate past. He knew other partners felt deep, powerful love for each other because of the line of duty and the constant danger of death. In their case, adding to all of that were three years of Jim and Blair living together as lovers, knowing their secret needs and physical appetites, which caused Rafe to worry that one day in a state of weakness Blair would not be able to separate his love for Jim with their own for each other. How could they not?

His days with Blair were numbered.

Rafe remained in the car for several minutes, his trembling hands resting on the steering wheel, dreading the implications of Blair asking for Jim first. And Jim had remained at the hospital as long as Rafe had; his presence had been constant and unnerving, as if both men were competing to see who could make the greatest physical and emotional sacrifices on Blair's behalf. That more than anything else made Brian the most uncomfortable as he sat in the parking space in front of their home. Blair had sent him home. Would he do the same to Jim today? Or would he ask him to stay? Had he sent him home to make time, and space, for their rendez-vous?

Closing his eyes to marshall these thoughts away, Rafe opened the car door and stepped out. The short grassy area in front of their townhouse bloomed with the verdant red annuals that both men had planted in the fall. He stopped to remember those Sunday afternoons and couldn't resist the smile. Last year, they had bought this townhouse and moved in together, and during that time they had collected wonderful memories -- dinner parties, weekends at hardware stores buying home improvement projects, evenings at local art galleries collecting small pieces to add character to their home, quiet nights together with no distractions. To think that their happy life might be in jeopardy frightened and depressed him.

Sliding the key in the lock, he instantly heard Burton's happy bark. He rarely did that when they came home. Rafe couldn't help but feel warm inside. /He misses us./ Opening the door, Rafe had to remain stock-still as the happy dog twisted between his legs. "Hey, kiddo," he said, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. Burton was still young -- Blair found him at the pound a year ago -- a scrawny half-puppy. A few days before, he and Blair had seen an episode on the Discovery channel on the rare wild dogs of South Carolina -- a healthy breed of mid-sized, blond, short-haired dogs with sharp snouts -- giving them the appearance of a gentle smile. The basis of the old southern expression -- "yellow dog Democrat." The same breed that inspired the book, Old_Yeller before Disney cast a lab. Blair saw him at the shelter and immediately thought of the documentary -- Brian doubted the young dog could be the same breed, but he did take an instant shine to the animal.

Burton had since proven himself to be an extremely clever and very well-behaved pet. "Do you need to go out?" Brian asked as he stepped into the foyer, then he pointed down the hall. "Go get your leash."

Knowing the signal, Burton hurried through the living room, turning sharply to the right to avoid the dining room and into the kitchen. Following much more slowly, Brian could hear him scratching on the back door where they kept his leash hanging on a hook. By the time he reached the kitchen, Burton had already pulled the leash down and carried it back to Rafe in his mouth. "Good boy, good boy." As he bent down to attach the leash to Burton's purple collar, the dog licked his strangely-hairy face.

Once outside though, Burton looked at his owner, his dark animal eyes measuring both his sadness and his exhaustion. Rather than pull on his leash to play and explore, he merely answered his basic needs, then returned to Rafe's side. But Brian didn't seem to notice -- he kept his hands in his pockets, his tired eyes staring into the grass. Finally, Burton tugged on his leash, breaking Rafe's train of thought. "Okay. I'm coming."

Back inside the townhouse, Burton didn't leave Rafe's side. He followed quietly behind him, back into the living room. The two men had mortgaged a side unit, and a large bay window dominated their main room. A fireplace with hardwood mantle took up the corner closest to the foyer. They had chosen light colors for most of the house -- an aged cream for the living room -- and after they first moved in, they had installed polished cherry crown moldings and baseboards. Blair constantly teased Rafe, saying that if someone had told him ten years ago that he would own a house this formal in decor, he would have laughed at them. But in truth, he liked Rafe's taste -- the cloisonne lamps, the dark red wood bookshelves, the prints of antique maps, the bronze statuettes. They had painted the dining room a rich green to go with the imposing dining room furniture Rafe had inherited from his grandparents, and Blair loved to serve his exotic dishes to friends there.

Brian collapsed, full-length, on the sofa. Licking his hand once, Burton curled into a ball beside him on the persian rug. Rafe immediately fell asleep, but only for a few moments, when Burton's sharp bark woke him up. Groaning, he pulled himself up and patted the dog on the head. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going. I'm going." With his hand on the small of his back, Brian stretched, then moved towards the staircase.

As he climbed the steps to the bedrooms upstairs, Rafe absent-mindedly unbuttoned his shirt, stripping it from his muscled chest. He dropped his shirt in the hallway, and it fell on Burton's head. The dog shook it off with a sneeze, then watched as Rafe kicked off his shoes, stripped off his pants, and pulled back the covers on their large bed. Before he finally crawled under the covers, Rafe shucked off his dark socks.

In moments, he was asleep, thankfully free of dreams or nagging thoughts. Burton hopped up on the mattress, curling at Brian's feet, guarding one of his masters but still worried about the other.

For a while, Jim stood outside Blair's hospital room. His sentinel hearing could tell that Blair was alone. Rafe was no where near. Recognizing this moment as an opportunity unnerved Jim a little. /What are you doing? Blair's practically married, for christ's sake. What am I doing?/ He stared up at the ceiling. /Home wrecker./

With a heavy heart, he entered the room. Guilt could follow him all it wanted, but love had a way of making cold, selfish, manipulative louts of even the best of saints. For the first three days after the explosion, Jim lived in a chilling purgatory -- would Blair live? -- would Blair be Blair when he woke up? -- would he forgive him for practically propping him up against that car? Then that morning came when Blair called for him first, and when he had touched his guide, he had just . . . surrendered himself into Jim's care. How many years had Jim dreamed, hoped, prayed that Blair would do that one day -- that his body would just betray his guide's sense of duty and return to Jim's arms? Jim wanted that. He wanted that more than anything -- more than his sentinel skills -- more than his badge -- and certainly a hell of a lot more than the pale, sterile life that awaited him if Blair didn't return.

"Hello, Chief."

Blair beamed at him as he turned off the television. That glow, with those happy blue eyes, made Jim's knees weak. /God, I want you so bad./

"Hey, Jim. I kinda hoped you'd stop by today."

/You hoped?/ "Just wanted to check on you."

"I'm okay. Really." Blair scanned Jim's face and noticed a few scratches. "You got hit, didn't you?"

"A few nicks and cuts. Nothing major."

"Oh."

"Look . . . Sandburg --"

"So it's Sandburg now, is it? This must be important."

"Stop it, okay? I just . . . wanted to say I was sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For . . . making you stand there. I put you there, Chief. Right next to that car. I almost killed you and I can't forgive myself." "Well guess what? You're going to have to forgive yourself, because as far as I'm concerned, it's a non-issue."

Jim sat down in the chair beside Blair's bed, the same one that Rafe had claimed for days now. They remained in silence for a while before Jim finally summoned his courage. "Blair, can I say something?"

"Sure, Jim. What's wrong?"

"This . . . explosion . . . well, it's made me do a lot of thinking."

Blair felt his stomach cramp slightly from fear of what might be coming, but he forced it back quickly as being paranoid.

"We don't say the things we need to say to the people in our lives. And when it's too late, the words stick around and get bigger and bigger until they take over. But I have to say this. I can't keep ignoring it and hoping a good time will come because . . ." he looked into Blair's eyes, "bad times come around a hell of lot more often." He squeezed Blair's hands, staring at the knuckles to keep his confidence steady.

"Three years ago, I . . . went crazy. I kicked you out of the loft because I didn't want you to get hurt. And I wound up hurting you even more. So much, that you couldn't forgive me for it. And I knew you were right. About just staying friends. I . . . was just so thankful that you would even let me stay your friend after what I did that I couldn't risk my luck on asking for anything more. Then you were so clear on it, on us, that is . . . that we were just to stay friends and nothing more and I didn't know how to fight it."

Blair began to grow cold. His tongue abandoned him and he couldn't speak.

"Then you started seeing Rafe. I was so goddamn jealous but I knew if I tried anything, that you'd really hate me for it and you'd never want me around again. I was so . . . scared of the worst things that could happen that I acted like a total coward and never said what was in my heart."

He looked into Blair's eyes. "But Chief . . . I've never stopped loving you. With all my heart. I can't even bare to think of another person in my life. I love you so much, and I can't keep hiding it. I'm sorry I hurt you all those years ago. My life has been a living hell since that day, and I can't stop suffering. I'm still in love with you."

"Jim --"

"Yes?"

"No more."

Jim's breath left him. Despite his strength, he felt a sudden frailty seep into his bones and sap his muscles. As if his subconscious had slammed down on the brakes, every thought skidded to a loud, scraping stop. "I . . . can't deal with this now."

The sentinel's head drooped, and Blair saw it, making his own feelings of remorse flow. Jim had come to expose his feelings, make himself brutally vulnerable, and in return, Blair had just slapped him down. Poured salt, shame and rejection into his wounds.

"This . . . isn't fair to me right now."

Jim nodded, but he was too afraid that Blair could see the heartbroken disappointment in his eyes. "Of course. I . . . understand."

No more words were spoken between them for a very long time. Only the background noises of the hospital -- the paging, the footsteps, the murmuring voices of the unseen nurses. The visual details seemed to stand out, as if edged in neon. The mass-produced, framed art of some cartoonish Mediterranean vista. The flowers well-wishers had sent. The silver helium balloon sinking and rising with the circulated air -- a hellish contrast to the feather-light words that had suddenly taken on so much weight that their tongues couldn't lift them. And among all these details, Jim kept his head down, zoning almost on the metal frame of Blair's bed, while the stunned guide twisted his thumb around the frayed edge of his blanket.

Jim left without a word, as silent as a fish sinking below the surface into dark water. Blair watched him go, but he couldn't find any words to speak. Jim's confession had left him stunned. Three years had passed since Jim had first broken his heart. At that time, Blair had forced down his feelings and chosen what seemed like the most logical decision. Preserve their friendship at all cost. Only, that was not true, and he knew it. He liked to veil himself in those magnanimous terms, but they had an smoky consistency. Behind his facade lay the ugly truth that Alex had turned him into a conniving, manipulative, sneaky bastard. He had moved back into their loft, expecting Jim to be different. Only he wasn't. No lesson was learned on his part. The remorse was not there. He felt so righteously justified and that just burned Blair. Jim's territorial reaction to Alex was done for a reason and Blair could just get over it. Jim wasn't budging. But Blair had hoped, that as time went on, Jim would not be able to live, seeing Blair every day, without wanting sooner or later to return to their intimacy.

He never made any moves. He kept his hands to himself, his words honorable, and Blair's space sacrosanct. And his respect for Blair's boundaries spoke of a cold war between them, a steady detente.

Blair upped the ante and asked Rafe out to dinner. He made it very clear to Jim what was happening, and the pained look in Jim's eyes fed him with a sense of retaliation. But Rafe's presense in Blair's life had only caused Jim to become a silent rock carving.

So Blair continued, and this time, in anger, he allowed himself to grow deeper and deeper into Rafe's life until suddenly he realized, one night in a cabin outside of Seattle, just how endearing this stylish detective was. How gentle. How considerate. How much he craved Blair's presence. How easily he expressed his heart. It was as if all of Jim's flaws and misgivings and compromises had suddenly been fulfilled by another man. It struck him then how wonderful and beautiful Brian Rafe really was.

And now, three years later, Blair felt something else inside him.

It was as if the vessel in which he had stored all of his feelings had burst, and like wine, just because it had been capped and buried for these years didn't mean that the emotions inside had dissipated. Instead, they flowed through his veins once more with a heady intoxication. All those nights he had prayed that Jim would say those very words to him, that he would say he was still in love, and to beg him to return -- had been fulfilled like a genie's wish. Or more like a wish from the monkey's hand -- here's your desire, and oh, a little curse thrown in with it. Hope it fits. Blair's chest ached and he wanted to cry, he wanted to shout and throw something and give vent to this anger at the fates that they could be so cruel. Why, after so many years, had they chosen now, when he was settled and happy and consigned to live the rest of his life at Rafe's side, had Jim returned, his under-grad dream of a sentinel knight, begging for love again?

Although Blair had regained some sense of composure on the outside, he could feel the turmoil in his gut when Rafe strolled in. Just seeing him caused Blair's heart to instantly react, growing warm. Brian had shaved, his thick hair gleamed in the fluorescent lights, and his ivory-colored button-down shirt and his faded blue jeans hugged his sensual body. "Hey baby," he said as he leaned across the bed, planting a kiss on Blair's lips. The rich scent of cologne made Blair sigh with contentment. It was his favorite brand -- musk and cinnamon.

/I love you,/ he thought as he watched Rafe settle into the chair beside him. /I really, really love you./ Then he cast his eyes towards his feet. /Then how is it I can still feel something so . . . much . . . for Jim?/

Blair's condition continued to improve, and on the next day, his doctor removed the IV's and switched him to solid food. Lying back in his bed, the former academic looked first to Brian, then to Jim, and he could see that both of them were not budging. On opposite sides of the bed, they stood over him, their arms crossed on their chests, looking down with stern, unyielding eyes. Hoping he might have better luck, Blair glanced at the foot of his bed.

Megan pointed to the tray of food in front of him. "Eat, Sandy."

Pouting, Blair lifted the plastic lid off the bowl. Soup. With his spoon, he stirred the thin mix, recognizing blond bits of chicken and pale rice. He returned the lid, then poked at the red jello, watching it throw back dots of pink reflections as it shook. "I really don't feel like eating, guys. It kinda . . . hurts."

"I know you don't," Brian said, "but you have to if you want to go home sooner."

Then Jim reached over, and with his wide hand began to stroke the top of Blair's head, rubbing his short black hair. "Eat the soup especially, Chief. That protein will help your hair grow back faster."

Blair growled. "Remind me to kick you when you're down, big guy."

Snickering, Jim continued to run his fingers across Blair's hair. "Any time, Chief. Any time." Then his fingers intimately drifted down to trace the square of Blair's jaw. "But you've got to stand up, first."

He shook his head good-naturedly, delighting in the feel of Jim's skin against his, when suddenly he realized how uncomfortable that made him feel to be seen like this -- his body betraying his emotional commitment to Rafe. He shot his eyes over at Brian with a somewhat guilty expression. He reached for his cup of water. After taking a sip, he asked Jim, "Is there any ice in that container over there?"

"Sure thing." Jim grabbed the teal-blue pitcher, then noticed most of the ice had melted. "I'll go get some for you. Don't go anywhere."

During the entire interaction, Rafe eyed him suspiciously. His face darkened as he watched Jim stroke and caresses his lover. For days now, he had observed Jim's attempts at intimacy as well as Blair's strange, guilty reactions. After yesterday, something else had changed. Blair would vacillate between being extremely relaxed around Jim to freeze up into a state of repressed panic. Rafe still couldn't get past the shock of Blair needing Jim first before asking for the man he lived with. It was obvious to him that something had changed in Jim's behavior towards Blair, some sentinel decision had been made, and he wasn't sure how Blair felt about it. What he could sense were uncomfortable glances in his direction every time Jim caressed him. A harsh suspicion in his gut made him worry that maybe Blair and Jim had not truly separated after all, and that behind his back their relationship had continued. It made him feel like a fool, and his wounded pride inflamed his anger. As Jim walked around the bed, past Megan and towards the door, Rafe's narrowed eyes followed him.

Blair noticed it. "Brian," he warned.

Not really hearing him, Brian only replied, "Excuse me. I'll be right back."

Suddenly left alone with Megan, Blair rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Jesus."

"Something's going on, isn't it?"

"I know Brian's jealous of Jim. He always has been, but now I think he thinks something's up."

"Sandy, you do know that when you first came to, you asked for Jim and not Brian, don't you?"

"I what?"

"You asked for Jim. At least, that's what Captain Banks said. I got here right when it happened, and Brian was a basket case. Found him bawling in the shrubbery outside. He hadn't slept in days, and it just tore him apart."

Massive guilt pressed against Blair's already sore chest. "Oh, man. No wonder he's been acting so strange. Both of them, for that matter. . . . That explains a lot."

"I'm sorry, mate."

"Can you go out there and make sure those two don't kill each other?" She smirked before leaving, "This should be entertaining, at least."

Not far from the nurses area, Cascade General provided an ice and water station for patients to fill their own pitchers. Jim pressed the green button for the ice machine to begin dropping cubes. The rattling sounds distracted him for a moment, giving him a chance to reflect. He could certainly tell that the muscles around his chest no longer felt as tight as they once had -- Blair was alive, he was recuperating, and deep down, Jim knew he had feelings for him. For the first time in three years, he felt escalating hope -- hope that his long repressed desires for his guide could possibly be expressed. Now, if he would just get better so they could really talk, he might just have a chance. But a chance at what? A chance to destroy a happy marriage? For his own selfishness?

Jim turned, and the sudden presence of Rafe's bulk blocking his path took him off-guard. Calmly, Brian removed the pitcher of ice from his hand before he could react. "Thank you, Jim."

"Uhm . . . sure."

"And you can go home now." Rafe's tone was not friendly, it was not warm, and it was not questionable. Jim felt his jaw instantly tense.

"Excuse me?"

"You can go home now. You know Blair is fine. He's out of danger and it's just a question of him getting rest."

Jim's eyes tightened as he stared at Rafe for a moment. Then he said, "I think I want to stay."

"Oh, you've stayed long enough. Believe me."

"Maybe Blair wouldn't agree with you."

Jim's words caused Brian to pull back his shoulders slightly. "I'm not an idiot. I didn't get promoted to detective because I was the last man standing after a shoot-out. I know something's going on, and right now, I think it's coming from you. And I'm not about to stand for it. Not here. Not now. And I don't think I ever will. Now," he poked Jim in the center of his chest with a bold finger, "back off."

"You can't order me around."

"This is not a game, Ellison. The man I love is in there, and I'm not about to sit around and watch you try and . . . seduce him while he's down. If I have to, I'll fight you right here in this hospital. I know you and Blair have this sentinel/guide thing going on, but that's on the job. Right now, Blair's with me. So go home and leave us alone."

"I love him, Rafe."

"Well maybe he doesn't love you," Brian hissed. With narrow, threatening eyes, Jim leaned in closer. "Just who are you trying to convince?"

Rafe dropped the canister of ice and threw back his fist. Just as he was about to swing, Megan caught him by the elbow. "Hold up there, mate!" The momentum of Rafe's punch dragged Megan between them, giving Jim a chance to avoid the blow. In seconds, Megan regained her balance and she shoved Rafe back. "Stop it! Both of you!"

Brian shook her off, then glared at Jim. "I mean it. Back off." Then he spun around, returning to Blair's room.

Sighing, Megan reached down for the pitcher and scooping up the scattered ice.

"Thanks, Connor."

"Jim," she said with some exhaustion tinged with anger, "go home."

"No."

"Please, Jim. Brian's at a breaking point. You've got to give him some space. He loves Sandy, very much."

"And I mean nothing?"

"Jim," she said softly, "no offense, but you're Sandy's ex."

Jim's blue eyes became mere slits.

"I mean it, Jim. This isn't your place. Now, I can tell you want Sandy back. We all can. But you have to back down. This isn't fair to Sandy right now. Don't put him through this. Wait until he's back on his feet, and then work all this out."

Jim peered over her shoulder, his lower jaw jutting forward. For several moments, he let the conflicting thoughts battle in his mind. Then, without saying a word, he turned, retreating down the hall.

As Brian stepped inside Blair's room, the former academic instantly asked, "What did you just do?"

"I told Jim to leave."

"Why?"

Rafe cocked his head slightly, then ignored the question. Blair rolled his eyes -- he hated it when Brian did that to him.

"Brian, I'm really not in the mood to play referee--" "Take a pill, Blair, all right? I've had about enough of Jim for right now. I'm worn out. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in over a week. I'm worried. I'm upset. I feel guilty. I'm hurt. I feel like he's coming in between the two of us. I just . . . can't deal with Jim right now. Okay?" Rafe slumped into the chair and began massaging his temples.

For a few moments, Blair was silent, his arms crossed over his chest. Rafe spoke of guilt; he knew what that felt like. It felt like cold paint -- thick, dark-blue, tenacious. Then he said softly, "I'm sorry."

"No. No."

"Come here."

Rafe looked up at him, his hands draped over his knees. "What?"

"Sit here. On the bed. Next to me . . . please?"

Slowly, Rafe rose from his vinyl chair and sat on the edge of Blair's bed. Still, he didn't have the internal strength to face his wounded lover. Stroking his back, Blair said, "Megan just told me that the first person I asked for when I woke up was Jim." He waited, gauging Brian's response, but the man made no moves, his back still turned to Blair and his eyes staring at the floor. "I don't remember it. The only thing I remember is waking up and seeing you here. . . . And that's the only thing I wanted to see. I love you, Brian. I really do. I'm building a life with you. You know? . . . I know it's hard with Jim being a sentinel and all, but I think I've done a good job juggling the both of you so far. Don't you?" Waiting a second, Blair repeated his question. "Don't you, babe?"

"I . . . I wish I knew for certain . . ."

"I love you, Brian. I always will. You're so good to me. How can I not want to be with you?"

Megan entered the room. "Here's your ice, Sandy," she said as she placed it on his tray. "Now," she lifted the cover of the soup, "this bloody little drama aside, you don't get to sneak out of eating your soup. Hey Brian?"

Turning slightly, he answered, "Yeah?"

"Make sure Sandy gets all of this down."

With a slight smile, he replied, "I will."

"Good. I'm out of here guys." She pressed a kiss on Blair's forehead. "I'll check on Burton. Make sure he doesn't need another trip around the yard before the morning." Then she leaned over Blair's bed to kiss Rafe on the cheek. "And thanks for getting rid of that bloody beard."

Megan grinned as she slipped inside Blair's room. "Well, Sandy, that's the last of the flowers. They're all in your car."

Blair looked up slightly from watching Rafe tie his shoes. They had been arguing about it when Megan had left with her last bundle of vases and balloons. Blair didn't want to look like a toddler with his lover lacing his shoes, but he couldn't bend down to touch his shoes. "I see it took you that long to win your argument. You're slipping, Brian."

"Not for long." Brian straightened himself.

Simon and Jim entered soon after, following a nurse pushing Blair's wheelchair. "There you go, Sandburg. Your ride outta here."

Gingerly, Blair pushed himself off the mattress, and Rafe's arm instinctively supported him. "You know," Blair winced, "I always fought having to ride in one of these things." He gripped the gray plastic handle and fell into the chair ungraciously. Jim noticed Blair's knuckles had turned white. "But this time . . ." he let out an exhausted breath, "I'm pretty glad for it."

"The bedroom's all ready for you." Brian said as he took his place behind the wheelchair. "Now, let's go home." He steered his lover into the hallway, and as he did, Jim took his place at Blair's side.

"Now don't over do it when you get home, Chief. You understand?" He laid his hand down on his shoulder.

Blair placed his hand over Jim's. "I got it, big guy."

Rafe's eyes narrowed.

Blair woke up in the night, his entire chest burning as he breathed. Opening his eyes slightly, he knew it was time to take another pill to ease the pain. Almost out of habit, he searched the blue-lit room for Brian. Then he felt it, Brian's possessive hand, heavy on his shoulder, mercilessly away from Blair's wounds. For a moment, Blair let the sensation drift through his body. Brian needed to feel him. When they slept, Brian had always held him, always made sure Blair fell asleep first, but now, Blair's wounds prevented him from his usual embrace. Even so, he wouldn't break contact. Wouldn't let go.

But Brian was dead to the world. For almost two weeks now, he had remained every night at the hospital, at Blair's side, sleeping in the cold vinyl chair within reach of his wounded lover. Blair smiled for a moment as he remembered how much of Brian's toiletries had found their way into Blair's hospital room -- his razors, his shaving creams, his aftershaves, his moisturizers. The man was so vain . . . /so beautifully, endearingly . . . vain./ Blair wanted so much to roll over onto his side, to stare at his handsome lover, to run his fingers through his thick, dark hair, but his chest wounds made him immobile.

/I must be the luckiest fucking bastard in the world,/ he mused. /Death-defying escapades notwithstanding. Ruined academic career notwithstanding./

/Two wonderful men. All at once./

Then he frowned. /Both at the same fucking time./

Drifting in thought, he remembered Jim. His mind opened unwelcomed images and detailed remembrances of dinners in their tight loft, dry-witted comebacks and good-natured tussles in bed. How it felt to learn about each other. Glorious afternoons when the sun broke through the omnipresent clouds and dappled the Cascades with yellow, purple and peach, when they would both spend the day hiking through the coniferous forests along the sound, avoiding the banana slugs beneath their hiking boots. Lazy Sunday mornings when they would remain under the covers and let their slow hands explore responsive bodies. Days when they tested Jim's genetic skills. Blair squeezed his eyes tight and wished away the haunting memories.

He shifted slightly to reach for his plastic orange bottle of pills on the beside table, when Brian started to wake. Instinctively, his arm stretched out and draped across Blair's chest before he woke up completely. When he sensed Blair's body tense, he instantly resisted the urge. His tired eyes opened.

/He stopped himself,/ Blair thought. /He stopped himself before he hurt me./

"Blair?" His hand returned to its safe place on his lover's uninjured shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"You okay, baby?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just need something for the pain."

"I left you some water."

Blair glanced over at the bedside table, and he saw the silhouette of the glass there. His heart expanded softly in his chest. He calmly took his pain killer, then returned the half-emptied glass of water to the bedside table.

Still in the haze of sleep, Brian pressed his forehead against Blair's shoulder, almost like a cat, and he mumbled, "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

Blair's dark blue eyes misted, and he lifted himself up on one elbow to kiss Brian on the forehead. "I love you, too, baby." Brian smiled gently as he drifted back to sleep, his grip firm on Blair's shoulder.

"Brian, you still awake?"

"Yeah."

"If you want, you can put your arm behind my head."

Brian did so immediately, and Blair slid closer, resting his head on Rafe's shoulder with part of his back pressed against Rafe's warm chest. Brian's free hand barely touched the bandages around Blair's chest with his fingertips. Blair smiled in the dark, and he reached out, taking Brian's hand in his and resting it against his hipbone. "Is that better?" he asked.

"For now," Brian answered. "But I want to hold you so tight that no one or no thing can ever hurt you again."

Blair sighed softly, his chest aching with love, as the pain killer began to overtake him.

"Help me," Blair requested softly the next day. It was after lunch, and he needed to change his dressing. He sat on the edge of their bed, and he had already unwound half of his chest's bandages.

"Don't go so fast," Rafe offered as he stood over his lover. Carefully, he began to strip the bandages while Blair extended his arms in the air. Midway through, Rafe noticed Blair trembling. His eyes were closed, and his neck muscles were strained. "Here." Brian pulled Blair's hands down. "Rest a while. You're starting to wear yourself out."

Blair nodded, his lips tight. "Didn't think it was gonna hurt to hold my arms up that much."

"Do you need your pills?"

"No. I'm okay."

"Just bend your elbows slightly . . . There, that's it. Let me pass the bandages through." Cautiously he undressed Blair, bunching the gauze in his hands until eventually he could toss the cloth aside. Finally, Blair's chest was uncovered, ready to be cleaned, and Rafe looked into his lover's face to relish some sort of victory.

Only Blair's eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow. In an instant, Rafe had his knees on the mattress. He wrapped his arm around Blair's shoulder while his free hand pulled at Blair just under the knee, lifting him. "Come on, baby. Lie back. Catch your breath." Blair couldn't fight him, suddenly pale, his limp body yielding to Brian's strength and concern. His head hit the pillow and he sighed. They remained quiet for a moment as Blair caught his breath. Brian continued to cradle his head, while his fingers carressed Blair's arm. He couldn't take his eyes away from Blair's chest. They hadn't shaved him all over, only around his stitches which lay in a random cross-hatched pattern. Angry, tracked lacerations mottled his skin with black and burgundy. These would be scars both of them would have to face every day, for the rest of their lives -- a warning. And he noticed, too, all the scrapes and cuts on his upper thighs and the bruises dark. His lover had truly been battered.

"You know, we don't have to do this. We can still do the sponge bath routine." Then a wicked smile lightened Brian's face. He traced Blair's lip with his finger. "You know I don't mind."

"No," Blair said with determination. "I woke up this morning thinking about a hot shower, and I want one. However long it takes."

"Okay. Okay. We'll just take breaks." Then Brian could resist no longer. He dipped his head lower and kissed Blair gently. And again. Each time, the kiss became stronger, more passionate, and Blair opened his mouth to accept him as he cupped his hand behind Brian's neck in tender union. Finally, Brian pulled away to catch his breath, his forehead pressed against Blair's. "Oh, man."

"Brian, when this is over and I'm back to normal, I'm gonna fuck you into next year."

Brian laughed, then replied, "I'm counting on it."

"But first, I want a shower. I want to wash this hair."

"What hair?"

"Shut up."

Brian laughed again. "I'll get the water ready and get undressed."

"You?"

"After that little episode just now, I'm not about to let you pass out on the tiles." Rafe kissed him again, then he carefully removed his arm from behind Blair's head. From their large bathroom, Blair could hear Rafe begin the shower, testing the temperature. A few moments later, he was back, standing nude in the doorway. Blair admired him, his arms braced against the doorframe and one leg resting at an angle. In the center of his muscular chest lay a dark oval patch of hair, thinning into a line down his hard, ribbed stomach then into his groin. His long uncut cock hung heavily against his balls. Blair could feel himself stirring.

"You ready, baby?"

"Oh, yeah." He said with a hint of lasciviousness.

Brian shot him a crooked grin as he strode across the bedroom. "You want me to carry you?"

"Give me some dignity, please."

Rafe held out his hand to help him off the mattress. "Dignity it is." He wrapped his arm around Blair's waist for added support.

Once inside, Blair hooked his thumb at the large garden tub. "We are going to put that thing through a work-out, and soon."

"Agreed." Rafe opened the glass door to the shower and made sure Blair didn't trip over the tiled edge before slipping in behind him. Rafe didn't have the water at full-pressure, to prevent Blair's stitches from getting irritated, and Blair stepped into the softened flow. As the hot water streamed down his body, Blair groaned a hungry, erotic growl that immediately started Rafe's blood flowing between his legs. Brian reached for one of the many soaps they had in the shower, rubbed lather between his hands, then began to massage Blair's aching muscles.

"Oh, man," he moaned. He turned around, letting the water pour over his back. Gently, and with studied intent, Rafe scrubbed Blair's chest, so afraid of hurting him. With his eyes closed, Blair trusted him completely, and he let the shower fall upon his scalp. He felt slippery arms wrap their way around his back as Rafe pulled him against his chest. Warm, wet lips attacked his mouth, and their hungry tongues dueled. Slickened with soap, their cocks grew hard, sliding across each other.

Blair turned around, and Rafe slid his large cock between Blair's buttocks, his cheeks firm and wet. Brian's hand gripped Blair's fat cock and began to pump. The pleasure was so intense, after so long denied, but Blair felt suddenly odd. His skin grew cold, and when he opened his eyes, his vision seemed red and blurred around the edges.

"Brian!" He gripped his arm tight.

"Yes?" His voice was stained by hunger.

"I need to sit down. I think I'm fainting."

Brian immediately set Blair down on the tile bench in the shower, then grabbed a washcloth to wipe away the remaining soap. Quickly, he pulled Blair up, carried him out of the shower, then draped a heavy terry-cloth robe on his wet body. With no regards to his own dripping body, he eased Blair back to the bed before darting into the bathroom to turn off the shower and put on his own robe. He came back with two towels and helped Blair dry himself off fully.

"You okay, baby?"

"Yeah. I was just getting a little light-headed. You weren't hurting me."

"You sure?"

Blair sat up, and he pulled Rafe close, hugging him, his face against Brian's stomach. "I'm sure." With his arms around Brian's legs and his lover's groin against his chest, Blair could feel Brian beginning to respond. Blair pushed open his robe, and his hands lifted Brian's semi-erect cock.

"Blair," he moaned.

With his fingers, Blair pushed back the hood of his foreskin and licked the sensitive head. Brian shivered under his touch, growing painfully hard. The angle was easy for Blair, and he was able take Brian deep into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the shaft. His hands manipulated Brian's balls, soft and hairy to the touch. It had been weeks since Brian had been with Blair, and he had little endurance to withstand Blair's mouth. Gripping Blair's shoulders, he shouted as he came, his cock bursting at the back of Blair's throat.

Pulling back, Blair said, "Oh, I really missed that."

Rafe pushed him down gently on the bed. "You have no idea," he said, kissing his lover, tasting his own semen in his mouth. His frantic hands pulled Blair's robe aside, and his fingers gripped Blair's hard cock. Blair pushed his damp head ahead against the pillow when he felt Rafe's hot mouth on his shaft.

For weeks, Brian could think of nothing more than getting Blair home and loving him again. Like they hadn't done before. This time he would know that life was impermanent, and that his days with Blair would inevitably come to an end -- maybe next year, maybe next decade, maybe tomorrow. From now on, he would cherish every moment. But for some moments, he would have to wait until his lover was completely healed. Blair spread his legs slightly as Rafe continued to swallow him. Even after two years together, Brian's jaw muscles continued to strain as he tried to take Blair's thick organ in his mouth. Now, Blair was home. He was safe. And his body lay beneath him again. He could smell the scented soap in Blair's pubic hair as he pushed Blair past his tongue, deep into his throat.

In moments, Blair was erupting into his mouth, and Brian swallowed the bitter, salty fluid. Both men gasped to catch their breaths. Rafe slid closer to Blair, kissing him. "I love you," he whispered huskily before kissing him again. "And I'm really glad you're home."

Link to text version of part two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=drama6/nomore_a.html