Author's webpage: http://members.tripod.com/heleninhell/index.html

Author's disclaimer: yes yes.

Author's notes: hm. It's the Jim Gets Amnesia story.

Not Exactly Funny - part one
by Helen

"There should be shit like this in the Olympics," Blair said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Jim hunched his shoulders in his jacket and didn't bother to answer. "I mean," Blair continued, "forget all this bullshit with lycra and special shoes and optimum conditions, they need to make athletes do all that running and jumping shit after staying up half the night. In rotten weather. In alleys. With potholes." He'd twisted his ankle earlier. "How much longer d'you think?"

"Not long," Jim said. His lungs hurt; he had thought he'd begun to recover from his cold, but now he wasn't so sure. He had an ugly rattling cough and the end of his nose was chapped. He'd been doing much better before he'd had to spend three days doing surveillance on the roof of a building.

"Next time," Blair said, "Let's try to schedule heavy mob surveillance for some time when everyone else isn't trying to solve a double homicide and having a twelve hour standoff at the A and P." He was scratching the edge of his tongue against the back of his mouth, making a slight clicking sound. He had caught the cold from Jim, no doubt from eating greasy Chinese food out of the same container.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Jim coughed.

"You wanna cough drop?" Blair said, fumbling in his pocket.

"What kind?"

"I think they got eucalyptus in them."

"They aren't those all natural ones."

"No."

"I can't have those, you know."

"Yeah, I know. I was there when you had freaky hallucinations for six or seven hours."

"That homeopathic shit is scary, Sandburg. It's not FDA regulated."

"They're like Halls or something, okay? Nothin' but good old American corn syrup and yellow dye number 5."

"Right. well. give me one, then."

"Here." Blair handed him two.

"uch, they're all sticky, Sandburg."

"Well, I'm sorry, it's wet out here. I'm damp. Every piece of me is damp, I'm turning into a lichen breeding ground."

"Well, you didn't have to come."

"Yeah, well--"

"Wait, wait. That's him," Jim said, and swung the camera around his neck up and pointed it down at a window below them.

They were at the far end of the roof, staring down. Blair heard it first, the rattle of the iron door opening, four men, guns, of course, advanced towards them and instead of doing anything useful while Jim carefully put his gun on the ground and kicked it away, he said,

"But why didn't you hear,"

"Sinuses," Jim said, mumbled, actually, and one of the men yanked the camera from around his neck and threw it over the side of the building, and, seemingly pleased with the heavy black arc it made in the late February sky, motioned Blair after it.

"What?"

"Jump."

"but--okay," he said, as a bullet flew past his shoulder. It seemed amazing that he could make himself do it; he took one hesitant step backwards--there was no ledge but immediately before he stepped out he saw that the window below him had a thick outcropping. He jumped and hit the ledge, already in the air as he saw Jim do something impossible, move in two directions at once, punch one man who'd gotten too close and scoop up his gun, shoot two, and jam his thumb in the eye of the third, not, unfortunately, before losing his balance and falling down, hitting the ledge that Blair was on, pushing Blair off, leaving him grasping the cool cement.

"Shit, Blair, hold on," Jim said and grabbed his wrists. They hung there, for a minute, Blair thinking, wow, looking vaguely around for something witty to say, before he remembered his ledge, remembered that it wasn't wide enough, that Jim had no way to pull him up,

"You can't pull me up," he said.

"Blair,"

"What are you, what are you doing," Blair said, toes scrabbling at the concrete.

"Blair,"

"Let me go, you asshole, you'll fall," Blair shouted.

"I won't."

"You stubborn bastard," Blair grunted, digging his fingernails painfully into Jim's wrists, "I wish I'd never met you."

Jim bit his lip and gripped Blair's wrists tighter and he could see down over Blair's shoulder and it was a long way and Blair was twisting his wrists and they were slipping and he was going to fall, they were both going to fall there was nothing he could do about it, Jesus, Sandburg, it wasn't fair, he wished they'd never met, so Sandburg would be holed up safely in his office, reading and not falling.

" ow," Blair said.

"You got that right." Jim sat up and looked with concern at Blair who was struggling into a sitting position. He had eggshells in his hair. "you all right?"

"I guess. I mean, a dumpster full of offal isn't my first choice for a family vacation or anything, but."

"ha ha."

"I don't have much to work with here."

"You're bleeding," Jim said,

"What?"

"arm." Blair looked down at his arm curiously and saw a long gash there, rendered neatly by the inside jagged edge of the dumpster.

"Oh it's. yes. well that would be the shock, right there." He pulled down his sleeve.

"it's pretty nasty. Might need stitches."

"I'm Blair Sandburg, by the way," Blair said.

"Jim Ellison." Jim put out his hand and Blair shook it with his left, making a small motion with his injured right arm.

"Nice to meet you."

Jim gave him a tight smile and stood up, walked gingerly across the garbage to the edge of the dumpster and climbed out. Blair dropped neatly to the ground behind him.

"Sorry you had to be involved in that," Jim said.

"Well. Wrong place, wrong time." Blair shrugged.

"Yeah." Jim said and they stood there for a few more minutes squinting up at the ledge before Jim said,

"Look, Mr. Sandburg, I don't want to be abrupt or anything but I sorta--those guys on the roof."

"No no, I gotcha, duty calls."

"Can I get your number?"

"Um." Blair said faintly. "Oh. for. A statement or something."

"yeah."

"You want home or work?"

"Go ahead and give me both.'

"All right." Blair fished a grubby card and a pen out of his pocket and wrote quickly. "Home phone number on the back," he said, handing it to Jim, who glanced cursorily at the front and said,

"You a professor?"

"Not quite."

"Right. well. we probably won't need to call you. I don't know," Jim shrugged.

"I'll see you, then. I mean. I probably. won't see you. But you know."

"Right." Jim said, and disappeared around the corner. Blair realized he had a headache. Realized that he couldn't remember where he'd parked his car. He did, unfortunately, remember that he had midterms to grade, and that they were in his office. He took the bus across town, spent part of the afternoon grading papers, and the other part waiting on the technical support hotline for his computer. They were no help. When it came time to go home, found himself facing his car in its usual parking spot. He shrugged, and drove home.

Blair opened the door to a gun in his face. This seemed, for some reason, oddly familiar, but he shrugged it away, couldn't concentrate on it, of course, given the gun in his face that was held by Jim Ellison.

"Whoa," he said and backed up a step.

"Sorry," Jim said, dropping the gun away. "What're you. You have a key?"

"I live here."

"No." Jim looked at him suspiciously. "I live here." He backed up a step, though, put his gun back in the shoulder holster hung on the hooks by the door and Blair stepped across the threshold and said

"You know what? I've had a really shitty day. I fell off a building. I can't remember the encryption codes for what looks to be about eighty-seven percent of my work. And what I don't need is some cop telling me I don't live in my apartment. Here's my driver's license," he said, snatching it out of his wallet and slapping it into Jim's hand.

"But you don't live here," Jim said again, ignoring the 852 Prospect address on the card.

"Oh," Blair said, now infuriated, shoving past him and ripping open the door to the downstairs room. "So what you're saying is that this is your Reuniquei River Valley Dig '92 t-shirt. And your pants with the thirty-two inch inseam. And your book on Etruscan textiles." He waved the items in quick succession and then threw them back on his bed. "Not to mention," he continued, coming out of the room, "your Best American Short Stories 1997," picking the volume off the end table and flapping it accusatorily at Jim.

"I use that room for storage," Jim said, peering in the door in confusion. "And that is my book," he said, snatching it back. They looked at each other for a minute and then looked past each other at the things in they realized weren't theirs.

"Gee." Blair finally said, "You think we have amnesia?"

Jim grinned in spite of himself. "Good call."

"What's the last thing you remember?" Blair asked.

"I remember everything fine. I just don't. remember you."

"huh," Blair said. He didn't look offended.

"But you clearly live here, so--" Jim stopped as Blair ran a tired hand through his hair and pushed up his sleeves revealing the raw angry cut "Christ, Sandburg, did you even, what did you do to this?" he caught the wrist before Blair could snatch it away.

"I, you know, washed it out."

"Where? In a gas station bathroom? I mean, what, are you trying for gangrene?"

"You've gotta relax," Blair said lightly. Jim frowned at him and dropped his arm.

"We're going to the hospital right now."

"But--"

"What possible objection can you have here? You need stitches, we both have some sort of memory loss--"

"But I remembered a whole lot this afternoon," Blair protested.

"Yeah, like what?" Jim yanked his jacket off the hook.

"Like, that I'm a police observer."

"You're a police observer."

"Yes. I'm writing a thesis on closed societies."

"You remembered that?"

"Well. I. The notes seemed familiar," Blair said, averting his eyes.

"There any reason you don't like hospitals," Jim asked, pulling onto the highway.

"No. I just. I don't really have health insurance," Blair mumbled.

"You do know that's stupid, right?"

"I don't know where you get off with this overbearing crap."

"Well, I'm gonna end up paying for it."

"Forget it. I'll just--"

"What? Wait in the parking lot and get blood poisoning? You're my roommate. I assume I like you, so I'll pay."

"Don't do me any favors," Blair said testily, but when Jim parked, he got out of the truck and followed him in the emergency room door.

"Blair, Mr. Ellison," the receptionist smiled at them. When neither of them answered right away, the smile dropped and she said, "er. are you here on business?"

"No." He crooked his finger towards Blair and said, "He need stitches and. uh" he stopped, but she didn't notice because she was too busy finding pens and clipboards for them. "You know the drill," she said, "Insurance info on the bottom there."

"Um." Blair said.

Jim took the clipboard out of her hand and said "Sandburg doesn't have insurance, so I'll be--"

"What? But sure you do," she said and leaned over the counter, "Blue Cross, you keep the card behind your driver's license, you showed it to me when you got it."

"What?" Blair scrabbled in his wallet and produced a crumpled Blue Cross card. "What do you know," he said weakly.

"Did you even hit your head?" the doctor asked Jim.

"No."

"Not that you remember or no?" He tilted Jim's head up and shone a light into his eyes.

"There's no difference between those," Jim said.

"And you remember everything else."

"How should I know that? Maybe there's an entire army of people walking around claiming to live in my apartment."

"Are you sure he lives in your apartment?"

"It seems pretty obvious that he does. And that we know each other. There are pictures and things. And the receptionist knew us. She called him Blair."

"That's his name."

"I know that. But she called me Mr. Ellison."

"hm. Mr. Sandburg has spent a not inconsiderable amount of time here with injuries sustained on the job." The doctor flipped through one of the charts on his desk.

"He's an observer; what'd he have--eye strain?"

"Couple of bullet wounds. Broken wrist."

"oh."

"Let's get back to the matter at hand--you've seen other people today that you knew?"

"Yeah. The guys in lockup. Another detective."

"Everything normal there?"

"Yup."

The doctor leaned back against his desk and sighed.

"As far as I can tell, given that there's no visible head trauma whatsoever, and that you both are perfectly lucid, it's psychological. I could do a CT scan, but it's extremely unlikely that there would be a neurological basis for forgetting one person. And falling several stories: Well. I'd say there's cause there."

"Psychological," Jim said.

"yes."

"So will I remember?"

"Almost definitely. Most people recover full memory."

"Most."

"Your chances are excellent--the traumatic event was. not all that traumatic. comparatively, you know?"

"How long."

"That's hard to say. A few days, a few months--every case is different. Just try to keep to normal routine--jog your memory. And, um, don't let people fill you in too much--you should remember in your own time."

"Great."

"Look. Go home. Get some sleep. It's entirely possible that you'll be back to normal tomorrow morning."

"Well there's an example of lousy ass managed care," Blair said in the parking lot.

"What, they didn't give you enough Codeine," Jim said.

"No, man, the fact that we both have memory loss and they just sent us home. What's that?"

"They said there's nothing they can do. They said we'd remember soon."

"That's not really what they said."

"Do you need a prescription filled?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"yeah, I'm sure, it's a cut in my arm, it's no big deal."

"Fine." Jim turned on the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

"Okay. So you're Jim Ellison and you're a detective and um. what?" Blair said. "I'm just trying to get a little basic information here--Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick sort of stuff. I'm Blair Sandburg. I'm an anthropologist and specializing in tribal structures. I have health insurance. I like applesauce cake."

"If I never hear another Clue joke, it will be too soon," Jim announced.

"You get a lot of that," Blair said.

"Yup."

It was just past midnight when they got home. They yawned to each other and Jim went to brush his teeth, coming back out again, toothbrush in hand, at the muffled thumps coming from the downstairs room.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Just trying to clear off my bed," Blair said, shoving the last few books onto the floor. "That better be your toothbrush."

"It's my toothbrush."

"How do you know?"

"Because the bristles aren't all mashed around."

"Fine," Blair said, stifling a yawn.

"Goodnight then," Jim said after a pause.

"goodnight. Thanks for. The hospital, you know."

"It was on my way," Jim said.

"I mean. You would've paid for this," Blair said, touching the edge of the bandage on his arm.

"Well, that's my standard policy on guys who suddenly appear to be living in my apartment," Jim said after a self-conscious pause. Blair grinned.

"Hey, I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe I'll know you tomorrow."

"Maybe," Jim said, and turned away.

Blair was sitting at the table munching toast and reading a notebook when he came down the stairs.

"Morning," Blair said.

"Morning," he said. Sighed, sat down. It had taken him some minutes after he'd woken up, assisted by the minor bustle of someone making coffee and jiggling at the toaster controls, to remember Blair at all. He'd had a few confusing seconds of wondering if the whole thing were a dream. It had that dreamlike quality--too many places in one day, roof and dumpster, apartment and hospital, that strained dream not-quite-right feeling, but no, it was real, there was some guy downstairs whom he apparently knew, whom he'd apparently allowed to move in, get comfortable enough to strew his crap all over.

He'd had a relentlessly optimistic second grade teacher, who, just prior to the pledge of allegiance, would tell them to get up and face the new day. Even at eight, sitting in an oatmeal induced stupor, calculating the minutes until recess, hoping he wasn't going to be required to read aloud, he'd understood that her chipper affirmations were supposed to be inspiring. They only came back to him on days when facing the day seemed quite unappealing. Still. She had a point. He had put on jeans and a t-shirt and gone downstairs.

"Remember anything?" Blair asked.

"Nope."

"yeah, me either." There was an uncomfortable silence and then Blair said "You want some eggs?"

"You think you normally make me breakfast?"

"Don't know. I'm sort of. a breakfast makin' kind of guy."

"Okay, then," Jim said, watching as Blair dug around in the refrigerator. They were good eggs.

"I thought, it's Sunday," Blair said as he ate, "and maybe we could hang out some and try to. you know."

"okay. What's that," he asked, pointing at the notebook.

"Oh, some thesis notes--hard copy, so I can read it at least."

Jim went to dump a load of laundry in the wash and when he came back, Blair was standing in front of a picture on the wall near the staircase. It was of him and Simon and Blair. Simon was holding a fish and all three of them were grinning broadly. He had a sunburn.

"Who's that?" Blair asked, pointing at Simon.

"Simon. Banks. He's the head of Major Crimes. Where I work," he tacked on.

"I should know him," Blair said. "Shit."

"well," he said.

"Shit," Blair said again, this time more vehemently.

"Maybe you shouldn't be getting so worked up," he said. "It's only been a day."

"Yeah," Blair said, "that's easy for you to say, I'm the only thing you don't goddamn remember--you didn't forget your whole fucking job."

"What? You don't remember, the, um, entomology?"

"Anthropology. And yes, I remember it. But. I'm supposed to be doing my dissertation on the police station and I can't remember a fucking thing."

"When's it due?"

"There's no due date per se,"

"Then what are you worried about?"

Blair smacked his forehead. "Of course, it's not due so why worry? Why didn't I think of that?" He shook his head. "I cannot believe we're friends. What, just, how can you not understand the gravity of the situation?"

"I understand the gravity of the situation just fine, thanks, but this Scarlett O'Hara act isn't going to help any."

"What the hell do you know about Scarlett O'Hara?"

"She was always pitching a fit about some damn thing, wasn't she? Jesus Christ, you haven't stopped caterwauling since you got here--"

"That's because the stoic macho guy quota's already been filled," Blair glared at him reproachfully. "And you can stop looking at me like you wanna make me do pushups, okay?"

"You know, I'm assuming there's a good reason I let you move in here."

"I'm sure there was."

"I have no idea what it might be," Jim said grimly.

"Me either," Blair agreed. Jim sighed and went to stare out the window.

"Sorry I called you Scarlett O'Hara," he said finally.

"Sorry I caterwauled," Blair said, somewhere behind him.

"So. Are you gonna be able to teach your classes?"

"Yeah, don't see why not. What are you going to do?"

"Tell Simon. Then, we'll see."

"So. Are we gonna hang out?"

"I guess," Jim shrugged.

"What do you do in your spare time?"

"You mean other than pushups."

"Yeah."

" I don't know. Don't have a lot of free time. I like to go camping."

"Hey, me too," Blair said, giving him a bright grin.

"And worlds collide."

"Not that I don't appreciate dry wit, but--"

"sorry, sorry."

They washed the breakfast dishes in not quite uneasy silence. Jim went and put his laundry in the dryer and came back to find Blair staring balefully at his arm.

"How's the arm?" he said.

"Itchy."

"That's good. Mean's it's healing."

Blair shook his head. "I think that's a lie they tell you--I mean, it could mean it was about to fall off."

"Better itchy than painful."

"I don't know. It itches." Blair got up and went in the kitchen. "First aid kit?"

"You gotta change the dressing on it?" Jim said, finding it in the cabinet.

"Yeah."

"I'll do it for you."

"You don't have to. It's pretty gross."

"And I have such a delicate constitution."

"Fine, then, have at it," Blair said, unwrapping the outer bandage. There were gauze strips on top of the wound, soaked through with blood and moisture from the wound. "It got a little squishy under there," Blair said.

"Stop being so squeamish," Jim said, pulling the strips off. "Hurt?" he asked.

"I told you, it's itchy.

Jim put a gentle finger on the outside of the cut and stroked quickly at the skin just outside the reddened swollen area of the wound. He wasn't using the nail, just the pad of his finger. Blair made a small sound of relief and leaned back against the sink. Jim worked his way carefully along the sides of the cut, scrubbing lightly at the skin.

"okay?" he said finally.

"yeah," Blair said, "that was really. It feels a lot better. Thanks." Jim rewrapped his arm. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"I was in Peru for almost two years," Jim said. "If you scratch the bug bites like you want to, you break the skin and it doesn't really help the itching anyway."

"Why were you in Peru?" Blair said curiously.

"It was when I was with the Rangers."

"oh. Was that, uh."

"I don't. um--" He frowned at the sink .

"hey, I gotcha," Blair said easily.

Blair wandered around and poked at the bookshelves and looked out the window and threw himself on the couch and fidgeted and Jim was just about to say something when Blair said,

"Let's go do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Let's just, go someplace. Being here is freaking me out. Like I obviously do live here, but. you know."

"yeah."

"But I guess by the same token, my being here would be freaking you out," Blair said thoughtfully. "So maybe I should just clear out for a while."

"No. I don't think that's--I think we're supposed to be trying to remember each other. So we should go do something we normally do."

"We have yet to establish anything we normally do."

"A flaw, I'll admit."

"Let's. go for a walk. Get some lunch or something," Blair suggested.

"Okay. Let's go to the hardware store."

"Fine."

"The drawers in the kitchen aren't rolling smoothly," Jim said.

"Okay."

"They aren't."

"The hardware store is fine. I bet we go to the hardware store all the time."

"Sure," Jim said.

"You wanna cough drop," Blair said.

"Sure."

He'd played football with his friends in high school; they didn't see each other outside of practice much. He didn't tend to bring people home. School and practice were enough people; he couldn't recall having any really close friends. The closest he ever felt to them was when he was on the field and then they were both trussed up in pads and helmets, as if protected from each other, separated by a good strong layer of plastic compounds and foam. He'd often thought during his marriage that things would be easier if he and Carolyn could wear pads. And then, college, he was friends with all the other ROTC people. Considered serious. No one ever offered him pot. He'd studied a lot; more than he had to, really. He'd gotten a job in the library, replacing books on the shelves. The stacks were dark and narrow and dusty. Most of the books were untouched--pick one up, you'd see it had been last checked out in 1959, to some meaningless undergraduate, someone he'd never heard of.

And then the Army itself, where friendships were made through bunk assignments and shit duty, he'd known them, but still. He'd never been able to say a number of the things he imagined he might like to say to a friend: "I'm afraid," perhaps. And then, of course, he was commanding, and that was a different kind of friendship. Loyalty, support. He'd never shown them uncertainty or worry, sure of his duty, carrying it out.

The only thing he could think of that he'd routinely done with all his friends was hang around in bars. It was eleven o'clock in the morning. No, that wasn't the only thing he'd done. But he'd had friends that he played basketball with and work friends, with whom, now that he though about it, about fifty percent of their conversations involved saying things like, "How's that case going?" and "Like shit." and "When I catch that bastard I'm gonna kick his ass." To be certain, the other fifty percent concerned at least a little "How's Janeane," and the like, but shit, what did they talk about anyway?

And Carolyn, of course. He'd told her about his father. About the more interesting of his missions. He'd liked her even before that, with a sort of instinctive animal like. He'd liked the way she smelled and they'd gone to a restaurant together where the food was inedible and for some reason they'd both found this hilarious. He'd gone to the hardware store with her

Who knows how it had happened? Who knows how anything happens? Look back, all you see is a jumble of mish-mashed conversations. The odd confidence; a sprained shoulder, a four a.m. trip to the airport, the allegiance that comes when someone watches you kill a man, when someone gives you a towel for a bloody nose and tells you not to tip your back.

They walked to the hardware store and Jim tried to explain the problem to the clerk, who was resolutely unhelpful.

"What do you think," he asked Blair.

"I can't hear it." The clerk looked dubiously at Jim. "But hey, I'm. He's a detective, so. If there's noise."

"He's a detective?" Jim said, when they got out of the store. "Were you trying to make me look like an idiot?"

"You told him your drawers were too loud. I was trying to be. supportive."

"good job."

"I do my best," Blair said smugly.

"You're really odd, you know that?"

"I'm not the one with the loud drawers. I mean." Blair laughed. Just a little heh heh chuckle, a dirty old man laugh.

"That's awful, Sandburg."

"I know. It's low blood sugar. What do you want for lunch?"

After lunch they poked around on the beach for a while, mostly just tramping up and down until it began to rain and the sand in his shoes was driving Jim crazy, so they went home and Blair actually read the book on Etruscan Textiles, so Jim read his Best American Short Stories 1997. He like short stories--their deliberation, their lack of excess. None of the excess business of a novel, people nattering away, engaged in activity that might or might not ultimately be important. Every piece of a short story was a clue.

They'd eaten a huge lunch, mainly because it was something to do, something to talk about. They didn't start to feel hungry until eight, when Blair started making tomato sandwiches.

"Just tomatoes?" he said.

"And mustard. They're good," Blair said, sticking them in the toaster oven.

"When I was a kid," Jim said slowly, "the housekeeper used to make these things in the toaster oven. Um. You take a piece of salami and a piece of cream cheese and you roll the cream cheese in the salami and toast it."

"Oh my god," Blair said, blinking. "That's pretty much. the worst thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah, and the salami sweats orange on to the cream cheese."

Blair made a disgusted noise.

"They're good. What, you only ate wheat germ?"

"I've eaten a fair amount of wheat germ."

"Good to see it didn't stunt your growth," Jim said, before he thought. "Sorry."

"Forget it," Blair said. "At least my arteries aren't bulletproof." He meant it. He was the first short guy Jim had ever met who wasn't sensitive about being short. Most of the short guys he'd know were half again as wide as he was, bulky, lifting weights since they realized they would be short forever.

Soon after the tomato sandwiches and some cheese, at Jim's insistence ("Yeah, Sandburg, they're good, but I gotta have something of substance here. And no it doesn't ruin the complex flavor of the tomato, for god's sake. It's cheese; it enhances the flavor."), they went to bed.

"Simon, I--" Jim fell into step with Simon as they went down the hallway towards the bullpen.

"Where's Sandburg?"

"At the U. that's actually sort of. what I needed to talk to you about."

"My office," Simon said, and ushered him in, "What's wrong?"

"We had a little run in with some of Crofton's guys the other day."

"I know--the arrest report was on my desk this morning. You're both okay, right?"

"Well. yeah."

"except." Simon prompted.

"Except, we sort of fell off this building. And."

"And."

"And we don't remember. each other," Jim admitted.

"You don't remember each other."

"Yeah. I mean, no."

"Hm." Simon stared at him for so long that Jim finally said

"It's psychological."

"You had it checked out."

"Yeah. They said we'd remember."

"When?"

"Soon. Could be any minute."

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So you expect me to let a detective with amnesia work blithely along."

"I'm really close on the Crofton case. Kind of. And we've been shorthanded with that A and P thing and the double homicide. And I remember everything from the files." Simon looked doubtful. "C'mon, Simon, I wouldn't bullshit you about this."

"And it's only Sandburg you don't remember."

"Yeah, that's it."

"Sort of a big thing to forget," Simon said slowly.

"I know."

"All right. I'm going to let you do this, but. let's just keep it confidential--I don't think it would look too terrific to have a amnesiac detective charging around. So just. you know."

"yeah. You're not supposed to tell me stuff--we're supposed to remember on our own."

"okay. back to work then. You should probably partner with someone."

"Connor?"

"Sure." Jim nodded and got up to leave. His hand was one the doorknob when Simon cleared his throat and said "oh. Jim. you still remember, uh, Sandburg's project."

"What? the thesis. Sure."

"Yeah. the thesis," Simon said, and winked.

"Sandburg." He had carried his cell phone into concrete emergency stairwell; Blair, he discovered, was the first number on speed dial.

"Yes?"

"Blair. It's Jim Ellison."

"Oh yeah. is this? Did you remember?"

"No. but. ah. Can you come down here this afternoon?"

"Down here like the police station? Is something wrong? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Then. Look, Jim, I have sort of a lot of work to do here--I'm way behind and I can't seem to do anything about accessing these encrypted notes and there are some term papers here that are over a month--"

"Sandburg, hey. You come down here all time--"

"Well. I'm sure I do, I mean, I am writing my thesis on you guys, but."

"No. You ride with me, you're here every day."

"I hardly think--"

"Pretty much every single person who's come by my desk wants to know when you were coming in and when I said "why would I know that" they looked at me strangely and just. I think you should get your butt down here."

"Jim. It's not like if I'm not there everyone's going to say, "boy, maybe they both have amnesia." And even if they did, so what?"

"So, I'm trying to act normally in an attempt to trigger a memory and what's normal involves you so just get down here. Unless you don't want to--"

"Geez. Okay. I'll be there at. One, is one okay?"

"One's great."

"Fine. Wouldn't want people to look at you weird."

"Just get down here and do some research."

So Blair came at one and threw him a granola bar and peered over his shoulder at his computer screen and finally sat down tentatively in the chair next to Jim's desk. People kept saying hello to him; he nodded and greeted them and finally Jim got a call. Convenience store, burglary.

"You can come," he said, pulling his coat off the back of his chair and waving to Megan, who stood up.

"Good, okay, I'll do that," Blair said.

In the truck, Jim said,

"I don't know why you just don't tell them. I mean, me. sure. But."

"It's just a whole can of worms and it's. I don't like hospitals, I don't like people freaking out over me. And it might get out at the University and then I'd get suspended, probably without pay, which I can't afford. It's not like I can't teach classes. The memories'll come back, then maybe I'll tell them and we'll all have a jolly laugh. Plus. I think it'd blow your cover."

"Picking up that detective slang already."

"Yeah. you're not really at all funny."

"Unlike you, Mr. Incredibly bad drawers jokes."

"It was funny at the time."

"hm," Jim said.

"Why didn't we ride with the woman?" Blair asked.

"Connor?"

"Right. You guys are partners?"

"Not normally."

"But still--why take two cars?"

"I don't know. I guess. She just expected us to ride together. I think we're sort of partners.

"Really?"

"Apparently."

"Wow."

"No kidding."

Blair was quiet at the crime scene. Watched Jim, even took some notes.

"I thought that went well," Jim said, when they got back in the truck.

"What do you mean."

"I mean, it seemed familiar. A little. And everyone seemed to expect you to be there."

"Shit, it's three-thirty," Blair said.

"So, you know, I think we have to keep on trying to maintain the routine."

"Excuse me, hello, I have things to do."

"More important than regaining your memory?"

"I'm just not sure about this obsession you have with recreating everything," Blair said disparagingly.

"I'm not the one who was shrieking about the gravity of the situation."

"What is your deal with impugning my masculinity?"

"I wasn't impugning your masculinity."

"Sure. And I bet you shriek all the time."

"I've. Yes," Jim said defensively.

"When confronted with a felon, for instance," Blair suggested.

"Maybe shriek is sort of a strong word."

"Perhaps more like a manly bellow."

"Okay. I was impugning your masculinity. Sorry."

Jim pulled into the police station parking lot.

"You think that's enough time?" Blair said "I need to get back to the work."

"Yeah. I guess. See you tonight."

"Yup," Blair said, sliding out of the truck. Jim rolled down the window.

"Wait a minute,"

"Yeah?" Blair turned back.

"Do you know where the thermostat is?"

"um. no."

"If you get home before me. It's by the bookshelf on the far wall."

"Okay. thanks."

"No problem," Jim said, and rolled the window back up.

"Hey," Jim said, meeting Blair in the stairwell.

"Hey," Blair said, struggling to hold a grocery bag while unlocking the door.

"Here," Jim said, and took the bag, shrugging the grocery bag he was already holding into the crook of his elbow.

"Thanks."

"Looks like we both had the same idea," Jim said, setting the bags on the counter.

"No. you left a note for me, to do the shopping."

"Note. I didn't. what note?"

"This one," Blair said, fishing a crumpled list out of his pocket that said quite clearly across the top 'Blair, get the store brand grapefruit juice. And tile cleaner.' There were a half dozen other things to which Blair had added a scribbled list of his own. "I forgot this bowl I wanted to show my tutorial kids, so I dropped by this afternoon and it was on my bureau."

"I didn't leave that for you--it must have been from before."

"I guess so," Blair agreed, starting to pull things out of the bag and stick them in the refrigerator.

"Well. Thanks."

"For?"

"For doing the shopping."

"You're welcome. I thought the note was a little high handed this morning, but. you know. if I do it, there's a reason, I'm sure." He held out a hand and Jim handed him a carton of milk and some carrots.

"There's a cosmic alignment that allow you to do my grocery shopping?"

"Something like that," Blair said, straightening.

"What'd you get?" Jim asked.

"Stuff for Mexican. Bet you got steak or something."

"Yup."

"Figures."

"You're vegetarian. Of course, I should've known."

Blair looked at him curiously. "You got one for me."

Jim looked uncomfortable for a moment and then said, "Oh, and you only got enough Mexican stuff for one."

"Yeah. but. Mexican. That's like, more lettuce."

They smiled at each other and Jim shook his head and said,

"I think. This is a pretty fucked up situation, you know."

"Really? C'mon. You're only living with a total stranger. Who isn't a vegetarian, by the way, so let's get cracking--I'm starving from a day of observing."

"I'm starving from a day of pretending you're my best friend."

"That too."

"Sandburg--pass the pepper. please."

"You know," Blair said conversationally, "you can call me Blair. I mean, this whole Sandburg thing makes me feel like we're on some football team of two."

"But."

"But what? We live together, we keep our toothbrushes in the same little cup thing, I think you can call me Blair."

"But I'm used to--"

"Jim. How hard can it possibly be? Say Blair."

"Blair," Jim muttered.

"Very nice. Have you ever had a friend you jut called by his first name?"

"Of course."

Who?"

"There was Irwin Goldstein."

"You had a friend named Irwin Goldstein."

"Yeah. what are you, an anti-Semite, Sandburg? He was a nice guy."

"yeah. So when was this epic friendship?"

"1972," Jim said, after a minute.

"And you were what, eleven? That doesn't count."

"I call women by their first names."

"You call that Australian woman Connor."

"You're a pain in the ass, Blair. What's wrong with calling people by their last names? Wait. Hold on. I call Simon Simon."

"Very good. One person. That's excellent."

"Jesus. Fine. Blair. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to call me Ellison."

"What?"

"It's my preferred mode of address. It makes me uncomfortable to be called Jim." Jim threw him a sly grin and took a bite of his steak.

"I can't call you Ellison."

"Well. That's pretty inconsiderate."

"How about a nickname?"

"I don't have a nickname."

"C'mon, not even one?"

"No."

"They didn't call you killer or Silent Joe or anything in the army?"

"Rangers. They called me sir."

"Whoa. Well. excuuuse me."

"Can you just let me eat in peace here?"

"'Course."

"The cucumber salad is really good."

"Thanks. It's my mom's recipe."

"Should you maybe call your mom. about this?" Jim said.

"She's in Siberia. Or somewhere. Mongolia by now, I think."

"Why?"

"She likes to travel."

"There are telephones in Mongolia."

"Not in yurts."

"She's living in a yurt?"

"You know what a yurt is?"

"No. But it sounds. Does this have something to do with yaks?"

"It's a tent. circular. domed. traditionally used by the Mongols."

"Ghengis Khan," Jim said indistinctly through a bite of steak.

"More or less."

"Does it really bother you to be called Jim?" Blair was pulling open a succession of drawers in the kitchen.

"No. It's fine. Second drawer on your left." Blair opened the drawer and got out the saran wrap.

"Thanks. It's weird, you know, that I can't remember where the saran wrap is."

"Why? Maybe you can't remember normally."

"Well. It's weird that I knew I lived here. Technically, I shouldn't. because I obviously moved in here after I met you."

"So it doesn't follow logically. Neither does amnesia, really."

"You're taking this really well, you know."

"For someone so rigid in his ways."

"No. I. Hey, Jim, it's just, I'm used to weird roommate situations. I lived in this place once where there was a communal bed, and--"

"Yeah, gotcha."

"It wasn't like that. Mostly, I mean."

After they finished cleaning up, Jim sat down in the living room and worried at the pages of a book while Blair graded steadily, flipping the blue books across the table when he finished with them.

"Jim. If you wanna watch tv or something, don't let me cramp your style. I can go in my room to do this."

"I'm reading."

"Yeah. You've been starting that chapter over and over again for the last twenty minutes."

Jim twisted his neck and gave Blair an irritated look "Are you always such a know-it-all?"

"I think I am cramping your style--so, I'm"

"It's not that, Blair."

"Then what?"

"Um." Jim grimaced and put the book down. Blair got up and came over to sit on the sofa.

"Are you okay?"

"Blair. I don't want you to get mad or--"

"Jim. I realize you've only known me for two days, but I don't get mad."

"Yeah. Um. D'you think we're."

"We're what?"

"Together," Jim said, and at Blair's look of non-comprehension, elaborated, "having. sleeping. together." He had, in truth, expected something of a outburst from Blair. He was an excitable guy, as far as he could tell, but Blair just looked thoughtful. "I'm just," he continued, "I'm just contemplating the evidence here and. I think it's something to consider."

"It would explain things, I guess."

"yeah."

"Who's the last person you remember living with?"

"Carolyn."

"Who is?"

"My wife. ex-wife."

"Hm," Blair tilted his head. "Which would indicate that you're straight."

"Not really."

"You were married, man. I don't--"

"Yeah, and now I'm living with a grad student six years younger than me who follows me around everywhere I go, who apparently does my grocer shopping who, you know, looks like you."

"You saying I look gay? That's not very--"

"No, Jeez, Sandburg, I'm just saying, you know."

"Look. The Blair that knows who the hell you are might have some inkling of what you mean by 'you know'. Although I doubt it, actually, seeing as I'm not clairvoyant. But I really have no idea what you're talking about."

"You look. hmn," Jim winced and said, "I like the way you look."

"Yeah?" Blair smiled.

"And I guess," Jim went on, "I think unless there were some really good reasons not to. I would have made a pass at you."

"And I live here. Which would indicate a pass made and accepted."

"Seems like it."

"And Simon winked at me. about you."

"Simon winked?"

"It was weird." Jim said, and finally met Blair's eyes. Blair looked pleased, he thought. Blair's jawbone was a pure slight curve; it would fit in his hand, he thought.

"And I figure," Jim said, "you've been here a while. So you must be--"

"more than a fantastic lay."

"Right."

"But. based on the last few days. we don't. You don't seem to like me much."

"What are you talking about?"

"I--"

"I like you fine. I bought you steak. I just told you I think you're. hot."

"But you keep yelling at me."

"I have not been yelling at you," Jim said, carefully not yelling.

"You were gruff."

"I'm gruff with everyone."

"So you do like me."

"You're okay," Jim said grudgingly. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, I've bared all. What about you?"

"I like you."

"And."

"And I would make a pass at you," Blair said.

"oh."

"hm."

Jim looked sideways at Blair "So do you."

"um."

"perhaps. Maybe if. We just kiss."

"Very Sleeping Beauty of you."

"Hey, it'll be familiar. maybe."

"okay," Blair said faintly and Jim leaned over him and gave him a dry gentle kiss, one loose hand on his shoulder.

"Anything?"

"Um. no."

"yeah."

"huh."

"Well. let's just. It doesn't mean anything. Let's just go to bed."

"You mean?"

"No. I'm going. Upstairs."

Blair came home the next night to find Jim chopping carrots and as he turned to throw them into the stir fry, Blair put a steadying hand on his arm and reached up to kiss Jim, almost missing his mouth. A few carrot slices fell to the floor.

"What are--"

"I was thinking about it today, you know, and I was thinking it wasn't very natural last night--it wasn't very--um. I thought if we really were involved, I'd come home and find you cooking. And kiss you."

"I see," Jim said, licking his lips.

"So how'd it. what did you think?"

"pretty nice."

"Um. me too."

And Jim leaned down for another kiss and then moved forward and trapped him against the counter and wrappd a hand around his neck and really kissed him, returning his perfunctory good night kiss with fierce slow concentration, dawdling on Blair's lips, moving in closer when he didn't object.

When they broke off the kiss they were both gasping and Jim was already fiddling with the buttons on Blair's shirt.

"Remember anything?" Blair asked without moving his hand from Jim's back.

"no."

"Me either."

"Doesn't mean anything," Jim said.

"no," Blair said into his mouth and let Jim get his hand under his shirt.

Jim kissed him and caressed his back and then walked him backwards slowly to the couch, pushing him gently down, coming down on top of him, finding his mouth again. Blair reached around and yanked Jim's shirt out of his waistband, his mind already whirling with all the things they were going to do--all the things they had already done, he supposed, and shit, what a thing to forget because Jim was fumbling with the buttons on his shirt and then he gave up on the shirt and just pulled Blair securely towards him so he could kiss him thoroughly.

Blair held him, one hand splayed on his hip, the other sliding up under his shirt to stroke hot skin and kissed him back and Jim slid his hand down to grasp the underside of Blair's knee and pull it up and his hips slid up firmly against Blair's cock. Jim left his mouth and licked along his jawline.

"Jim," Blair moaned.

"Mm," Jim said, sliding a hand into Blair's waistband.

"Jim, um,"

"yeah?" Jim said. He nuzzled Blair's collar bone and flexed his hand gently on Blair's waist.

"I, Jim, wait."

"Is something wrong?"

"No,"

"good," Jim said, and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth, slowly kneading his nipples.

"It's just," Blair said when his mouth was free, "is there anything of mine upstairs?"

"Hm?"

"If we were together, there'd be something of mine. Upstairs,"

"Appearances," Jim mumbled.

"But something. a shirt or a book or something. There is, right?" The fingers running teasingly across his stomach and hips slowed and then stilled altogether.

"No."

Blair closed his eyes. "Shit."

"Fuck," Jim said. He seemed to be having some difficulty focusing his eyes

"Right. get off me."

"I'm going out," Jim said abruptly and rolled off him, grabbing his jacket on the way out. Blair flopped back on the couch and pressed a suppressing palm over his cock. Then he got up and finished the stir-fry.

Jim didn't come home for two hours. Blair was on the balcony, reading with a flashlight, and didn't hear him come in. When the lights in the loft came on, he went in to find Jim leaning against the counter eating.

"Thanks," he said, hefting the bowl in Blair's direction.

"No problem."

"Sorry," he said. "I wasn't."

"It's fine." Blair said. "Sorry about." he waved his hand towards the couch.

"No, you were right."

"yeah." Jim ate steadily for several minutes.

"It's not that I didn't want to," Blair said abruptly.

"Sure," Jim nodded.

"Because I--"

"Blair. shut up."

"okay."

"Jim," Megan said. "Why am I here?"

"Is this an existential question?" Jim asked, pawing through a dresser. They were searching a murder victim's house.

"No, I mean. Why are you suddenly tagging along on my cases? Where's Sandy?"

"Busy."

"Is Simon checking up on me? Because this kind of covert--"

"Megan, no, he's not."

"In that case, why don't you take yourself off and let me solve this case."

"I can't."

"Why not."

"I have some amnesia."

"A likely excuse."

"No, I really do."

"What did you forget?"

"Blair."

"Sandy?"

"You don't have to look so delighted."

"I'm not delighted. I'm. You're telling the truth."

"Yes."

"What does he think of this?"

"He doesn't remember me."

"Oh. My god. Are you two okay?"

"Fine. It's supposed to come back."

"When?"

"Soon."

"But you're not going to kick him out or anything?"

"Why would I do that? He lives there."

"Just making sure--I just wanted you to know that you guys are really close friends and--"

"yeah, Megan, I know. I know. Can we just get back to this searching the premises thing?"

"Fine."

Jim put a careful hand on the doorjamb of Blair's room and said "Blair, can I speak to you a minute?"

Blair appeared in the doorway, wrapped in his robe, looking apprehensive. Jim didn't look angry. He looked, in fact, firmly neutral, which was almost worse. He produced a book from behind his back and held it out. Blair took a step forward and took the book.

"This is my book," he said, flipping through the heavily annotated pages, dark with his handwriting. "Where'd you--?"

"Upstairs," Jim said. "Bedside table."

"Oh god."

"That's all you have to say?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Blair said and grinned hugely.

"So were you. doing anything important," Jim said diffidently.

"nope. Nothing."

"Megan said we were, uh, close friends today."

"Did she," Blair said softly

"And remember how you had all those books on your bed the first night?"

"uh huh," Blair said and Jim slid two fingers under the collar of the robe. He'd planned to peel it off, sort of slowly and sexily, planned to ever since Blair had opened his door, but he found himself lurching forward to kiss Blair, yanking the robe off his shoulders, the robe had been carelessly tied and the knot slipped open as his hands slid down Blair's bare back, as one of Blair's arms curled around his neck. The robe fell on the ground and Blair's other hand rubbed along his cock and they stopped kissing for a moment and Blair said,

"Hey, you really want it,"

"No kidding," he said, fingering the last few vertebrae.

"What do you want," Blair said, shivering a little.

"What do you want?"

"Well, you don't have to go all polite now," Blair said, almost crossly. He was hard. Jim felt a trickle of sweat trace its way down the center of his back,

"I wanna give you a. suck you. And then. I."

"Yeah?"

Jim kissed him hard and when he started to pull back, Blair fisted his t-shirt and pulled his mouth back down, shoving his tongue into Jim's mouth.

"You wanna fuck me, right?" Blair muttered against Jim's lips.

"Yeah. I mean, if that's okay."

"It's like you save up all your politeness for sex," Blair said.

"The sarcasm's screwing with the mood a little here."

"It's just, you could try being oh," he said, because Jim had given up and knelt down and started licking his cock, right there in the living room. "I gotta sit down, I'm. I'll fall or." And Jim caught him and lowered him down and knelt between his legs and slid his mouth back over the head of Blair's cock. Hands stroked across his stomach and thigh and Jim sucked him and let him shake and moan and scrub his shoulders against the rug, slid a warm hand beneath the tense arch of his back when he came.

"Okay. rugburn," Blair said, some minutes later.

"You wanna go upstairs?"

"Do you wanna go upstairs?"

"I'm not the one squirming all over the rug." Jim pointed out.

Link to text version of paret two - http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=firsts3/notexactly_a.html