CUP RUNNETH OVER

(c) August 2003 by Charlotte Frost

PART ONE
 

Everything had changed.

The reality of that struck Blair as he sat at the head of his class with nothing to do but think while his students took their mid-term exams.

Actually, he mentally stepped back, in a lot of ways, nothing has changed.    

He was still living at the loft with Jim. He was still teaching freshman level classes (though he wasn't sure how much longer that was going to continue). He was still helping Jim with his senses. He was still spending his free hours at the Cascade PD. He was still telling people that he was there because he was writing his thesis on the parallels between South American tribal societies and North American police departments.

What was different was that he was no longer writing his thesis about Jim. Which meant that the committee for his dissertation was still weighing whether or not they would let him change his subject to the lie he'd been telling all along. He hoped to hear from them this week. If they didn't allow the change, he was out of the doctorate program.

He'd taken quite a verbal dressing down when he'd first told them the reason for the change - that he'd allowed himself to get personally involved with the subject of his original thesis. Moving in with Jim had been outright stupid. Participating in Jim's cases to the extent that he'd actually been kidnapped and shot had proven that he was doing far more than "observing" in a scientific manner. One of the committee members had scoffed at him for having an Indiana Jones complex. Still, he was optimistic that they would allow the change of subject, though it would set him back a good year.

Another difference was Jim's behavior.

Looking back, Blair could see where there had been a distinct change in how Jim viewed him within the first few months they'd known each other. At first, Jim had grumbled about Blair's questions and badgering, but he seemed to enjoy sharing his life with Blair. He also did some generous favors for Blair, such as bringing him a video camera from Carolyn's department for his study of Larry, the Barbary ape; staying until the end of a football game even though Cascade was up by twenty at the two-minute warning; and being a last-minute guest lecturer at a class in the anthropology department. He had even let Blair move in with him, and they sometimes double-dated, even when Jim didn't seem to enjoy that kind of nightlife.

Then came the trip to Peru to rescue Simon and Daryl. After that, Blair could see where Jim treated him with more respect than before. How they became more bonded. Yet, he could also now see that those just-because-you're-my-friend favors went away. A part of Jim had shut down on him back then, forcing Blair to prod and badger every time he wanted to find out about any event or person from Jim's past.

Two weeks ago, Blair had told Jim that he was no longer going to write about him for his thesis, because it would be unethical to do so. Just like that, Jim had returned to being more loose and carefree around Blair, while still showing Blair the respect he had earned.

He was afraid of me, Blair realized now. What an after-the-fact power trip that was. Big, strong, capable, responsible Jim - sentinel Jim - had been threatened by harmless Blair Sandburg. 
  
Only, Blair sighed now in the quiet test atmosphere of the classroom, it wasn't really him that Jim had been afraid of. It was what Blair was writing that had caused Jim to be fearful and suspicious.

Blair had no idea that telling Jim he was no longer the subject of his thesis would mean so much. When Blair now asked, "How do you know that person?", Jim would answer easily. He wouldn't sidestep with "Ask me later" or, worse, not even acknowledge Blair's question. What's more, he seemed... happier... in a way that Blair had a difficult time describing. Jim would grab him playfully and give him a noogie. Swat him on the cheek or the shoulder or the ass with the back of his hand. Pick up Blair's beer and drink from it, then act like he didn't know what Blair's problem was when Blair protested, "Hey, that's mine!"  He was all the more careful to include Blair when discussing something with Simon or Joel or others in the bullpen. He even asked Blair about school at times.

Even if the committee turned down his change of subject, Blair would have no regrets. He'd done the right thing. Freeing Jim had not only given a boost to Jim's level of happiness, but it had relieved Blair's conscience of the burden of guilt that had become greater and greater every time he reviewed his notes, or saw how he was bending over backwards to be "objective".

That was all over now.

Blair looked up from his desk. Cindy Andreas smiled at him as she turned in her test paper.

He smiled back.

As was typical once the first test was turned in, others quickly followed. When Blair announced, "Time's up!", there were only a half-dozen students still struggling with the questions.

Simon filled Jim's coffee cup and then sat back in his chair. "Maybe we can get Sandburg to do some research on those symbols on the knife."

Jim nodded. He had already taken a snapshot of the writing on the handle of a knife that had been lodged in the belly of a dead Japanese businessman.  The man had been in Cascade to visit a client. "I'll mention it to him. I'm sure he'll want to help."

"Where is our favorite observer, anyway?"

"Trying to keep a low profile while the University brass decides his fate."  Jim and Blair had already told Simon about Blair switching his topic from sentinels to the comparison of law enforcement structures with tribal cultures. As they had expected, Simon was relieved that nothing was ever going to go public about Jim's sentinel abilities.

"Is there really a chance he could get kicked out of the doctoral program?" Simon asked with concern.

"I don't know. Blair's been pretty optimistic. He thinks they'd like to see him do a little groveling before they approve his new thesis subject. So he's volunteered to help with some extra curricular activities and that sort of thing."

"I hope it works out for him."  Simon nodded toward the case file Jim was holding. "He going to have time to look into that?"

"He'll make time for it. He wouldn't want to be left out of something this interesting. I've never seen anything like this knife before."

"Neither have I."

As Jim left Simon's office, he considered again how relieved he was that he was no longer so directly intriguing to Blair. Granted, he'd enjoyed the heck out of Blair's undivided attention during the first months of their acquaintance, but it had quickly gotten tiring to be seen as lab rat, and to know, at times, that Blair was studying his reactions as a stimulus/response experiment. Being subjected to such scrutiny had brought back all those old suppressed childhood fears that he was a freak of nature.

He knew that Blair had always cared for him personally; it just was hard to keep that in mind when Blair was grilling him about something or constantly prodding with questions that Jim didn't want to answer. Sometimes it seemed as though Blair viewed him as some sort of robot he was observing to see if it was going to bring forth the desired response at any given time.

No, those days were over and Jim was grateful..

Now, in a way he couldn't put into words, he felt closer to Blair than he ever had before. But then, not only had he helped Blair through his recovery from the car accident, but he'd been with him at the moment Blair had discovered the identity of his father - and the moment that he saw the proof, after a lifetime of suspicion, that he'd had a brother.

Just thinking about that situation, Jim felt a surge of protectiveness. Blair had been denied a life with a father and a brother because of some ridiculous agreement that Naomi and his father had made. Yet, in a way that puzzled Jim, and also concerned him, Blair had born the discovery without any expressed anger or pointed accusations. He seemed to simply... accept.

Jim realized that a part of him admired that in Blair - even as he kept an eye out for signs that Blair might want to vent about the circumstances of his past.

"Hey, Jim," Brown said, holding out a pink telephone message slip, "I forgot to tell you that Carolyn called earlier."

Oh, no.

Jim accepted the slip. There wasn't any particular message; just the box marked that indicated Carolyn wanted him to return the call.

Jim sighed. He supposed he'd been naïve to think he was finally rid of her when she hadn't called since he'd thrown her out of the loft two weeks ago.

He was certain she was gambling heavily again, despite her insistence that she was getting help. He didn't want to keep feeding her habit. He was now starting to regret that he'd "loaned" her the ten thousand initially - not that he ever expected to be paid back in full.

He wished he'd been a prick and told her no the first time.

Jim crumbled up the message slip and threw it into the trash.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Blair shook his head as he studied the photo of the knife. "I don't recognize any of these markings."

"Is it something you might be able to look into?" Jim asked, taking a seat beside him.

"Sure. But you know what my first thought is?  That these markings don't tie into anything cultural. They might mean something only to the killer."

"But why would he have left the knife?" Jim wondered. "It's like he's leaving a message."

Blair shrugged as his eyes went back to the photo. "Maybe he had to leave the crime scene in a hurry, and he didn't have time to pull it out of the victim's body. Maybe he has more than one. Anyway," he looked up at Jim again, "I'll check it out."

"Are you sure you have time?"

Blair nodded. "I'm hanging out at the library a lot now anyway, assisting with an introductory library workshop for freshmen."  He released a sigh. "Maybe I won't have to be tied up with that much longer. My thesis committee has scheduled an appointment to see them again this Thursday."

"What do you think will happen?" Now that Jim was no longer the center of Blair's research, he had become more concerned with Blair's academic future.

"I'm sure that as long as I behave like a good little boy who accepts responsibility for the fact that he's done wrong, they'll grant my change of subject."

Jim hated to see Blair subjected to that kind of dressing-down, but he was glad Blair was optimistic about the final outcome.

Blair went on, "I actually think most of the people on the committee are on my side. I've been at Rainier my entire academic career. They have a lot invested in me, in a sense. I just think they feel they have to punish me in some way and the only way to do it is to keep pointing out what an awful thing I did by letting myself get too personally involved with my thesis subject. Once I've groveled enough to satisfy them, they'll give me the answer I want."

"What if they don't?" Jim asked quietly. He didn't mean to put a negative spin on things, but he was curious as to what Plan B was.

Blair chuckled with a shrug. "I have no idea. But I'm convinced they'll let me change my subject."  He looked at Jim. "Whatever happens, I know that, ultimately, it'll be for the best. I'm not worried about that. Whatever direction my life goes... it goes."

Jim had to admire that attitude, though he wasn't sure he'd ever understand it. "You ever think about being a cop?"  He hoped the question wasn't out of left field. He remembered the roller coaster vs. merry-go-round comment Blair had made a few months back.

Blair nodded. "I have. I even looked into what would be involved in going that route."

Jim held back his surprise.

"The thing is," Blair said thoughtfully, "I'd only want to be one if I could be your partner. But first I'd have to go to the academy, run around in a blue uniform for a few years," bashful chuckle, "and, after all of that, there's still no guarantee that you and I would be able to be partnered together."  He shook his head. "I just don't see it in the cards, and that's not even getting into how I feel about some of the necessary violence that I'd have to take part in."

Jim recalled that Blair had handled himself admirably in such situations. Blair had even done some rather violent acts himself when it was necessary. Jim specifically remembered him hitting a crane operator over the head with a heavy wrench during a shootout in a wrecking yard.

He couldn't say he wasn't disappointed in Blair's answer. But mostly, he was glad to see that Blair knew where he stood.

Blair fiddled with the picture of the knife. "I really like the research part of detective work - putting all the facts in place and reaching a conclusion. I've especially liked riding with you," he glanced up at Jim, "because I've enjoyed being a part of all the work involved in gathering those facts. I don't think I'd like it nearly as much if it were all just deskwork. And I like," he shrugged at his choice of words, "that it feels important. It's a job where doing it well means helping other people."  He chuckled briefly. "If I could have that part of it, without having to jump through all those preliminary hoops to get where you are now...." He trailed off. "Then, I guess, I'd consider it."

Blair tossed the picture to the table. "But there's no skipping the requirements. I don't want to be a cop badly enough to go through all of that; to say nothing of the fact that, after all is said and done, I might end up in a different division than Major Crimes, anyway."

He suddenly looked up at Jim. "Are you disappointed?"

Jim started, not having expected the direct question. "A little. But I think you're right about it all. I wouldn't want to see you become a cop and not be my partner, after all that effort. I just wondered what you were planning, if you aren't able to continue pursuing your field of study."

Blair presented a tiny smile. "Something would work out."

Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder as he stood. "The eternal optimist," he teased with affection.

"Why not?" Blair said while Jim went to the refrigerator.  "If somebody had told me a few years ago that in 1998 I'd be riding almost daily with a police detective and actively participating in his cases, to say nothing of living with him and being his very good friend... well, I'd have thought they were smoking too many funny cigarettes. Yet," he turned to look at Jim, who had just opened a bottle of beer, "it's all worked out okay. Better than okay."

Jim tilted his head, considering that.

"Besides," Blair said more seriously, "if my academic goals get shaken up because the committee refuses to let me continue, well... I don't know why I couldn't handle that as well as I've handled the other shaking up that's gone on in my life lately."  He looked weary as he finished.

Jim brought him a beer. It was a rare admission from Blair that finding out about his father and brother had taken its toll.

When Jim came home a few days later, Blair was sitting at the table with his laptop.

Blair glanced up from his work. "Jim?  Naomi is coming for a visit in a few days. I told her it was all right."  His statement held the tone of a question.

"Guess you two have some things to talk out, huh?"  Jim wasn't looking forward to Naomi being there, especially because he had such a hard time forgiving her for the circumstances of Blair's conception - even if Blair hadn't - and he wasn't sure he could have a conversation with her without making his feelings known.

Blair shrugged.

Jim remembered, "Stephen and I have been talking for months about going fishing together, just the two of us. I think I'll see if we can go when Naomi is here. That way, you and Naomi can have some time to yourselves."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to. Stephen and I keep putting off this trip. This way, maybe we'll actually go."  He knew he was being manipulative, since Blair had often encouraged him to see more of Stephen.

The more Jim thought about it, the more he didn't want to be here during Naomi's visit.  He grabbed the phone to call Stephen.

Naomi was scheduled to arrive the next day, and Jim and Stephen had plans to make their getaway in the early hours of the morning. A four-day weekend, Friday through Monday, would mean that Naomi would be gone when they returned to Cascade.

As Jim tried to focus on the file in front of him, he wondered how Blair's meeting with his committee went. He hated to think of his friend's life being thrown into more turmoil if he was out of the doctoral program because they wouldn't let him change his thesis subject.

A few minutes later, Jim recognized the eager footsteps that Blair always had when heading somewhere in a hurry. He turned just as Blair entered the bullpen with a big grin.

"They allowed the change," Blair said as he pulled up a chair next to Jim.

Thank God.  "That's great, Chief. Congratulations."

"Yeah. Of course," Blair muttered, "I had to listen to them lecture yet again about what a bad boy I've been. And then, I guess to fulfill their need to do something disciplinary, I had to agree to meet with a special advisor from the committee on a weekly basis so I can show what I've been doing and that I'm not falling off the ethical ladder again."  He sighed. "But it's worth it. What are you working on?"  Blair took out his glasses.

Not sure how Blair could have said all that without even drawing a breath, Jim held out the file to him. "Arms smuggling. A low-life whose been doing it all over the state. He's stayed away from Cascade, up until now. There's evidence that he's sold some of the guns in Idaho, so we'll probably be working with the Feds on it."

Blair nodded with interest, then he suddenly unzipped his backpack. "I forgot to tell you. I've looked everywhere I can think of, but I'm just not finding anything on that knife handle."  He pulled out some papers with some Xerox copies taken from magazine articles and books. "Here are the closest symbols I found that could be similar but, as you can see, they really aren't similar."

Jim took the copies from Blair, plus the photograph of the knife he'd given him. Blair was right - it was a stretch to think that any of the symbols in the articles related to the carvings on the knife's handle.

"So," Blair said, "you and Stephen still planning on high-tailing it out of here tomorrow?"

"Yep," Jim said with satisfaction. "Stephen is even taking today off from work so he can get all the supplies."

Blair grinned teasingly at him. "I'll tell Naomi you said hello."

Jim muttered something and focused back on the file.

The October sun was relatively warm as the boat rocked gently back and forth on the waters of the lake. Jim had to admit that it was tempting to fall asleep but he didn't want to do that in front of Stephen.

Stephen sat on the opposite seat, facing the side where his line was cast out.

Jim shifted to renew his circulation, then brought his line in and cast it out again.

He was aware that he and Stephen had fallen into silence. After fifteen years of estrangement, they were still hesitant and uneasy in each other's presence. Sure, they could talk about work and sports but they both were shy about revealing much in the way of personal thoughts to each other; or, for that matter, simply expressing any sincere feeling about much of anything.

They were afraid of each other.

Jim restrained a sigh as he opened his tackle box and pretended to consider changing lures. They'd caught a couple of cutthroat trout but the pickings were otherwise slim. Jim really didn't mind, except that catching fish would at least give them both something to do.

He missed Blair.

Blair's chatter could get downright annoying at times, but the one thing you could be sure of, especially on a fishing trip, was that Blair was enjoying himself. If things got slow, he told stories. If Jim felt like dropping off to sleep, he could - without worrying about what Blair thought of his laziness. Blair might even tease him about it, but it was teasing Jim would enjoy, rather than feel threatened by.

"Hey, bro."

Jim looked up.

Stephen said, "You think you'll ever get married again?"

Ah.  So, here came another attempt at idle chatter.

Jim shrugged, closing the tackle box. "I doubt it. I don't think I'm really cut out for it."

Stephen grinned. "That's what a lot of people say - until they fall in love with the right person."

"I thought I had," Jim said with a sigh, though he didn't think it was really true. Had he ever fooled himself - or Carolyn - into believing that he was in love with her?  He had always thought it was more a matter of being very fond of her and respecting her, and he didn't see anything wrong with that.  Besides, those traits lasted longer than the romantic love that poets wrote about.

Well, okay, so his and Carolyn's marriage hadn't lasted very long either, despite the mutual respect and fondness.

"Anyone ever interest you after Carolyn?" Stephen asked.

Jim shook his head. "Not in the least. Just a date here or there. I rarely go out with the same person more than once.  I like it that way.”  

"No interest in kids, I take it."

"Nope."  Jim brought in his line and cast it out again. "The hours can be crazy when you're a cop. It's not really fair to a family."  Never mind that long hours didn't have anything to do with Carolyn wanting a divorce.

He felt compelled to add, "Why would I want to be as neglectful to my children as Dad was to us?"

"Good point," Stephen admitted. "I try to be there for mine more than he was for us. But," he glanced away a moment, "sometimes I think I'm really not being all that different from Pops."

Jim didn't know what to say to that. He was just grateful that he didn't have angry, resentful children on his conscience.

"So," Stephen said after a long silence, "what's the story with that kid who's staying with you?  Blair?"

"He's older than he looks," Jim corrected. He had resolved not to talk down to Blair about his age since Blair had pointed out to him that he didn't like being called Junior. Not that he'd said he didn't like it, but the point had been made. "He's almost thirty," Jim said, for Blair's sake.

"Looks like he's right out of Woodstock."

Jim furrowed his brow. Stephen had seemed friendly toward Blair when they'd met a few times in the past. He wondered if Stephen felt freer to express his true opinion now that they were alone.

Of course, Jim considered, Simon often made derogatory statements behind Blair's back. But the difference was that they were the same type of comments he'd make to Blair's face. Plus, Simon had earned the right to tease Blair since he knew Blair's good qualities - and respected him.

"Despite his looks," Jim said evenly, "he's not anything like the hippies you hear about from Woodstock."

"I take it you look the other way if he does a little weed."

"He doesn't do drugs," Jim said firmly. "His butt would be on the street if he ever did anything like that at the loft. I don't want it in my house."   I'd kick his ass if I ever suspected he was doing it elsewhere.  He didn't doubt, however, that Blair had experimented with drugs in his youth.

"Easy, officer," Stephen teased. "I guess I'll have to be careful the next time I have you over to my house."

Jim mentally shook his head. Apparently, Stephen still liked to do some recreational smoking. Hopefully, that was all. He'd started smoking the little cigarettes when he was sixteen. Jim had been disgusted by the idea of purposely fucking with one's own state of awareness, but he certainly wasn't going to tell anybody what Stephen had been doing.

Trying to ease the mood, Jim said, "I never ratted on you then and I wouldn't now. That is, as long as you weren't hurting anybody else."

Stephen didn't say anything for a long moment and Jim wondered if he'd come across as too judgmental.  He really wanted to try to get along with Stephen. He'd like to think that someday they could have a genuine brotherly relationship where they could count on each other again.

Yet, Stephen's mind seemed to be on one track.  "So, is your friend Blair going to still stay with you after he gets his Ph.D.?"  He opened the cooler and took out a couple of beers, handing a can to Jim.

"I don't know," Jim replied, trying not to sound wary. "It's up to him, but that day is still a while off."

"Professional student, huh?" Stephen said, sitting down in the bottom of the boat and leaning comfortably against the back. "My wife's brother is like that. In his forties and he's been going to graduate school forever, it seems."

"Blair's a good man," Jim said, hoping to put a stop to the less-than-flattering innuendos. He, too, settled in the bottom of the boat, across from Stephen. "He's the best friend I've ever had. The most loyal and good-hearted man I've ever known."

"You should have brought him along. I wouldn't have minded."

It certainly would have kept the conversation going.  "He had other plans and wouldn't have been able to, anyway."   Jim wondered how Blair and Naomi were getting along.

"Does he fish?"

"He's great at it," Jim said with pride. "Fly fishing, lake fishing...  he's even caught a few using an ancient Cree spear."

"Maybe he could have given us some tips," Stephen said with a sincere laugh.

Jim relaxed and enjoyed his beer as the chatter became less frequent.

It was the morning of the third day. The third day of trying to milk every piece of information he could from Naomi about his biological father and his short-lived brother. But it was like pulling teeth - much worse than trying to get personal information out of Jim. No matter how much Blair tried to tell himself that these were obviously painful memories for Naomi, he still felt compelled to bring up the subject over and over. They'd gone through some of the papers in the envelopes - sort of. Blair refused to put them away and kept trying to bring Naomi's attention back around to them every chance he could get.

Since she would be leaving first thing in the morning, Blair tried a different approach and gathered up the notebook papers that contained her various creative writings. "You'll want to take these back with you, won't you?"

She glanced at them from where she stood beside the table, and waved her hand dismissively. "You keep them, honey. They're just silly poetry and girlish writings. I don't need them for anything."

He could understand her feeling that way. Yet, he was disappointed that she had so little interest in her past self - the past self that had brought him into the world.

He had gotten a few details from her about Tim. He supposed he shouldn't blame her for not remembering much about somebody she had known thirty years ago. Still, some part of him insisted that she should have made an effort to remember more about the man who had sired him. After all, if she had intended to tell him one day about his father, wouldn't she have anticipated that he would be full of questions?

Instead, she'd insisted on visiting a friend here, stopping by the bakery where she used to work over there, and having a nice dinner at a newly opened health food restaurant. All the while, their conversations were about what she'd been doing since they last talked, what she was doing now, and where she was headed when she left Cascade.

Blair put the fresh loaf of bread that they'd picked up from the bakery that morning on the table. "Mom, pour yourself some tea and sit down a minute. There's something I need to tell you."

After sitting at the head of the table, she asked, "What is it, sweetie?"

"I just thought you had a right to know that I let Jim look at this stuff."  Blair indicated the papers.

"That's all right. There's no reason to hide any of it from him."

Blair wanted her to understand. "I-It's not really so much that I 'let' him. It's that I wanted him to see them. I wanted him to know where I came from... as much as anyone can know."  He wondered if she picked up on his disappointment.

She looked at him squarely. "He's been a good friend to you, hasn't he?"

Blair nodded, grateful that she at least understood that.  "He's been great about all of this. He took good care of me when I was laid up from my car accident. And even though it hadn't occurred to me to ask him to come along, he wanted to be there when I went to the safety deposit box."  He wondered why he was trying to convince his mother what a good friend Jim was. Perhaps he wanted her to believe him to be worthy of Jim's concern.

"I'm glad you two found each other. Maybe," she lowered her eyes as her voice softened, "maybe he's the one you were meant to have as a brother."

Blair didn't know what to think of that statement. Sure, he liked thinking of Jim as a brother but he wasn't sure he liked the idea of Trevor being 'replaced'.

It didn't matter now.

She reached for her purse, which was on the chair across from Blair. She took out her cell phone. "I'm going to call and see if I can get on standby for a flight out tonight. I'm visiting my friend Christy - you probably don't remember her - in Arkansas before I go back to Florida."

Blair watched her punch the numbers. He decided that he didn't care if she left early. He looked at the papers on the table before him. What they said was all he was ever going to know. Naomi had very little to add.

It would have to be enough.

As he listened to her conversation it was apparent that she was going to be able to leave on a flight early that afternoon.

As he drove Naomi to the airport, Blair was aware of a feeling of isolation setting in, separating him from the world around him. He spoke only when she said something that required a response. He let her off at the curb and helped her with her single suitcase. She kissed him goodbye and said she would email him from Christy's to let him know she'd arrived safely.

He didn't remember the drive home.

Once back at the loft, he went to the kitchen and grabbed the largest butcher knife from the block. He gripped it firmly and went into his room.

He attacked.

Jim's cheeks billowed with a heavy sigh as he rode the elevator up to the third floor on Sunday afternoon. Blair's loaned car was in the lot, which meant Naomi was probably also at the loft. Jim was resigned to having to spend a few hours in Naomi's company before she left the next morning. Unless she and Blair were still having a heart-to-heart, in which case Jim would make himself scarce. But surely, after three days, they'd finished all the heavy talking.

Jim felt his whiskers as he moved to unit 307. A shower and shave was the first thing on the agenda.

He put his fishing gear down and unlocked the door. He let it swing open, and then gathered up his tackle box and rod.

No Naomi. Just one heartbeat, he noted as he dropped his gear beneath the coat rack. He closed the door and went into the kitchen for a bottled water. Just as he opened the refrigerator, the corner of his eye caught Blair's blank expression looking up at him from the floor of his room.

"J-Jim?" Blair said dazedly. He was sitting just inside the open French doors.

"Blair?" Jim returned, confusion and disbelief coming over him as he stepped toward the room.

Blair's bed - the futon - was ripped to shreds.  Small pieces of ripped paper and photographs were scattered all over the bed, floor, and the desk, which didn't appear otherwise harmed.

Jim knelt next to Blair, who he scanned for injuries after seeing the butcher knife on the floor. With visions of worst-case domestic disputes filling his head, Jim carefully asked, "Blair, where's Naomi?"  He couldn't see anything wrong, other than Blair's dazed expression. The knife didn't have blood on it.

"I took her to the airport."

"When?"  How long had Blair been sitting here?   

Jim reached to flip on the light so Blair could see him better, as the windows didn't catch much of the afternoon sun. When he knelt back down, he grasped Blair's chin and looked into his eyes, wondering if his assurances to Stephen about Blair not doing drugs was going to haunt him. "When did you take her to the airport, Chief?"  Blair's pupils looked normal, but his demeanor was still confused.

"A little while ago. Her plane left at one-twenty-p-m."  Blair emphasized each word like a drunk.

Maybe two to three hours ago, then, that Blair had dropped her off. "When did," Jim swallowed as he released Blair's face and swept his arm around the room, "this happen?  Before or after you took her to the airport?"

"After."

All right, good. Naomi wasn't a part of what had happened here. Jim was further encouraged that Blair was being so responsive.

"Who did this?" Jim asked. It seemed obvious, but he wanted to see how Blair answered.

"I did."  Blair broke into a grin as his eyes surveyed the damage. "Man, I must have been really mad."

Damn.  Speaking about himself like that didn't sound good. "Do you remember doing it?"
  
Blair nodded. "It's like I was outside myself, and I was watching me destroy everything. And I was thinking, 'Wow, I must be really, really angry.' "

I've got to call an ambulance.  Following that thought was the simple fact that Blair had nothing physically wrong with him. If the ambulance came and got him, they'd surely take him to the mental ward.

A shiver went up Jim's spine when he considered that maybe that was where Blair belonged.

No, he protested. He's coherent. He has a sense of time. He knows who I am. He knows who he is. He knows he took Naomi to the airport. Speaking of which...

"Chief?" He squeezed Blair's shoulder. The muscles felt lax. "Wasn't your mom supposed to be leaving in the morning?"

Blair nodded. Voice amazingly clear and normal, he said, "She was ready to leave. She had nothing else to tell me."

Jim tilted his head, wondering if Blair had received some shocking news about his past that he hadn't been prepared for. Gently, he asked, "Did she tell you some stuff that upset you?"

Blair slowly shook his head, frowning. "She told me hardly anything."  He turned his head and looked directly at Jim. "Tim was a nice man. Tim was easy going. Tim was soft-spoken."  He swallowed and his voice became gruff. "That's all anybody in the whole world knows about Tim."

Ah, shit.  Blair had obviously been disappointed by Naomi's visit. But to destroy the futon with a butcher knife....  

Jim was shocked all over again as he let his eyes drift over the damage.

And all those little pieces of paper.

He recognized some of them. The photograph of Tim - the only clear picture of him - was also ripped apart. As Jim surveyed the damage a moment longer, he realized that nothing in those envelopes had been spared Blair's rage.

Thank God Blair hadn't hurt himself.  Or Naomi.

"How come you're home?"

Jim felt relieved. Blair definitely had an awareness of time. He'd destroyed his bed and the papers, thinking Jim would never have to see the mess before he had a chance to clean it up.

Jim shifted to sit down beside Blair and put his arm around his shoulders. "Stephen checked in with his secretary this morning and there's some situation at work that made it necessary for him to be there tomorrow. We decided to go ahead and drive back today, so he could be there first thing."  He didn't add that he was certain Stephen was just as relieved as he was to not be staying the entire four days.

He decided what he did want to tell Blair was, "I missed you, Chief."  He hugged him.

Blair looked up at him. "Yeah?"

Jim smiled. "Yeah."  He shifted so he could hug Blair even closer. "I'm afraid a couple of Ellisons makes for some pretty sparse conversation. You would have made things fun, Sheck."

Blair seemed to digest that, then he asked, "Did you catch anything?"

"Just a few. I let Stephen take the leftovers home."  As casually as he could, Jim asked, "What did you and Naomi do?"

"Went places. Visited her friends. Talked about all kinds of stuff."  His voice suddenly hardened. "Most of which I couldn't give a shit about."  He placed his hand on his bent knees and then rested his forehead on it.

God, Blair.  Jim didn't know how to ease his pain. "Didn't you guys talk much about...?"

Blair shook his head without moving from his position. "She didn't want to," he said in a small voice. "It was ten times worse than trying to get you to talk about personal things."

Oh.  

Blair suddenly looked up at the futon. "How could I have been so stupid?" he asked, sounding completely normal once again. "She hasn't wanted to talk to me about it for twenty-nine years. Why was I such an idiot that I thought she'd want to talk about it now?"

Easy, Chief.  

Jim rubbed Blair's back. "Maybe you thought she'd want to talk about it because that's the reason she came out here."  Wasn't it?

Blair shook his head. "Her reason for coming out here was to make sure I wasn't mad at her. And I'm not," he added stubbornly.

Tell that to the futon.

Blair studied the damage before him. "I really made a mess, didn't I?"

Jim continued to rub his back. "Yeah. But at least you took your anger out on an insignificant piece of furniture which can easily be replaced."   He was encouraged that Blair seemed more normal now. An ambulance would have been overkill.

Still, the fact that Blair chosen a weapon - the butcher knife - to release his rage was disturbing.

Blair again rested his cheek on his bent knees, so that he was looking away from Jim. "All I wanted," he said in a choked voice, "was for her to say she was sorry. And for her to... understand... that... it hurts."

Christ.  

"Man," Blair said in a trembling voice. His whole body started to tremble. "I feel all broken inside. Like my whole life has been a lie. Everything's a big mess."

Not everything, Jim wanted to reassure. It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that most of Blair's life was going fine. He was a valuable asset to Jim personally, and to the Cascade PD. He'd successfully gotten his dissertation committee to approve his change of subject, so he could make a fresh start on his thesis.

Jim furrowed his brow. He supposed that, for someone who was as good a student as Blair was, being talked down to by the committee had probably been hard for him, even though he'd acted like it was no big deal. For that matter, having to admit his first attempt at a thesis was a failure... well....

Jim gulped. He hadn't considered that angle before. Blair had obviously been happy - relieved - to no longer be writing about Jim in a way that was uncomfortable for him. But perhaps it was like having major surgery. Once the surgery was over, you were relieved and ultimately felt better. But that didn't change the fact that the procedure itself, and the aftermath, could be quite painful.

Jim wondered how he could have missed that.

Because Blair didn't want me to know how much it hurt. Perhaps even more than Jim himself, Blair believed in hiding his pain from others, in addition to putting on a cheerful face that kept everybody happy.

To have a major setback, such as having to rewrite his dissertation, on top of trying to digest all the new facts about his conception and lost family....

Yeah, he could see how Blair was feeling that his whole life was a lie.

Jim used both arms now, gathering Blair close to him. "Your buddy's right here. He's not going anywhere."

He was gratified when Blair turned to him, put his arms around his neck, and buried his face in his shoulder.

"You're not broken," Jim assured as he held Blair and rubbed his back.  "You're just a little unglued and I'm going to be here to hold you together for as long as you need me to."  After a moment, he added, "You're not alone in this."  You don't ever have to be alone again, if you don't want to be.

"I'm glad you came home," Blair spoke into Jim's shirt.

"Yeah, so am I."  Jim squeezed Blair closer. "You just gave me a bit of a scare, buddy."

Blair eased back from Jim and looked over his shoulder at the bed. He swallowed audibly. "I don't know how I lost control like that."

In less serious circumstances, Jim would have - gently - slapped Blair up the side of the head for being so dense. Instead, he matter-of-factly said, "Chief, you can't control what you won't even admit exists. You've been denying how angry you are about all of this since we went to the bank."  Jim suddenly realized, "Hell, probably since your accident. That's what seemed to bring some subconscious memories to the surface, considering how afraid you were to tell your mom about it."

Blair didn't respond.

More gently, Jim said, "You know, if you let yourself be mad at your mom it's not like she ever has to know about it. It's not like you're hurting her just by being mad at her."

Blair turned to look at him, his arms still loosely around Jim's neck, and presented a tight, sad smile. "You know the world has turned upside down when you're the one who's trying to be a therapist."

Jim was relieved at Blair's humor. But he said, "It just seems like common sense to me."

Blair studied Jim's face for a long moment. "You need a shave."  His warm breath drifted across Jim's face as he said it.

"I'll shower and shave if you let me help you off this floor and over to the sofa."

Blair gazed at him as he attempted to follow the train of thought. "I'm not injured."

"I know. But you're wrung out. I won't worry about you if I know where you are."

Blair closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Jim's. "I'm sorry I scared you."

Jim placed his hand on Blair's cheek. "I don't think I'm the only one you scared."

Blair raised his head and sat back with a guilty expression. "I'll replace the futon."

Jim stood, bringing Blair with him. "Let's not worry about that right now."  If destroying the furniture had helped Blair get his anger out, Jim didn't really mind replacing it at his own expense. Besides, maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to get Blair a real bed that he could pick out himself.

He urged Blair in the direction of the sofa, then grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator.

Blair curled up in the sofa corner, looking dejected and worn out.

"Come on," Jim prompted, taking the afghan from the sofa back, "lie down and try to take a nap or something while I clean up."

"A nap?" Blair looked up at him.

"Yeah. You're looking wilted around the edges."  He threw the cover over him.

"I stopped taking naps when I was four."

Right. Jim took Blair's feet and stretched them out beneath the blanket. Then he flipped the cover up and started removing his shoes. "Indulge me."  He handed Blair the water. "Take some sips of this."

"Guess I'll be sleeping here until I can get a new bed."

"We'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

Jim straightened and watched Blair drink. He scanned Blair again with his senses and, though he couldn't detect anything physically wrong with him, he still felt he needed to be doing something more for him.

He was gratified, at least, that after putting the water down, Blair shifted like he was going to try to sleep.

Jim showered, shaved, and donned fresh clothes. While he did so, he felt smothered whenever he thought of facing Blair's room and the damage there. It was going to have to be cleaned up, and he was going have to be the one to do it.

Jim sighed, wishing he could take Blair away for a while. For that matter, he realized, both he and Blair still had tomorrow off. Maybe they should take advantage of it.

The more Jim thought about leaving the city, the more he liked the idea. He wondered if it would be more practical to leave tonight and then have all the next day to frolic wherever they chose.

While Blair slept, Jim put his plan to work and began gathering a small cooler of drinks. He made some sandwiches and packed most of them in the cooler, leaving the others out. He gathered more snacks and put them in a plastic grocery sack.

Blair woke up over an hour later.

Jim patted the dining chair facing the table. "Come on. Sit down and eat. Time's a-wasting."

"Time for what?" Blair asked as he obeyed.

"We're going to drive down the coast tonight, into Oregon. Then we can spend all day tomorrow farting around on the beach."  Jim placed a sandwich in front of Blair along with a new bottle of water.

"How come?"

Jim sat down with his own sandwich. "Because we were both planning to take tomorrow off, anyway.  Besides, wouldn't you like to get away from here for a day?  It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," Blair said with lowered eyes.

It was hard not to feel bad for Blair. "Look, Chief, I know that going a couple of hundred miles away isn't going to solve anything. But I thought it might at least give your brain a rest for a little while. Besides, it's my treat."

Blair nodded and started to eat.  Afterwards, he said, "I'm going to catch a shower before we start out."

Jim braced himself as Blair entered his room. He would have preferred for Blair to avoid it until they came back. But that wasn't possible.

Blair took a couple of steps inside the doors then turned back. Stricken, he looked at Jim. "I'm really sorry about this, Jim. I-I can't believe I was capable of something like this."

"It's just furniture," Jim noted soothingly. He hoped Blair didn't think he was being dismissive of his rage. "We can talk about it while we're away, if you want."

"Maybe," Blair muttered, turning away.

Two hours later, it was dark and they had crossed the state border.

Their conversation had been intermittent and about mundane things. Finally, Blair asked, "So, how did it go with you and Stephen?"

Jim shrugged. "Okay."

"Just okay?"

Jim realized that he needed to be willing to talk about personal things if he wanted Blair to do likewise. Plus, he remembered Blair's comment that trying to get his mother to talk about the past was "ten times worse" than trying to get Jim to talk - as though Jim was an apt gauge of comparison. He didn't want Blair to have to work that hard at communicating anymore.

"We shouldn't have scheduled such a long trip," Jim admitted. "One day would have been fine, to start with."

"Did you guys fight?" Blair asked with concern.

"No, nothing like that. We just... can't trust each other yet."  Jim gestured with a hand. "We're both very careful about what we say to each other."

"At least you know you can mend things, if you give it time."

Whereas, Jim thought, you'll never have an opportunity to mend anything with your brother. Or your father.

"Chief?"

Blair looked over at him.

Jim hoped he wasn't making a mistake by bringing it up. "With my eyesight, I can probably piece back together most of those papers that you ripped up."  

"I'm going to burn them."

Jim looked sharply at him. "What?"

"I want to burn them. I do."

"Why?"

"Because they don't matter anymore. All that happened in the past has had nothing to do with my life once I was born. The mystery of my biological father is solved, and so is that joke my mother always made about another son. So, I don't need those papers or those photographs for anything. They don't have anything to contribute to the present or the future."

"Christ, Blair, you stared at the photo of Tim for hours."

Blair shrugged. "I was just trying to see myself in him. And wonder what he was like."  He sighed. "I've got all the answers I'm ever going to get about that. Taping the photograph back together isn't going to change any of it."

Jim couldn't stop the detective in him from rifling ahead. "You sure that's all the answers you'll ever get?  You could try to track down his relatives, you know. Maybe you could find out more."

Blair snorted. "Yeah, I can see how well that would go over. 'Hi, I'm the bastard son of a relative of yours, coming back into your life when you least expect it. You don't mind telling me a few things about Tim, who died nearly thirty years ago, do you?"

"Still, some might understand. You could probably find out a lot without having to actually talk to anyone in person. Old newspapers and such."  Jim suddenly realized what he was saying. "I must be getting tired if I'm telling you how to do research."

Blair grinned. "Want me to drive?"

"Nah, I'm okay until we get there."  Jim shifted in his seat, stretching his left leg out as much as he could. "Why don't you hand me a snack bar?"

Blair reached into the grocery sack at his feet and brought out a chocolate granola bar. He unwrapped it part way, then handed it to Jim.

After Jim had taken the first bite, Blair asked, "Did you see the note I left that Carolyn had called?"

"Uh-uh."  Damn.  He was tempted to tell Blair he didn't want to hear about it, let alone talk about it. But this trip was for Blair.

"She called a couple of days ago," Blair went on. "I tried to talk to her - you know, sort of draw her out about what she wanted - but she just said to have you call her."

Jim grimaced. "She left me a message last week at work, too."  He shook his head, sighing, and wondered what he was going to do about her.

"Weird, her calling so much, after all this time. I mean, once she moved to San Francisco, I don't remember you ever speaking with her."

"It's my fault she's back in touch," Jim admitted. "Remember that yogurt drink I brought to you in the hospital?"

Blair smiled. "Yeah, that was a treat!  It was so easy on my sore throat."

Jim nodded. "Her sister used to make that drink at parties. I gave Carolyn a call to get the ingredients. That's why we got back in touch. Otherwise, I doubt she would have even thought of me as someone to borrow money from."

"Man," Blair said, subdued. "I don't think a soothed throat was worth inviting her back into your life."

"If only I'd known at the time," Jim said dryly.

"Maybe if you keep ignoring her, she'll finally get a clue."

"We can only hope."

Jim was glad that, once settled in a motel room, Blair fell asleep easily. Lying in his own bed, he spent a while running the afternoon's events through his mind and re-examining the situation he'd found when he'd returned home to the loft. He wanted to be sure that there wasn't anything he'd missed - anything that might suggest that Blair had experienced more than just a heart-broken temper tantrum.

He finally decided that's all it was. Blair had used the butcher knife because he could hardly have ripped the bed apart with his bare hands. While Jim doubted that Blair had paused to think it through, he'd probably selected the futon as the target for his release of frustration because it could withstand the most abuse. After all, it wasn't like he'd trashed his whole room, let alone the whole loft.

Still, it hurt to think that Blair had been in that degree of emotional pain. And that he'd had no one to turn to in his time of need.

The morning was overcast and, since it was Monday, the beach was secluded. Jim and Blair walked along in their sweats, barefoot.

Blair showed no sign of his ordeal, other than a shy awareness of why they'd come here in the first place. In fact, he seemed downright energetic after such a good night's sleep.

"Hey, cool," Blair announced, "a sand crab."

Jim watched it take a defensive move backwards. "He looks like you."

Blair elbowed him in the ribs, laughing. "You're hopeless if that's as original as you can get in the humor department."

"Ouch!" Jim protested with great exaggeration, trying to fend off the elbow.

"Big baby," Blair declared as he stepped away.

"I'd get you," Jim threatened as they continued to walk, "except you're still on injured reserve."

"Am not."

"I'll be the judge of that."  Jim grabbed Blair by the waist and put up with Blair trying half-heartedly to get away from him. Then he tightened his grip and admonished, "Hold still."

Blair relaxed, and Jim stepped behind him and said, "Sentinel fingertips are about to go to work."  He raised Blair's sweat jacket and T-shirt.

"Should I play Twilight Zone music?"

"Hush."  

Jim laid his fingers on Blair's left ribs, aware of the quivering of his skin in the breezy morning air. He slowly pressed and probed.

"Of course, they're going to hurt a little, if you press hard," Blair warned with a chuckle.

"I'm not pressing hard."

"It's been about six weeks."

Jim couldn't feel the mended cracks on most of them. But he found one higher up that felt different. "This one still gives you a little trouble, doesn't it?" he asked, then let Blair's clothing drop to cover him.

Blair nodded. "Just a little."  He touched his belly. "It's the incision that still hurts the most. Stings sometimes. Inside, sort of."

"Like I said," Jim announced with satisfaction, walking again, "still on injured reserve."

"I'll show you!"  Blair trotted off to a brushy area where the sand was packed down flat and someone had erected a crude basketball hoop.  Dribbling an imaginary ball, he narrated his own motions. "He spins around, steals the ball, shoots... and scores!  Listen to the crowd roar!"

Jim approached, glad to see Blair enjoying himself. Still, he jabbed, "You're feeling rather randy there, partner."

Blair pulled up short and sputtered, "Randy?"  He burst out laughing.

Jim grinned. A few weeks ago, he and Blair had watched a British movie and laughed hard at the expression "feeling randy". He was glad that he remembered it.

"I thought that was like feeling horny," Blair said, leading the way away from the makeshift court.

Jim shrugged.

Blair mused, "Do you think that all British men name their cocks 'Randy' and that's where the expression came from?"

Laughing at Blair's imagination, Jim said, "I don't think that analogy follows, Chief. Otherwise, American men would be naming theirs Peter or Dick."

"Maybe they do," Blair said.

"Guess I've never asked."  Jim quickly planted a hand against Blair chest. "And, no, I don't want to know what you call yours. Some things should never be revealed, even between friends."

Blair opened his mouth as though to speak and Jim gently slapped his chest again. "And, no, I never named mine. I wouldn't tell you, even if I did."

"You're no fun, Jim. Now I'll have to guess."

"Besides, if someone is going to do something as ridiculous as name their cock - like it's separate from the rest of their body - it seems like they'd chose something more powerful than Randy or Peter."  He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Like God."

Blair doubled over laughing, his arm across his middle.

Jim paused to watch him, enjoying the sight of Blair so amused.

"Oh, man," Blair said a moment later, having caught his breath, "that's too much."  He straightened and made his voice deep. " 'Hey, honey, sleep with me tonight and I can guarantee it'll be a religious experience. You'll meet God personally.'"  He burst out laughing again. "Oh, man, Jim," he wiped at his eyes, "I never would have guessed that one."

Jim shook his head, incredulous. "I don't call it that."

"Yeah, right. Right."  Then, finally sobering to a mere smile, "Your secret's out, my friend."

Jim made a fist. "If you ever try to tell anybody that, especially since it's not true...," he took a swipe at Blair's head.

Blair ducked away, while holding up his hands. "No, no. That's too rich. That's too good not to share. Oh, man. God."  He started laughing again. "The one-eyed God. The one-eyed God who can guarantee the perfect sexual experience."

"All right," Jim grumbled through his smile, turning to head back toward their motel. "You've had your fun with this."

Blair took a couple of breaths until his laughter had subsided. "Actually," he said more seriously, "I guess if anyone came close to being God, as far as that goes, you would."

Jim felt the humor leave him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Jim," Blair said as he walked eagerly beside him, "with your senses and everything... you've got to be every woman's dream, at least as far as the bedroom is concerned."

Jim told himself to relax. Blair didn't mean anything. He muttered, "I guess that's why so many of them return for a second and third time."  

"Well, you know, it would help if you didn't sleep with so many women who were from out of town, to say nothing of being on the wrong side of the law, if not downright criminals to begin with."

"With first times, nobody expects much. With second or third times, they start having expectations."

"You mean that you're afraid you can't fulfill?" Blair asked curiously. "I guess I can see your point. Then there's the marriage angle," he babbled on. "If you're married to one person, you can learn how to pleasure each other the best possible way. On the other hand," he said, as though speaking to himself, "there's the boredom factor and wondering what else is out there that you're missing out on."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Blair look up at him.  Genuinely curious, Blair asked, "Strictly from the sex side of things, did you think it was better to be married and know that there was always somebody available to sleep with?  Or do you like the occasional one night stands better, since strangers don't expect anything?"  Blair grinned. "All other things being equal, of course."

Jim realized he was walking faster. "It's hard to factor out the 'all other things being equal', Chief. I can't look at sex as an isolated experience."

Blair chuckled. "Even when you and 'God' are having your own little private prayer session?"

Jim paused to circle his arm around Blair's neck, pulling him close. He placed his fist in Blair's hair and ground it into his head. "You've got too much imagination, Dr. Ruth."

Blair tried to push away. When Jim let him go, Blair protested, "Dr. Ruth!  I don't look anything like her, let alone sound like her."

"You both have sex on the brain."  Jim resumed walking.

"You're the one who brought up feeling randy."

Jim didn't reply.

"And naming your cock God."  Blair chuckled again.

Jim shook his head back and forth hopelessly. "I don't call it that or anything else."

"All right. Since you don't claim the name, I'll claim it."  Blair walked faster to keep up with Jim. "Man, I can't wait until I get to use it. You know, lying in bed with her, getting ready to do it, and stroking myself and saying, 'meet God'."  He said it in a deep, masculine voice. "And then - "  He made a lewd gesture of unity with his hands.

He burst out laughing again.

Christ, Chief. I've created a monster.

"Oh, man," Blair went on, laughing, "I've got to become celibate now. I'll never, ever again be able to sleep with a woman without thinking of my cock as 'God'. I'll start laughing and she'll never understand."

Jim stopped short, grinning. "Celibate, huh?  I doubt it."

Blair thought a moment, then boasted, "I can do celibate."  

"Uh-huh."

"No, I can. Name your terms and the wager."

"All right," Jim considered. "One month."

Blair smacked him on the arm. "It's already been over a month. You think I've slept with anyone since the accident?"

Oh, yeah.  Jim said, "Then a whole 'nother month. Thirty days. Tomorrow is day one."

"All right. What's the stakes?"

Jim didn't want to take money from Blair. "All the cooking and laundry and cleaning chores around the loft for a month after the bet ends."

"Ah!" Blair said. "We're playing for housewife duties. Okay, I can agree to that."

Jim suddenly stopped as he realized, "How can I know you aren't cheating?"

"Come on, Jim!" Blair protested. "This is a matter of pride. I wouldn't lie to you."  Then he seemed to realize Jim's point and held up a finger. "Okay, I'll let you know my schedule, where I'm supposed to be at all times, so you can check up on me and it won't include any social dates with anyone of the female gender. Plus," his voice lowered to a mumble, "you can check me out, if you get suspicious that I've cheated."

"Check you out?"  Jim's heart thundered as he wondered what Blair meant.

Blair shrugged with exaggeration. "You know," he said with discomfort, "with your senses. I mean, you can tell when I've been with someone, at least for a few hours after, can't you?"

Jim furrowed his brow. It suddenly occurred to him that he could do that. He'd been doing it as second nature without even realizing it. One whiff of sex on Blair and out came the question, "What's her name?"  Of course, smelling it in the morning before Blair's shower didn't count. But then, Jim also realized for the first time, that had a different odor about it. That was pure Blair without any hint of another person.

"All right," Jim finally agreed, hoping he wouldn't have to resort to any such inspections. "Just remember, you're the one who made up these rules."

"We aren't done yet. So how are we going to define sex?  Or, rather, being celibate?"

"What do you mean?" Jim said, more teasing than serious.

"Come on, Jim. You aren't expecting me not to... you know. And what if I just want to kiss somebody, but not go any farther than that?"

Jim was surprised at how seriously Blair seemed to be taking this. It crossed his mind that perhaps Blair was in need of a goal to add some structure to his "broken" life. He teased, "Why don't you just throw in heavy petting, while we're at it?"

"Okay, okay," Blair said. "Let's define it this way:  Any ejaculation in the presence of a woman counts as sex. That way, your senses will be able to tell."

"That confines solitary sessions to your bedroom, Chief."

"What?  You think I jerk off at my desk at school?"

Jim kept to the point. "If you come home and my senses can tell, I'm going to assume it involved a woman and you've lost the bet."

"Agreed."

Coming nearer to their motel, they saw people feeding the seagulls that swarmed around the beach. As they watched, Jim found it hard to believe that he and Blair had just talked about such personal things as sex and masturbation.

Blair was confused.

He and Jim had stopped at a popular chain store selling mattresses, Jim's reasoning being that once they selected a new mattress for Blair, a store of the same chain in Cascade should be able to deliver it within forty-eight hours.

Of course, it wasn't "they" who were buying a new bed. But Jim. At least, that seemed to be what was happening.   

Which was confusing, since it felt like Jim was rewarding him for having ripped the futon and bedding to shreds with a butcher knife.

He should have kicked my ass. Or at least been pissed or something.

Blair pushed his hair back as the salesman led them over to the section with twin beds.

"Go ahead, Chief," Jim said, "try them out."

Blair felt very self-conscious as he lay on various mattresses - all of which seemed more plush than any he'd ever slept on in his life - and rolled around while Jim and the salesman looked on.
 
Blair made a decision as quickly as he could. "I like this one."

"All right," Jim nodded to the salesman. "What about a headboard?"

Blair didn't care about a headboard - he'd been just fine for years without one. But Jim seemed to think he should want one and he got interested when he saw one with little cubbyholes for books and stuff.

"That would be helpful, wouldn't it?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "I like it."

"We'll take that," Jim told the salesman.

When they were at the register and the salesman had gone to check with the delivery department, Blair got up the nerve to suggest, "I can make payments each month toward it."

"Don't worry about it," Jim said. "I'm paying for the bed because I'll own it. If you leave sometime down the line and you want to take it with you, you can pay me for it then."

If he left some day. Not when.

Blair tried again. "I just feel like, at the very least, I should pay for the equivalent value of the other one. I mean, you wouldn't have to be buying a new bed, if I hadn't...."

"We're going to have a nice seafood dinner and talk about that."

The salesman returned.

Blair forced down a lump in his throat. A part of him was annoyed that Jim was making these decisions for both of them. Another part was relieved.

And yet another part was disturbed at how close he was feeling to Jim right now. At how much he needed him.

He didn't know how to need somebody.

He didn't know what to do about the fact that, despite his confusion, he was enjoying his dependence.

Having placed their orders, they handed the waitress their menus.

Blair was feeling awkward, since the restaurant didn't provide any distractions beyond picking out what to eat. Jim had said they were going to talk about what Blair did yesterday.

Just yesterday...  The actual event itself seemed so long ago.

"Thanks for doing all this," Blair said. Whenever he thought about what he'd done to the futon, he felt embarrassed all over again.

Jim nodded in reply. "You're going to see somebody, aren't you?"

Blair hoped he misunderstood. "You mean like a therapist?"

"Uh-huh."

"Jim...."

"If you'd come home and found that I'd destroyed the living room, what would you suggest I do?"

"See a therapist."  Blair sipped his drink. "But Jim, man, with me, it's different. You know I believe in therapy for most people. But I've been to so many throughout my childhood and well into adolescence...that...."  Blair struggled for an analogy. "It would be like being an outstanding oil painter and somebody shows you the 'great' painting that their friend did. All you can see is the technique, because it's so amateurish. You can't appreciate the final result because you're too aware of the struggle in the individual strokes."

Jim raised his eyebrows, showing he didn't "get it".

Blair sighed. "When I've gone to therapists as an adult - especially after I've had so many psychology and sociology courses - I can see the technique that the psychologist is using. I can tell how they're boxing me into a diagnosis and not really paying attention to what I'm saying. I can tell when they're bored. I can tell when they're using me to heal themselves, so to speak, because I'm just somebody to bounce their own thoughts and feelings off of. I can't get anything out of the treatment because I'm too aware of the technique in getting there. Never mind that a lot of people in the therapy professions are just plain bad at it."

Jim grimaced, but he looked sympathetic.

Blair gestured with his hands. "Jim, I know why I did it. Y-You're right. I had a lot of anger about all this stuff with Naomi and Tim and my brother," he swallowed, "and I was trying to push it all down and get on with my life."  He shrugged. "So, I got it out of my system."

He fell silent while the waitress served their soup and salads. After she moved away, he lowered his voice and said, "I'm sure it was really freaky for you to come home and... find my room like that."

Jim started on his soup. After blowing on it and taking a sip, he said, "It wasn't just your room. You seemed dazed."

"I was. I mean, I was feeling really weird after I dropped Naomi off. Like I was separate from my body or something. Like, I was two different people, and one was watching the other destroy the bed and those papers."

Jim's eyes darted up from where he was hunched over his soup. "You felt split into two different people and you don't think you need therapy?"

Blair sighed. "Jim."  He thought quickly and decided to simply ask, "What are you afraid of?"  He pulled his soup closer and started eating.

Jim studied him a moment, as though considering his answer. "I'm afraid that I'm going to come home some day and find something else ripped up - or worse - and it's not going to have anything to do with anger at your mom or Tim or Trevor."  He stirred his soup.

Blair waited. "What would it have to do with then?"

Jim swallowed and looked at him squarely. "Anger at me for being the reason you gave up your dream."

Blair blinked. Huh?  "What are you talking about?"

Jim pushed his soup away and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "The fact that you've studied sentinels at least as long as you've been in graduate school; that you've had dreams of being rich and famous because of the sentinel thing. Now you won't be because the sentinel stuff is just about me and you, and no one else is ever going to know about it."

A tight ball formed in Blair's gut. "I didn't really think I was going to be rich and famous."

"It was your dream. Now you don't have one."

Blair sighed and frowned, his mouth feeling tight. Okay, okay.  That was true. At the present moment, he had no dream to pursue. But...  "I'm living the dream, so to speak. I'm being with a sentinel all the time. It was never about being rich and famous; that was just an ideal offshoot."  He lowered his eyes and mumbled, "Or so I thought."  He remembered, in his bedroom, after Jim had come home and found his little scene of destruction, how Jim had held him and rubbed his back.

Nobody had ever done that before. Not since he was very small. Maybe not even then.

He grabbed his fork and poked at his salad. A moment later, he saw Jim focusing on his own salad. Jim seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate.  "Like I told you before:  Jim Ellison, my friend, became more important than Jim Ellison, my thesis subject. Thatwas the ideal offshoot that I'd never considered."

He could just barely see Jim make a small motion of ducking his head bashfully.

Blair sat back. "Just a few years ago, I never would have guessed that hooking up with 'my dream' would mean that I'd be sitting here, now, in this nice restaurant, being treated to a day on the coast, and being treated to a new bed to sleep in -- much better than I'd had before -- all because I had a royal tantrum and destroyed things."

"I wanted you to feel better," Jim said softly.

Ah, Jim.  Blair felt himself smile. "I do."  He realized that simple truth probably wasn't explaining the full picture. "I feel... cared for. That's the last thing I would have expected after what I did."

Jim looked mildly exasperated. "It's not like you hurt anybody. Or even yourself, thank God."

"As for being afraid of it happening again because of the dissertation... well...."  Blair realized his throat was very tight. He didn't know if he wanted to speak the whole truth to Jim and hurt his feelings.

"What?"

Blair drew a deep, loud breath and slowly released it. He waited while the waitress took away their empty plates. "I don't think you have to worry about me having another explosion like that. I think the fact that I overreacted so much yesterday was because... itwasn't just about Naomi and Tim and Trevor."

"Is that good news or bad news?" Jim asked worriedly.

"Good. I guess. It's just..."  Blair tried to remember what he'd been feeling before taking Naomi to the airport. "It's like everything I thought my life was, and was about, didn't apply anymore. In a few short weeks, it's like everything has changed."  He considered how to elaborate. "It's not that the changes are bad. I'm glad I know now about Tim and Trevor. I'm glad that I don't have to wrestle with writing about my best friend as The Subject in my thesis, like he's some lab specimen. But," he shrugged, "I guess I'm going through some kind of mourning for having lost how I thought my life was going to be."

"That's a pretty strong reaction for mourning."

"I'm not denying that there was tons of anger there, too. You're right. It needed to come out. And it did. I'm okay, Jim."  He smiled, grateful to have all the feelings out in the open. "I'm glad we came here. You were right, too, about getting away."

"You look ten times better than you did yesterday," Jim said with satisfaction.

"I guess having my mom visit wasn't such a good idea. I kept feeling frustrated with her that she wasn't willing to delve back thirty years and remember what her life was like then."  Blair sipped his water. "I know you aren't going to understand this, but I really admire her for being able to put the past behind her like that. That's why I can burn those papers now and know I won't ever regret it later. I now know the information they contained and I want to get on with the rest of my life."

"Are you sure you're ready for that?" Jim asked as the waitress arrived with their entrees.

"I'm ready."  They both watched while she served up large plates laden with shellfish and smaller plates filled with various side dishes. They thanked her as she left. Blair squeezed lemon into his butter sauce and said, "Besides, what else is there to do besides move on? Sitting around and moping about something thirty years past isn't an option."

"Good point."  

As they delved into their food, Blair wondered if moving on would be as easy as he'd made it sound.

 

END PART ONE

PART TWO