CUP RUNNETH OVER

(c) August 2003 by Charlotte Frost

PART TWO

"I'm ready."

Jim joined Blair on the floor, kneeling across from him in front of the fire. Blair had just come out of his meditative trance. Jim had considered leaving Blair alone for the ritualistic burning but he never voiced the option. He wanted to be around, though he did go up to his room while Blair spent a half hour in meditation.

They'd arrived back from the coast a few hours earlier. Blair hadn't wanted to put off the burning. He'd gathered up the torn and slashed pieces of paper in his room, careful to get every last one, putting them in a grocery sack. Then he'd meditated with the sack in front of him.

The ruined futon stayed in place. While driving back, they'd decided that the best thing to do was call a charity organization the next day to pick it up. That way, anyone who might want to put work into refurbishing it would be able to do so.

Blair's new bed was scheduled for delivery the day after tomorrow.

"This may take a while," Blair said, reaching into the sack. He drew out a handful of tiny scraps of paper and tossed them into the fire.

Jim watched Blair's expression. Blair seemed focused on his task but there were actually signs of relief as he offered up handfuls to the flames. The fire's light danced in his eyes. His pursed lips gradually relaxed.

He spent a while rummaging around at the bottom of the sack, making sure he had them all. Then he tossed the sack into the fire.

Blair sat back and presented Jim with a wry smile. "It really does feel like I've unburdened myself, just by doing that."  He knelt up to face the fire, hands resting on his thighs. "Fire is an effective cleansing ritual."

Jim asked, "Do you think Naomi might wonder what happened to this stuff?"

Blair shook his head. "She won't ask. She only kept it in the safety deposit box for me. It was mine to burn."

Jim nodded slowly, glad that Blair seemed so confident about the whole thing.

Blair rotated on his knees, then moved toward Jim and put his arms around his shoulders. "Thanks for being with me through all of this."

Jim gratefully accepted the warmth of the embrace and squeezed Blair's arm. "Sure."  

Blair kissed his cheek, then sat back.

Whoa, Jim thought, restraining a smile. That was sweet of Blair. It really was.

Blair looked at the fire, his expression growing contemplative.

"What are you thinking?" Jim wondered, hoping it wasn't anything about the kiss. That was one of life's moments that shouldn't be talked about or analyzed.

Blair wrapped his arms around his bent knees. "Just about how my life seems to be shifting right now. For so long, when I was a kid, Naomi and I were always on the move. I got exposed to lots of different things and I grew up fast in some ways, but she was the only anchor I had, the only constant. Then, when I went to Rainier, that became my home -- where I anchored. I finally had some place where I belonged, that I could return to again and again."

Blair stared at the floor a long moment. "Now, with the change in my thesis subject, it's like Rainier's importance has receded."  Blair looked up. "I want to get my Ph.D. but the paper itself doesn't really mean that much to me. It's just a process I have to go through to get my doctorate. I can feel myself separating from Rainier; it's starting to get relegated to the past tense."  

Blair smiled and his eyes were shy. "Now, it's like here -- the loft -- has become my home. It's the one place I can count on to be stable, even when everything else around me is in chaos."

"Good," Jim said, once certain Blair was finished. He stood, then reached down and helped Blair to his feet.

Blair kept trying not to laugh.

The new bed was scheduled to be delivered within the hour. He and Jim had already carried the battle-scarred futon to the street for a charity truck to pick up. Now, Jim was on his knees in Blair's room, a hose from a small, ancient canister vacuum in his hand, sucking up dust bunnies.

It wasn't just the sight of big, efficient Jim on his knees, so intently sucking up dust with the limp hose, that intrigued Blair. It was the idea that Jim was actually in his room -- and, more importantly, that he seemed comfortable being there.

Not that Blair minded Jim respecting his room as a place where he waited to be invited into; it was just that Jim had never seemed to want to be invited in.
 
Now he was deftly cleaning it, preparing for the new bed as though it were his own. Blair could only find Jim's actions amusing -- and helpful, since he himself wouldn't have seen any particular need to take care of the dust bunnies that were going to build back up anyway.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to do his share. Blair moved into the room, stepped around Jim, and picked up an armload of books and papers from the tall pile in the corner that contained his sentinel-related materials.

Jim shut off the vacuum. "Are you moving that whole pile?"  He sounded hopeful.

"Yeah. I thought I'd put all this stuff on the kitchen table and sort through what's strictly sentinel stuff, and what's stuff that I can use for my new dissertation."

Jim got up and also grabbed an armful from the stack.

After all the papers had been moved, Jim turned on the vacuum and started in on the newly vacated corner.

Grinning and shaking his head, Blair stood at the kitchen table and started moving things around. He considered how good it felt to actually have all this stuff out in the open, even if he wasn't going to keep it lying around. For so long, he'd felt secretive about his work, concerned that Jim might see some of what he was writing -- never mind that Jim never expressed much interest in his sentinel research. Looking back, Blair supposed he'd been rather paranoid but he'd kept thinking that, if Jim saw some of the material, it would affect his reactions as a sentinel and would therefore spoil any future test results.

Now, it felt so good to know that all his work and efforts could be shared with Jim, if Jim ever took an interest.

Well, maybe not all of it. Blair picked up one of the many spiral notebooks that served as a journal. They contained mainly factual data, but also a lot of personal commentary. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Jim happened to read any of it, but having any of the journals exposed to another's eyes wouldn't be Blair's favorite choice of events.

He sat down and began the difficult task of sorting what was what.

Jim kept hoping the phone would ring. He was expecting to get a call back from a witness about where to meet for an interview. Then he could pick up Blair and they could go see the man.

Blair was scarce lately, as he was still doing the "voluntary" freshman introductory workshops at the library. He was also having to actually work on his new thesis -- at least to the point of organizing his notes, to prove to the committee overseer, Professor Reynolds, that he was making progress each week. No more stalling.

This didn't sit well with Jim. It probably didn't sit well with Blair either. Jim had been wondering how Blair's morning was going with the pimply-faced freshmen at the library. He wondered if Blair got at least some enjoyment from passing on his vast knowledge of how to use the library to the youngsters. Or, he considered, maybe Blair got bored with having to deal with such a unpolished quality of student.

He wondered if, while helping the freshmen, Blair got to feeling antsy about doing his own research and was sometimes less than perfectly attentive.

He enjoyed thinking that Blair would be glad when he was done with the whole project. That should at least free up a little more time to work with Jim.

Jim's musing was interrupted as Brown and Rafe entered the bullpen, Brown laughing and Rafe looking perturbed.

"Shirley this, Shirley that," Brown continued to tease. "You got it bad, man. Hey, Jim."

Jim looked up.

Brown took a step toward him. "Tell me if I'm right. If a man spends almost all his time thinking about what his woman is doing, don't you think that falls under the category of a 'very serious' relationship?'"  He indicated quote marks.

Rafe looked like he wanted to crawl in a hole. "Yep," Jim joined replied, then realized he had something to add. "That's when I decided to propose to Carolyn. I caught myself wondering what she was doing down in Forensics right at that very moment."

Brown slapped Rafe's shoulder with the back of his hand. "See?"

Rafe only growled and tried to focus on the files at his desk.

Jim turned back to his own file. He decided not to ruin Brown's fun by pointing out that thinking about "his woman" had obviously not been a very good barometer for his feelings for Carolyn, considering the short time their marriage lasted.

Besides, he'd just spent a good part of the morning wondering what Blair was up to, and it wasn't like he wanted to marry the guy.

Blair retrieved a package of Trail Mix from the vending machine. He used his teeth to tear it open, then looked around the cafeteria. It was crowded, so he figured he may as well go back to his office, since there he had a never-ending stack of papers to grade.

Just as he turned toward the door, he recognized a head of blonde hair. He turned back.

Katy Summers.

She was talking with a group of friends.  She was a T.A. in the Biology department. He'd asked her out once and they went to some campus event that Blair no longer remembered. What he did remember was doing it in her car. There had been some reason they couldn't go to either of their places.

It had been awkward and rather unsatisfying, through no fault of their own. That had been nearly a year ago and Blair wondered if she was still available. He now had a nice plush bed, albeit a twin, in his room at the loft. All he had to do was get rid of Jim for an evening....

Damn.  The bet.

Blair turned and left the cafeteria. He couldn't ask Katy out because he'd bet Jim that he could be celibate for a month. He still had another three weeks to go.

Fuck.

As Blair arrived at his office, he wondered why he'd made such a ridiculous bet. What was I trying to prove by being celibate?   He couldn't even remember the circumstances of how the bet had come about.

The phone rang and Blair picked it up. "Blair Sandburg speaking."

"Hey. I need to go over a crime scene. Want to come?"

"Sure. Are you coming here now?"

"Yes. Is that okay?  I'm at the station."

That meant it would be twenty minutes. Blair had told his students that he was usually available in his office Tuesday afternoons, but they weren't formal office hours so he didn't feel obligated to stay, now that his morning tutorial at the library was done.

"I'll be waiting in the lot."  As Blair hung up, he felt a little thrill go through him. "Going over" a crime scene meant Jim needed to use his senses. That meant Blair could be helpful. The best buzz came from knowing that Jim knew he could be helpful.

Twenty minutes later, Jim pulled up in the lot and Blair climbed into the truck. After he was settled, Blair said, "Remind me why I made that bet with you about being celibate."

Jim glanced over at him and chuckled. "I don't know. You were bragging about how you could 'do celibate'. I wanted to see you prove it, because I don't believe you."

Blair sighed. What had he been thinking?  "Great. Just great."

"You can forfeit and get started on your loft-cleaning chores right away."

Blair laughed. "That's generous, Jim. Real generous. But, no, I'm going to see this through and prove you wrong."  

Feigning sympathy, Jim said, "Aw. You broke some young lady's heart?"

Blair didn't answer, deciding it wouldn't hurt to have Jim's sympathy, even feigned. So, he didn't tell Jim that he'd never even talked to Katy, let alone asked her out.

He picked up the file on the seat between them. "So, what's this case we're working on?"

Jim sighed as he zipped up a fresh pair of slacks and looked over the railing of his bedroom. Blair's research had taken over the kitchen table. Over a week ago, he'd put his huge stack of sentinel papers there to sort out what was "strictly sentinel" and what could be salvaged for his new dissertation. Somehow, the project had dragged on for many days.

Jim kept meaning to say something but he could never seem to bring himself to do so. They tended to eat -- when they ate at home -- leaning over the counter or in front of the television, so losing the kitchen table hadn't really been much of an inconvenience. What was scary, Jim realized, was that he was starting to get used to it looking so cluttered.

As he came down the stairs looking forward to his post-work beer, he noticed that Blair was standing by the table, engrossed in reading something from a spiral notebook. Then Blair suddenly shook his head with a bashful grin and closed the book.

"What's so funny?" Jim asked.

Blair started, as though he just now realized he wasn't alone. Then he shrugged. "I'm just realizing how much I've... grown up, I guess... in just these few years I've known you."

"Want a beer?" Jim asked as he reached for one.

"I guess."

Jim brought him a beer and set it on the one corner of the table that wasn't covered by papers. He took a swig of his own beer.

Blair said, "It's like -- I don't know -- I seemed so stupid or something back then. Naïve. Innocent."  Quietly, he said, "I wished I'd known then what I know now."

"About?"  

"About how to approach my research on the sentinel stuff. How to separate it from the rest of what was happening in my life."

"How could you?" Jim countered, not liking it whenever Blair resorted to self-blame. "The sentinel you were studying was a human being who became your friend."   He laid his hand on Blair's shoulder and squeezed. "Do you think someone else in a similar situation would have realized what was happening before it was too late?"

"I don't know," Blair muttered with lowered eyes.

Jim wanted Blair to work through the logic. "At what point did you cross the line?"

"I don't know."

"Exactly. How could anyone have known they'd crossed the line and then said, 'I can't work on this thesis anymore.'"   Jim took another sip, then, "I think you deserve credit for bailing when you did. I bet a lot of students would have just kept going and figured what the thesis committee didn't know wouldn't hurt them. They wouldn't have known you were too close to your subject unless you told them."

Blair's face was still lowered. "It's just that meeting with this Professor Reynolds every week.... It feels... humiliating."  He released a deep breath, then looked up toward Jim. "Like I'm some clueless freshman who needs to be talked down to. I keep telling myself it's my own fault -- that it's what I deserve for screwing up -- but...."  He plopped into a chair and picked up the beer. He twisted off the cap and took a healthy swallow.

"Sorry, buddy. I don't really understand a lot of this stuff. I just know you don't deserve what you're going through."

Blair smiled sadly. "Thanks," he whispered.

Jim sat down in another chair.

After another sip, Blair said, "That's part of what I was just reading about -- when you went through all that crap with IA after Jack Pendergrast's car was found."

Jim didn't react, but it felt weird to know that Blair had written about that. Not that it was surprising; just somewhat difficult to face the actual reality of someone examining his actions -- and taking notes.

Blair cocked his head. "Maybe that's when it happened."

"What happened?"  Jim continued to sip his beer.

"When I went from observing you as a scientist studying his subject, to caring about you -- really caring -- as somebody who was special to me."  

Jim was intrigued in a way he would never have allowed himself to be when Blair was writing his paper.

"It was so hard," Blair went on thoughtfully, "to see you put through all that crap with IA when you hadn't done anything wrong."  He looked fully at Jim again. "I hated what they were doing to you, especially since you didn't deserve it. At the same time, it was like...," Blair glanced away again with a smile, "I was amazed that you didn't seem angry at the injustice of it. You just seemed to... accept that you had to be put through the process. You didn't even seem afraid of what the outcome might be, though I know you had to be, deep down inside."

"I was plenty afraid," Jim told him, sipping slowly. "But I knew that resisting the process wasn't going to solve anything. Finding out what happened to Jack was the important thing."

"It meant so much to me that it was your senses that helped us find out what really happened so we could clear you."  Blair ducked his head. "And that I helped you use your senses to find that out."  He placed his hand on top of the spiral notebook, then gave a bashful snort. "I think I got an ego boost after that. I really started feeling like your partner... you know, like I'd proven myself."

"You were my partner long before that," Jim said. He wasn't sure how he felt about all Blair was revealing. Yes, intrigued. Flattered, in a sense. But also uneasy -- and amazed -- that he could mean so much to another.

Blair said, "It's just that, with the Pendergrast case, everything after that seemed... personal between us. And I liked that."  He nervously played with the edge of the notebook.

Jim started to speak, but Blair added, "I guess that's when I should have stopped writing about you. But I let all this time pass before I could bring myself to admit it."

Blair's voice had become unsteady. Wanting to soothe, Jim said, "It's not as though you hurt anybody. It was just a matter of letting your passion and excitement become more important than objective data. For what it's worth, I don't fault you for that."  That was putting it mildly. "You don't deserve what the University is doing to you. But if you want your degree badly enough, you have to jump through their hoops."  He dumped the empty beer bottle in the trash and grabbed another.

"I wish I could have the dignity about it that you did about the Pendergrast case."

Jim snorted in disbelief as he came back to the table. "Chief, you're the one who turned yourself in. That took balls. Honesty. And lots of other admirable qualities."  For both their sakes, he assured, "It'll all work out in the end."  He squeezed Blair's shoulder again, before sitting back down.

"Yeah," Blair said without enthusiasm. His eyes drifted back over the piles on the table. "Even though I'm not writing my thesis about you, I still have this big urge to... do something with all this stuff. Organize it. File it. Arrange it so that it's readable."  His voice lowered. "I'd much rather do that than work on my new, official thesis."  His eyes darted to Jim. "I guess maybe I'm still in a mourning phase and I'm still trying to figure out what to do with all this stuff that isn't going to matter to anyone. At least, not in our lifetime."

"It matters to you," Jim told him, hoping he didn't sound dismissive. He felt he understood what Blair was saying. It was just difficult to know how to help. Plus, to be confronted with the sheer magnitude of Blair's enthusiasm for the sentinel project. Not that it was a surprise, but....

Jim's mouth fell open as his eyes went from one stack of notebooks and papers and copies of articles, to another. All of this produced by Blair. Motivated by Blair's need to know and study and thoroughly understand sentinels better than anyone alive -- and probably dead. Motivated by Blair's sheer, uninhibited need to compile and document every action and reaction pertaining to Jim's sentinel senses, voluntary or otherwise. Motivated by Blair's desire to help Jim in any way, shape, or form.

Motivated by Blair's sheer... love.

Jim bit down on his tongue to hold it still. He was aware of his eyes widening as he continued to look from one towering stack to another.

This had all been created by Blair's love.

The table was overflowing with it.

The piles had been sitting here for a week now, displayed like a valentine.

Jim's eyes darted to Blair. Blair's head was bent over his beer bottle as he rubbed at the label with a thumbnail.

Jim remembered how Blair had torn the label of his beer bottle when he had explained to Jim that he didn't know how to have a lasting friendship.

Jim's eyes darted back to the table. This was Blair's way of saying, "You are important to me."

God.

Jim got up, taking his new beer with him. He patted Blair's back as he walked past him. "Hey, I'm going to get some air for a few minutes."  He was relieved that his voice sounded normal.

"'Kay. I think I'm going to finally clean this stuff up."

Sweep it away. Box up his feelings and make them nice and neat again. So they won't be overflowing.

Because overflowing is... bad?

Jim left the loft. There was a gentle rain in the evening darkness. He hadn't bothered with an umbrella, so he kept close to the buildings along the street.

He tried make his mind a blank but it wasn't working. Blair here, Blair there, Blair everywhere.  Blair had said, "If someone had wanted to write about me, I'd be on my back purring. 'Stroke me. Stroke me.'"   

Jim paused in the entryway of a store that was closed. He stretched his arm out against the glass, and brought his other hand up to his heart.

Blair wanted so much of... something.  He wanted to be somebody famous and important and notable. He wanted to matter to somebody. All that he had written down -- his personal feelings and otherwise -- he wanted for somebody to know. He'd even shared with Jim his discovery of, and feelings about, his unconventional conception.

What do I do for him?  Jim wondered, still holding his hand against his chest. How do I help him?  How do I give him what he wants?

How do I fulfill him?

In his mind's eye, he crushed Blair to his body. Stroked him and petted him. Held him. Murmured words of love to him.  Said things to make him laugh.

In his mind's eye, he could pretend that it would be enough. That there wouldn't be any hints lying around, as there had been with Carolyn, telling Jim what a poor job he was doing. How lacking he was as a friend. How he couldn't demonstrate his love with adequate lovemaking.

Blair wouldn't be interested in any of that, anyway.

Would he?

Jim pushed away from the shop window and started walking -- slowly -- along the street again. He wished the rain would come down harder and cleanse him.

Always Blair. That's how his life had been lately, ever since the car accident. What was Blair doing/thinking/feeling?  How did he feel today?  What was his schedule?  Did he need a lift here or there?  Did he get upset when he had to meet with the committee again? What did he have for lunch?  Did he masturbate more frequently since he was trying to be celibate?  Did his incision sting when he was late and running from one campus building to another?  

Was he aware of how much he loved Jim?

What did he want, if anything, as a result of that love?

He wants to be able to express himself openly.  Blair had already been doing so much of that lately. He wants to be accepted for all that he is.  

Jim's throat tightened. He's never had that. Not even by Naomi. Her needs always came first. Not that she's done a bad job of raising him.

No, she couldn't have done a bad job. Blair was capable and responsible and good-natured and masculine and sensitive. And smart. And courageous and brave.

His love was so great and abundant that it overflowed the kitchen table.

His soul cried out to be somebody important. Somebody who mattered. Not someone who had grown up a bastard because his father didn't even stick around long enough to be named on the birth certificate but, instead, gave him up before he was even born.

Jim's heart clenched. Chief.

Jim turned and started walking back. He needed to give solace. He needed to be the place where Blair put his overflow -- even if there might be hints made somewhere down the line at how bad he was at receiving it. He couldn't imagine Blair thinking that he didn't want all that Blair had to give. Yet, he'd thought he was a good match for Carolyn and she had never been happy with him.

He firmed his jaw.

He wanted to give of himself. Maybe there was a chance that Blair's love was so great that he wouldn't reject those attempts. Maybe there was a chance that Blair wouldn't show disgust for his inadequacy at being intimate. Maybe there was a chance that Blair wouldn't be sorry for having ever gotten involved with him.

Maybe there was a chance that, this time, someone could love him without abandoning him.

When Jim arrived home, Blair had the kitchen table partially cleaned off.

Blair looked up with trepidation. "Carolyn called about ten minutes ago. She asked that you 'please call her back' and that it'll be 'to your benefit'. I tried to draw her out but it just seemed to make her annoyed."  He looked back to his papers. "Otherwise, she seemed upbeat."

"Hmm."  Jim reached for the cordless. He may as well not put this off any longer. Besides, he was curious as to why returning her call would be 'to his benefit'.

As he dialed the number Blair had written down with one hand, his other hand reached for Blair and drew him close.

Blair reached up and clasped Jim's hand and Jim realized then that Blair mistakenly thought he needed emotional support.

"Hello?" Carolyn answered.

"Caro?  It's Jim."

"Oh, Jim."  She sounded genuinely happy. "Thanks for returning my call. I've got some great news."

"Oh?"

"After the lawyers went over my dad's estate, they found out that Wendy and I each had more money coming to us than we originally thought. I won't bore you with the details, but this has been a lifesaver. I've got your ten thousand.  I can send you a check, or...."

Or?  "That's fine, just to mail it."

She exhaled a breath. Then she sounded vulnerable. "Jim?  I-I'd like to see you again. I have to be up in Cascade the day after tomorrow, because there's some other people I need to visit concerning dad's estate."  

To repay other money she's borrowed?  Jim wondered.

With his silence, she went on, "I know you've been angry with me. Maybe even disgusted with me because I fell off the wagon. But things are looking up. Your ten thousand was a big help, and I'm so glad I can pay you back much sooner than I thought. But, also, I've been thinking about us...."

Thinking about us?  

"Jim?"

Jim realized he needed to say something. "I'm here. I just don't know what the point would be, Carolyn. We have different lives now. I've moved on."

Silence. Then, "Is there someone else?"

Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder, then moved away from him. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you and I took our shot and it didn't work out."

"Yes, but we were always such good friends afterwards. I don't want to lose that, if I don't have to."

Jim tried sticking with logic. "Carolyn, before I called you about the yogurt drink your sister made, you and I hadn't had a single conversation for nearly a year, except when you called to tell me that your father had died. Why the big nostalgia trip?"

He listened to her swallow. "One of my assignments from my therapist was to think back over all the people in my past who had been positive relationships for me. You're one of those important people, Jimmy. Even though," painful laugh, "I liked you more after we were divorced."

Because we weren't sleeping together, Jim knew.
  
"I-I..." She hesitated a long moment, then said, "I sometimes think about us getting back together. Just dating and seeing how it goes."

Jim moved toward the balcony, not understanding why she was grasping at the impossible. As gently as he could, he said, "I'll always care about you, Caro. But I've been there, done that, and I don't need to do it again. You didn't like me as a husband then, why would you now?"  He kicked himself after the last, wondering why he was keeping the conversation going. He needed to hang up as soon as possible.

"I've come to realize how much my gambling affected our marriage. I can't help but wonder how things could have been, if I hadn't always been thinking about the next game to play."

Damn.  She sounded sincere, vulnerable, and not at all manipulative.

Jim stepped out onto the balcony and slammed the glass door behind him. Her unexpected desire to get back together confused him and he tersely reminded, "What?  You think I'm suddenly an adequate lover now?"

"I never thought you were a bad lover."

"No?" he quipped. "You always left plenty of clues around that you needed a lot more than I was giving."

"I didn't know you ever even paid attention," she said with surprise. Then she was warm again. "It takes two, Jim. I guess... I guess I needed something to blame my need to gamble on. I'm sorry. I didn't realize how it made you feel. If I could take it all back, I would. But I can't. I remember you as being strong and kind and protective."

"And way too quiet for your taste," Jim reminded, all his inadequacies rising to the surface.

"I never expected you to be perfect."  She sighed. "Jim, please. This is all so awkward over the phone. Can we at least have lunch when I'm in Cascade the day after tomorrow?"

Jim really wouldn't mind seeing her on a friendly basis. But she wanted more than that, and getting back together was something he wanted nothing to do with. "No, Carolyn. It would be pointless. Just send the money. I'm glad things are looking up for you, but I can't see trying to pretend we have something going when we don't."

She sighed unhappily. "All right. I won't bother you anymore. I'm sorry. About everything."  She paused, then said sadly, "Goodbye, Jimmy." The line went dead.

Jim wondered if this meant there would be no further contact between them. He felt bad about hoping that was the case. Carolyn apologizing for her part in the unhappiness of their marriage had thrown him. He also wished he could somehow reward her for getting things turned around. Maybe she really had stopped gambling and was getting a fresh start with her father's estate money.

But he couldn't participate in a relationship that, ultimately, he didn't want any part of.

Blair was moving more of his paperwork off the kitchen table and he paused to look up at Jim.

"She's returning the ten thousand," Jim said as he came back into the room. "Her father's estate had some extra money for her and her sister that they hadn't known about."

Blair's face brightened. "That's good. That's great!"

Jim nodded.

"What else?" Blair asked.

Jim realized he wasn't showing appropriate enthusiasm for the situation. "She wanted us to get back together -- start dating again."

"And?"

"Not interested."  Jim put the phone on the kitchen counter, eager to change the subject. "Hey, the table is actually visible."

Blair laughed while grabbing another armful of notebooks. "Sorry I had this out here for so long. I got lazy with it."  He headed off to his room.

Putting it all away, Jim thought sadly. He didn't know how to express what was on his mind.  He waited until Blair came back out for another stack. "Chief?"

Blair looked up as he gathered more materials.

Jim shrugged, feeling enormously vulnerable. He touched a corner of the three-ring binder nearest him. "Can I read some of this... sometime?"

Blair slowly blinked as his mouth fell open. "Jim, you can read any of it. Any of it you want. I mean, it's for you."  Bashful laugh. "Originally, it was intended to be a book, of course. But, ultimately, the whole purpose of this was for me to understand you, so I could help you. It's our project. There's nothing secretive about it, nothing that should be withheld from you for any reason."

Jim wasn't sure how to proceed. He took a spiral notebook from the stack at the far end of the table and leafed through it. Except for some diagrams, it looked like journal entries, complete with dates and times.

"Uhh," Blair shifted nervously. "Some of this stuff is... sort of personal. But... you have a right to it."

Jim looked at Blair squarely. "Are you sure you're okay about it?  I don't want to read something that you don't want me to."

"No, it's okay. I just... well, I was kind of dorky early on. Some of these notebooks are more like diaries, even though they're all about the sentinel stuff. So, just be prepared that I might come across as sort of immature."

Jim grinned. "How is that different from now?"

"Ha. Ha."  Blair grabbed another stack and headed towards his room. When he came back out, he said, "Jim?  This research belongs to you as much as it does to me. You don't need my permission to read any of it."

Jim kept his eyes on the notebook's contents, though none of it was registering.

Of course Blair gave his permission. Blair wanted somebody to know all about him. He was so desperate to have someone know him intimately that he'd allowed some 72-hour "girlfriend" read his personal diaries, out of some twisted belief that complete honesty would make for a better relationship.

What a dork, Jim thought fondly.

Was that what he was looking for now?  Total honesty from Blair?

No. He wanted to know what Blair was thinking. About him. Not because he had a need to know, but because Blair needed him to know. He wanted to do this for Blair.

"Do you want some of these others?" Blair asked.

Jim looked up. He indicated the notebook in his hands.  "This is fine for now."

"Uh," Blair fidgeted, "I think I should warn you. Some of the things I say... well, some of it might be stuff that you don't want to hear. Or that you downright disagree with. You know, when I get to talking about your reasons and motivations for things, and reactions you have; things like that."

Damn, maybe this wasn't a good idea.

"We can talk about any of it, if you want," Blair said as he grabbed another stack. "All I can say for certain is that, at the time I made any particular observation, it was how I felt about it at that moment.  I'm sure some of the things I've said, I've since changed my mind about. But other stuff I haven't."  He moved off towards his room again.

"Fair enough," Jim muttered, still leafing through the pages without reading them.

He was curious about the compulsion that some people had to write things down, to record their lives. Jim had never had any such desire or need. Granted, the world would be missing a lot of its culture if books and such weren't available for people to read about the lives of those who had gone before. Still, he couldn't relate to needing to reflect back on the events of the day and record them. It made much more sense to him to look forward to tomorrow. The past was gone and done with, and writing it down wasn't going to change any of it.

But then, he'd never been in love with anyone enough to want to write about them, let alone so thrilled with his own life to want to recollect it.  Besides, Blair was doing that for him, anyway, wasn't he?

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Blair continue to move back and forth between the table and his bedroom. He recalled, yet again, what Blair had told him:  If someone thought I was important enough to write about, I'd be on my back purring. "Stroke me. Stroke me."

Instead, Blair was being subjected to humiliation by his superiors at Rainier for having committed the awful crime of getting too close to his thesis subject; of having the nerve to love him so openly -- and admit to it.

God.  Jim closed the notebook and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You okay?"  Blair's hand rested on the remaining stack of papers.

Jim barely glanced at him and nodded.

"Did I already upset you with something I wrote in there?"

Jim smiled faintly and shook his head, not having the heart to tell Blair he hadn't actually read any of his comments yet.

"Maybe it's my poor penmanship that's giving you a headache," Blair said with a grin, hoisting the last stack off the table.

The table was clear now. Clear of Blair's love.

Jim decided he should at least look at something, right now, since Blair was assuming he'd actually done some reading. He flipped the notebook open and saw a diagram of circles enclosing each other. There were indications of footage that each diameter represented from the stick figure in the center of the circles. From browsing the surrounding narrative, he saw that the diagram was an indication of how far out his sentinel sight could reach, provided he wasn't disturbed by some interruption or influence.

God, how boring.

He flipped through more pages and came to a journal entry from 1996.

        It was so hard to watch Jim go through that. He's always seemed so big and strong and capable. And now he had to put up with suspicions and questions that he didn't have any immediate answers to. Because of his covert ops background, some of the information he couldn't have given, even if he somehow had proof.
        I hated seeing what was being done to him. Yet, at the same time, I admired how he was going through it without complaint. How he'd even been reassuring to me, by telling me that everything was going to work out okay. He didn't seem afraid but I know it had to bother him. All he was doing was trying to stand up for his partner, Jack, even though he had always been pretty sure, I think, that Jack was dead.
        Anyway, the upside of all of this is that it was Jim's sentinel abilities which gave him the information that led to his finding out who the real killers were. I'm especially grateful that he didn't fight me when I suggested a sort of hypnosis to access his sentinel hearing from four years prior, even though his abilities were latent then. Jim usually fights me so much on this sentinel stuff, but this time he didn't. 
        He let me help. That means everything to me. Three days later, I'm still beaming.

Christ, this was highly personal.

Jim closed the notebook, realizing this was the same one Blair had been glancing through earlier, when he'd been shaking his head at his own youthfulness, his own lack of maturity.

His unbounded love.

With Blair still moving things around in his room -- Jim could hear drawers opening and closing -- he took the notebook upstairs, deciding he would read more of it that night. He did feel uneasy reading so many of Blair's private thoughts -- especially since Blair himself now seemed rather dismissive of them. Yet, Jim had no doubt that Blair wanted him to read what he'd been writing.

"It's our project."

Yes. And now Jim was the only one who was likely to ever know about any of this. The book rights and movie rights, and whatever other glory Blair had dreamed of, would never be.

All of that research Blair had amassed was now for an audience of one.

Jim vowed to be a very attentive audience.

Blair looked up from his desk and surveyed the eight students who were part of this current round of freshmen taking the library research workshop he was overseeing. They all were busy leafing through books in the reference section. Today was the last day of this segment and he'd been told he wouldn't have to do any more of them.

He was very grateful. Overseeing the sessions had taken quite a bit of time away from being with Jim at the PD.  This session would be over in twenty minutes, but he still had had to hang around another hour, and then meet with Professor Reynolds, who was overseeing his thesis. He hadn't made much progress in the week since the last meeting with the professor, but he'd quickly typed up an outline the night before, so he'd have something to indicate progress.

He wished he could summon more enthusiasm for his new paper. But when he thought about research, all he wanted to do was organize his sentinel data into more coherent sections, instead of having so much of it spread out amongst so many different notebooks, binders, and computer files.

Not that the raw form of his research was stopping Jim from reading it.

If Jim was reading it. As far as Blair knew, Jim just had the one notebook that he took possession of a few days before. Blair didn't know if Jim ever actually looked at it. He certainly never said anything, and that was making Blair a bit tense. If Jim was reading it, he wondered what Jim thought about some of the things he'd said. Especially some of the more emotional stuff from when he was younger and so enthusiastic. He remembered being so out-of-control, bubbling all over the place about Jim's senses... and simply being in Jim's presence.

For that matter, he wondered if telling Jim he could read any of the research he wished had put a process in motion that would eventually harm their friendship. After all, when he'd let Camille read his diaries, she'd quickly lost interest in him. Jim hadn't been at all shy about telling Blair how utterly foolish he'd been to let her read them in the first place -- a fact that Blair had no interest in disputing, then or now.

Blair resigned himself to letting the chips fall where they may. He was overjoyed that -- finally -- Jim was taking some interest in an analysis of his sentinel abilities.

Of course, Blair's research and journals weren't all scientific data. But he had to admit that he had no desire to separate the personal comments from the supposed objective data. Some secret part of him had been thrilled that Jim had been interested at all.

Sitting in his Ford pickup, Jim made a point of slowing down his chewing. He shifted his Wonderburger Super to one hand -- even though it was supposed to take two to hold it -- and decided he could eat and read at the same time. He flipped open the spiral notebook on the seat beside him and skimmed through the pages until he found where he'd left off.  

He wondered how pissed Blair would be if he dripped Wonderburger special sauce on the pages of his journal. As it was, the notebook was looking a little worn. Jim had opened it often, because he read it in small spurts. As enticing as it was, he could only digest it in small bits, especially when he read something that felt like it came directly from Blair's heart.

He was supposed to pick Blair up in an hour. He hoped he could finish this notebook by then.

He also hoped Blair wouldn't mind cold chicken Wondernuggets for lunch, if he hadn't already eaten.

    There's something I forgot to mention earlier about what happened on the oil rig. When we were getting ready to leave -- after Jim had apologized to Brower -- Jim started teasing me about having more loft rules and putting plastic covers on the furniture and stupid stuff like that. Only, I guess I wasn't sure if he was teasing. I mean, I know he had to be. He enjoys playing gruff. He enjoys having the upper hand. It's just the way he was talking about "housebreaking" me. Kind of an insulting term, really, when you consider what it means about pets. But I couldn't take it that way. It didn't upset me. I sort of liked it, I guess. I mean, just the idea that he was paying so much attention to me. Kidding around with me. Wanting to "do" something with me -- housebreak me -- even though he didn't really mean it.
        I'm not sure what it says about me that there's a part of me that enjoys it when Jim gets all authoritative. A part of me wants to wallow in it. A part of me wants to rebel against it. The funny thing is, Jim has treated me with more respect than anyone I've ever known. He sometimes calls me "junior" and "kid", but he also expects me to carry my weight. He expects me to be an asset when I'm hanging out with him in cop situations. He assumes that I can -- unlike Simon, who always tries to assume that I'm going to be a fuck--up. Not trained enough. Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Not tall enough. Whatever. Simon always has excuses that makes sense -- usually that I'm not a cop -- but Jim believes in me. That's gold.

Jim turned the page. The next entry was a dry recitation of Jim having suddenly heard the sound of a break-in at a nearby apartment building, as he and Blair were emerging from a restaurant. Blair followed up details of the incident with a crudely sketched spreadsheet, each box filled in with a date and incident where Jim's hearing had picked up on something similar, even when his attention was diverted elsewhere. Blair contrasted that with a similar spreadsheet, showing the times when Jim had needed some other stimulation -- such as the expectation of an incident -- before his hearing would kick in. One diagram charted involuntary sentinel hearing, the other voluntary.

Jim swallowed the last of his burger. This notebook had been like that all the way through. Once Blair wrote a particularly personal entry, he'd follow it up with a very scientific, dry-sounding entry. 

As though trying to get himself back on track. Reminding himself he was a scientist, instead of a friend.

Jim grabbed a fry as he considered what Blair had said before about being split into two people. 

When was that?  Oh, yes. After he'd ripped up the futon. He said one part of him was watching the other destroy the futon.

Jim released a breath, refusing to believe that Blair suffered from genuine split personalities. Still, his suspicion was that nobody could possibly call living a double life, so to speak, very healthy.

He moved to the next entry.

        I've mentioned before that Jim respects me in a way that nobody else ever has before. I wish that respect extended to other people.
        Or maybe I just wish that I was taller. Or stronger-looking. Or had a demeanor about me that said, "Don't fuck with me."  Obviously, I have a demeanor that says, "Kick me. I'm a peace-loving wuss who hasn't seen the inside of gym since high school."
        It was just one of those stupid things when I came out of the men's room on the third floor, after I dropped off something at Forensics. Three guys in uniforms. Their demeanor was definitely unfriendly. So, I just turned and walked the other way. Next thing I knew, my hair was being pulled and one of them was saying something about "hippy/freak/fag". Another guy grabbed my arm and said something about me having moved up through the ranks some way other than the academy. Then some people started coming down the hall and the guys let go of me and went away.
        I want to believe that it was nothing. But it was scary. I've heard a comment here or there, but that's the closest I've ever been to being ganged up on as an adult. And in the very heart of the PD, for godssake.  I hate feeling helpless like that. I hate it. And yet, I doubt all the muscles in the world would have kept those three guys from wanting to gang up on me.  
       And yet... I know that even if Jim hadn't been a 'real' cop, that they wouldn't have ganged up on him. Jim has one of those demeanors that says, "Don't fuck with me."  People think twice about mixing up with him. I wish sometimes that I could know what it's like to be like that, to be automatically respected. Maybe even feared a little.
        Of course, then people probably wouldn't feel comfortable talking to me and telling me their problems or whatever. I like it that most people find me friendly and approachable. It means a lot to me.
        I didn't tell Jim about the three cops. It was too humiliating. Plus, it's not like he could do anything, or that I'd even want him to do anything. Maybe he'd just sort of snort at me, like he was wondering what I was whining about. I know some 'boys clubs', like the PD, don't believe in any complaints along those lines. It makes you less respected in everyone's eyes.
        I don't want Jim to think less of me.

Jim collected his trash, his gut tight.

He walked out of the truck to the nearest receptacle and threw in the remains of his lunch, including the unfinished bag of fries. He tried to recall any time that Blair had shown up with bruises or any other signs of an assault that was never explained.

No. He was sure that no such thing had ever happened. Therefore, Blair must not have run into the three cops again. Or, if he did, it was when other people were around.

He didn't deserve that.  Sure, Jim had been involved in his own altercations throughout his life -- some with guys who were his match, if not his superior, in strength or ability. He'd been knocked on his ass a few times, sometimes merely because the other person didn't like him.

But Blair.... Being threatened by cops who were trained to fight and use weapons wasn't what Blair had signed on to the PD for.

He just wanted to help me.

Jim moved to the last entry of the notebook.

         I wish the gene that causes heightened senses was known and identified. Then we could study it further and see if also contains traits for utter denseness.
        Sometimes I just want to smack Jim. He has this incredible gift. He's used it countless times to save lives. He's gotten himself and me out of a few scrapes because of it. He's this incredible sensory machine. A forensics lab in the flesh.
        The scene:  a back alley. Situation:  the aftermath of a shootout, where a couple of guys were wounded. Jim and I go to check out the alley, after forensics has already been all over it.
        We get out of the truck and Jim says, "We aren't going to find anything that forensics hasn't uncovered. I don't know why we're wasting our time with this."
         I keep calm, despite his negativity pissing me off big-time. I say, "Let's check it out anyway. Maybe you can find something that forensics missed."
        After we look around a bit, I get an idea and say, "Maybe you can find traces of the drug they were supposedly dealing. Forensics didn't find any, but that doesn't mean there isn't any here."
        Then Jim says, "I can't do that. It's too difficult on this light pavement."
        God, I swear, I just want to shake Jim silly every time he says "can't". I don't understand why he wants to give up so easily when it comes to his senses. I mean, this is a guy who has survived some incredible things. He's seen his senses perform some incredible miracles for himself and others.
        Yet, he has the nerve to say, "I can't do it. It's too difficult." Before he even tries.
        Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe there's something about my presence -- my involvement -- that makes Jim want to be contrary. Maybe it all goes back to how he has to be in control of everything in his life and he feels annoyed that I'm, like, The Authority on things concerning his senses.
        Shit. I'd gladly step out of the way and turn my back on the whole sentinel thing, if it would make Jim's senses function better. But I don't see how my absence would improve things, considering that sometimes it doesn't even dawn on Jim touse his senses in the first place.
        Now that I think about it, I think that's why the offer from Dr. Stoddard to accompany him on his trip to Borneo appealed to me so much. I'd only been with Jim two or three months then. It was starting to dawn on me how resistant Jim was being to our partnership, to my involvement. He seemed to genuinely want me around -- to accompany him -- when it came to police work. But talking to him about sentinel stuff was like pulling teeth. In contrast, working toward a common goal with Dr. Stoddard seemed like such a breath of fresh air.
        Of course, now, I don't know how I could have ever considered Borneo and missed all this time with Jim. He's become my best friend. I guess I've never had a best friend before -- at least, not for any length of time. I'm so glad I didn't go to Borneo.
        Still, it doesn't change the fact that, sometimes, I feel tempted to bodily pull Jim's head out of his ass. 
        Why can't he 'get' what a great gift he has?  Why does he have to be such a resistant, contrary jerk?
        Were the sentinels in Burton's time like this?  I doubt it. At least, he never spoke of them hating their gift. But then, they were revered by their tribes.
        Jim can't be revered because his tribe doesn't even know about his abilities.
        Man, I'm depressed. All this sentinel stuff suddenly seems so complicated. And it shouldn't be.
        Oh, well. I love the guy, anyway. Of course, if I said that to him, he'd probably huff and puff and tell me to pull my head out of my ass.
        Big mushball that he is.

Jim closed the notebook, realizing that he was going to be late.

He put the truck in gear and started toward Rainier.

It was a very strange feeling, to have his reactions described through another's eyes, especially when such observations weren't so flattering.

Not that any of it surprised him. Well, maybe Blair's reasons for considering Borneo. He hadn't realized that he was perceived as difficult to work with concerning his senses.

Blair just didn't seem to understand what a drawback -- what a responsibility -- it was sometimes. Hell, for that matter, the responsibility he felt to Blair -- to not disappoint him -- was in itself a burden that he felt heavily at times.

After all, Blair got so pissed off whenever Jim's senses were on the blink. As though it was all Jim's fault. As though Jim was supposed to be functioning at a hundred percent of his ability at all times, just because Blair wished it to be so.

But now they really didn't have that problem any more. Or, rather, Jim didn't feel obligated to be a dog and pony show for Blair's thesis. Now, he felt free of expectation. There was just himself and Blair, and whatever his senses could do.

He wondered if Blair understood that now, if Blair had taken the time yet to think it through.

As Jim pulled into the parking lot, Blair came toward the truck, his backpack over his shoulder.

"I was starting to wonder if I got the time wrong," Blair said in greeting.

Jim handed Blair the notebook and moved the truck forward. "I'm finished with that."

"Yeah?  And?"

Jim couldn't hold back a grin. Of course, Blair would be eager to know what he thought. He picked up the small box next to it and gave it to Blair. "Chicken nuggets. Cold."

Blair didn't open the box. "Thanks."

Pulling onto the street, Jim said, "Tell me something. When you let that girlfriend read your diaries a few month back, it wasn't any of this sentinel stuff, was it?"

Blair emphatically shook his head. "Of course not."

Jim had been certain of the answer but that meant, "You mean you're keeping two sets of diaries?"

Blair's expression changed, as though he suddenly realized what Jim was getting at. "No. No. I used to keep a personal diary. And then I had all these notebooks for writing down stuff about my thesis. Then, as I got to living with you, and working with you so much, it's like the sentinel stuff became the main focus of my life. So, there stopped being a reason to keep a separate diary. Besides, that stuff I showed Camille was a few years old."
 
Jim nodded, satisfied with the answer. He switched to the next thing on his mind. "You ever run into those three thugs again on the third floor of the PD?"  He looked over at Blair.

Blair's expression was puzzled as he opened the box of nuggets. Then he suddenly looked up at Jim in shock. "Three thugs?"

"Uh-huh," Jim said. He really didn't enjoy dredging up an unpleasant memory, but he had to know what else Blair might have been put through. "Sorry, Chief, but it was all written down. I want to know if they ever hassled you again."

Blair released a breath. "Man, I forgot I ever said anything about that."  He leafed through the book.  "Maybe I shouldn't be letting you read this stuff."

"It's okay," Jim tried to soothe with a smile. He waited until Blair chewed a nugget. "So, what about the thugs? They ever bother you again?"

Blair shook his head. "Na. There was once, when I saw one of the guys standing in the doorway of one of the offices on that floor. I know he saw me but it's like he didn't even notice me."  He chewed a moment. "I guess he was a wuss without his friends."

Jim snorted. "Probably."  He waited until Blair downed another nugget. "I understand why you didn't want to tell me but I wish you would have. You shouldn't have to put up with being hassled like that."

Defensively, Blair said, "It's not like you could have done anything. Or even that I would have wanted you to."

"I know, I know," Jim said, holding up his hand. "I'm just saying that I wish I would have known. Three cops against one untrained civilian... that's pretty low on their part."

"It's not like I've never been beat up before."  Blair's voice still had an edge to it.

"I know."  

"I guess," Blair went on in a lower voice, then stopped. He slowly chewed the final nugget.

"What?" Jim prompted.

Blair reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle of water. He sipped, then said, "I can remember, when I was a kid, I thought that when I got to be an adult, people wouldn't be... I don't know... I guess immature like that anymore. I somehow thought that just by being adults, people would behave civilly. I've had plenty of opportunities to see that that isn't true, not by a longshot. But it surprised me most that cops would behave like that, even understanding that they have their own brotherhood."  The last held a hint of anger.

"Sorry, buddy."

Blair looked up, smiling now. "It was just one little incident. Nothing happened."

"It scared you, though."

"That's for sure."
         
After a moment, Blair pressed, "So, what did you think?"

Jim suddenly felt uncomfortable, but he went for humor. "What, you want a critique of your journal?"

"No. I'm just wondering what you thought about the stuff I wrote. In terms of if you thought it was accurate, or at least helpful."

Jim doubted that Blair realized how little strictly-sentinel data there was in that particular notebook. He wondered what some of the other material might say. "It's not like any of your sentinel observations were new to me."  I'm sorry you found me so difficult to work with at times.

I'm glad you stuck it out.

"So, none of it was particularly valuable?"  Blair asked, in a thinly veiled attempt to sound nonchalant.

"About the sentinel stuff, no. Or rather," Jim took back, sensing Blair's disappointment, "I actually found a lot of the sentinel stuff boring. All those diagrams and spreadsheets. That kind of analysis really doesn't interest me, since I'm living the sentinel thing every day."

"It's just a way of taking a snapshot, so that you can understand it better. It doesn't reduce you to being less than human or anything like that."

"Yeah," Jim said, off-handedly, looking for his next turn.

"I guess I can understand that you'd think it all pretty boring," Blair relented after a long silence.

"I didn't say the whole thing was boring," Jim corrected, making his turn. He really didn't want Blair having to work at this. "It was just sort of weird, you know, seeing things from somebody else's eyes -- in a different way than when they're speaking to you."  Maybe people write things down because it's easier that way to speak from the heart.

Does he realize he's in love with me?  Is that something he can't ever admit or face?  Or is it a reality that he lives with every day?  If so, does he feel frustrated, because he wants... more?

Does he have feelings for me?  That way?

He glanced away from the road just long enough to sneak a peak at Blair. Blair was looking out the side window, contemplative.

"I want to read more," Jim told him, realizing it came out sounding like a question.

"You don't have to ask."

"I know."

It was a couple of days later that Jim took his opportunity. It was a morning when Blair was at school and Jim didn't have to go into work until after noon. He went into Blair's room and found the tall, now more-neatly stacked tower in the corner.

He picked up a three-ring binder from the top. It was full of printouts, enclosed within sheet protectors. There were subject headings -- "Abilities", "Diet", "Allergies", among others. Jim flipped to "Allergies" and saw a neatly typed listing of products and reactions he'd experienced, plus a reference to other pages, which had more detailed explanations. A few on the list had hand-written updates, and some had the notation "need to test further".

Leafing through the binder revealed some nice, neat computerized spreadsheets of the kind Jim had seen in the notebook he'd read. So, Blair re-did a lot of his work, writing it down in journals initially, and then re-writing it later on his computer, printing out the results and organizing them neatly.

Jim felt tired just thinking about all the effort involved.
   
He looked for another spiral notebook. The one he picked up had dates not too long after the one he'd already read. He searched further, until he found one with older dates. He flipped it open.

        I've already discussed the "guide" concept, courtesy of ex-CIA agent Brackett, in these pages. But I was thinking this morning about something that I hadn't considered before.
        From day one, Jim has called me "Chief". He says it like a regular nickname. Usually when one person gives another a nickname, it's something neutral or a put-down, even if in a joking, affectionate way. But Jim calls me "Chief" -- as though he's calling me a superior. Yet, I know he doesn't see me as superior. At most, he probably just recognizes that I have more education than he does about some things. It's not like he thinks I'm more intelligent than he is.
        I also don't think he calls me Chief because he thinks my ego needs some kind of boost or something. Plus, he certainly didn't like me enough at our first meeting at Rainier to want to boost my ego, even if he'd thought I'd needed it.
        So, why Chief?  I wonder if it's some sort of sentinel instinct, recognizing me as his "guide" of sorts. As I wrote before, I don't think sentinels require "guides". They do require a partner to watch their back. Still, as I've discussed, I could see how Jim jumped through Brackett's hoops more quickly, with me free to think of ways to get through the minefield, etc.
        So, I'm re-thinking this whole thing. I'm wondering if perhaps a sentinel has an instinctive need for a "chief". In a sense, having someone superior to him relieves him of the responsibility of the consequences, so to speak, of working with his senses. He can just focus on the sentinel work itself, if he doesn't have to worry about how to work them.
        Even though Jim doesn't like talking about his senses, he does like to include me in things as much as possible. Instinct again? (Or just because I'm such a fun guy to be around?)
        
Jim looked up. He'd never thought about it before, but he suddenly realized that he called Blair "Chief" because that's what his own mentor, Bud, had called him.

He wondered if he even would have remembered that, had they not been involved in the Foster case a few months ago. It was Blair's prompting that had caused him to think back to his childhood memories during the case. Bud was one of the few childhood memories that made him feel good -- except for how Bud's life had ended.

And here Blair was, trying to apply sentinel instincts to an off-the-cuff nickname Jim had given him.

You didn't need to try this hard, Darwin.

Of course, Blair couldn't have known that. For that matter, if he'd asked Jim directly about the nickname, he wasn't sure that he would have remembered why it was a fond one for him.

Why did he never ask me directly?  

Why couldn't he simply enjoy the fact that I gave him a nickname that had warm memories for me -- even if not consciously?  Didn't he get that I was fond of him, even though I found him thoroughly exasperating and annoying at times?

He was too entertaining and too eager to help to not like right away.

Of course, he did know why Blair had tried to analyze it and find some deeper meaning. Blair was trying to be the proper, objective scientist, and he was more successful at it early on. He could hardly write in his sentinel journal -- the groundwork for his thesis -- that, "Jim calls me Chief because he likes me."

Jim put the notebook down and considered the one that was more recent. He hesitated to look at it, fearing that whatever Blair said was fresher, somehow more raw and not yet ready to be read.

For that matter, where was Blair's most recent journal?  Did he still keep one?

He surveyed the stack. In addition to more of the spiral notebooks, there was the three-ring binder, and dozens of file folders with papers hanging out of them.

Jim realized, yet again, that he really wasn't interested in the sentinel documentation. Whatever "help" he needed with his senses came in the form of Blair.

He was only interested in Blair's feelings.

Jim left the stack intact and sat down on Blair's bed. I love you.

He considered the reality of that statement -- that feeling -- which came from within himself. He wondered where it originated. Was it the inevitable conclusion of two people who spent a lot of time together?  Or was it brought about because of his having taken care of Blair, and having seen Blair through so many traumas, physical and emotional, lately?  Was it the fact that Blair had confided in him, once Jim had made it clear that he wanted Blair to confide in him?  Or was it the simple fact that he saw, so clearly now, how much Blair loved him?

Which came first, the chicken or the egg?  Did he love Blair because Blair loved him?  Or would he love Blair under any circumstances?  Did Blair start warming up to Jim -- beyond his sentinel abilities -- after he picked up on the fact the Jim genuinely likedhim?

Did any of this really matter?

Probably not, Jim decided with a smile. Besides which, he was unlikely to ever know the exact origin of either of their feelings.

Jim sat still, enjoying the quiet of the room. He let the sights and scents seep in.

He glanced at the bed, where the covers were thrown back. Blair's scent still lingered there.

Jim wondered what his life would be like if that essence was no longer around, if Blair left the loft someday to go on with his life.

This... comfort... would no longer be.
       
Jim would do fine alone. He always had. But he would miss Blair. He would miss him so much.

Would Blair ever leave if he were aware of his feelings for Jim?  Or, if he wasn't, and became aware of them, then would he leave?  To protect Jim from them?

Something needed to be stated, needed to be said out in the open.

Then what would they do?

Jim shook his head, unable to fathom the future.

What if, on another spectrum, Blair was all hot and horny for Jim, and was just waiting for Jim to realize it?

Yet, Jim didn't get that sense at all. Whenever he was deliberately touchy-feely with Blair, he often sensed puzzlement on Blair's part, along with eager gratitude. Maybe there was even some hesitation there, as if Blair didn't know what to do with those feelings.

Not that Jim knew, either.

He pushed off the bed and left Blair's room.

When you love someone, to the point of passion, wouldn't you show your feelings by making love to that person?

That's what he'd thought, with Carolyn. That was why he married her. It had made sense at the time. Then it turned out that passion wasn't enough (if it had been genuinely present at all), or he was just very bad at showing it, or...?

There were other examples of his failures from his past, which his memory quickly shied away from since they were so painful.

He pictured himself trying to fumble around with Blair.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. What a joke.

He wasn't, he realized, even uneasy about touching Blair intimately. The idea didn't offend him on any level. It was the idea that he would be so eager to please... only to find that he really couldn't.

Then what would become of them?

It takes two, Carolyn had said. Yes, she was apparently now taking some responsibility for the failure of their marriage.

It didn't help.

Jim sighed out loud as he moved into the living room. He wondered what he wanted from Blair. He imagined Blair entering the loft and heading for the refrigerator.  What was the most wonderful thing that Blair could do or say?

He could turn to Jim and say, "I really love you, man. I'm going to stay here forever because I like it. I like you."

I want to keep him, Jim realized.

He wondered if that were possible. And if so, how he should go about doing it.

Jim had no answers and he resolved to stop thinking about it. Until he was driving along with Blair and Blair looked out the side window and said, "Man, look at that!"

Jim looked. She had long, slender legs and long blonde hair and walked briskly along the sidewalk.

"You're celibate," Jim reminded, taking great satisfaction in that temporary fact. "Remember?"

Blair grumbled and turned to him. "How much longer?"

Jim had to think a while before he could remember. "It was three weeks yesterday."  Damn.

Blair grinned. "I'm skating. Six more days and you're the housewife at the Ellison loft, pal."

"Skating, huh?"

"Yep. This wasn't even that tough."  Blair looked back out the window, though the blonde was long gone.

"Want to up the criteria of the bet for those final six days?" Jim challenged. He wasn't sure how they could do that, except perhaps eliminate jerking off.

Blair snorted, glancing at him briefly. "No way, man. Maybe we should stop and you can pick up one of those little maid outfits."  He laughed wickedly. "I'll be out banging some pretty thing and you'll be cleaning house."

Damn.  Jim didn't want to lose the bet. It was a matter of macho pride. He really didn't mind the idea of doing all the housework; he kept the loft pretty spic and span, anyway. Meals would be a little challenging, especially since he and Blair hadn't agreed on just how frequent the meals would be.  They both ate out a lot, out of necessity.

He really didn't want Blair out "banging some pretty thing".

Damn, he was feeling possessive.

I want to keep him.

I do.

For me. Just for me

END PART TWO   

THREE