SELF DISCOVERY 101

© December 2001 by Charlotte Frost

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

Blair was expecting the knock when it came.   Grateful that his visitor was on time, he went to the door and opened it.  “Hi, Wendy.”

 

Dressed in a suit, Wendy Hawthorne smiled at him and held out the video tape case.  “Here it is, Blair.  I’m afraid our station might not have had the best angle, but….”  She shrugged.

 

He accepted the cassette.  “I doubt it matters all that much.”  A nervous laugh.  “It was only about a minute or so.”

 

“Sixty seconds exactly,” she informed him.  “But the tape has some innocuous lead-in ‘dead air’.”

 

“Thanks for the warning.”  He stepped back.  “Would you like to come in?”  He hoped the answer was no, because he wanted to make sure he had time to view the tape while there was no chance of Jim returning.

 

She shook her head.  “I’ve got to run.  Deadlines.”

 

He nodded, feeling unsure of how to end their conversation without being awkward.  “Thanks,” he said, swallowing thickly.

 

She nodded at him, her gaze seeming to see into him.  She looked as though she were about to turn away.  But then, unsteadily, she said, “Blair.”

 

He waited.

 

She crossed her arms.  “I know what it’s like to want to please your superiors so much that you feel compelled to stoop to an unethical act.”

 

He gazed back at her, having nothing to say.  She had no clue.

 

She smiled sadly.  “Don’t let it destroy you.  If you have to start over, start over.  But don’t let yourself believe that you’re a bad person.  You have to dust yourself off and move on.  It’s the only way.”

 

He nodded slowly, wondering how many of her words applied to him.

 

“Goodbye, Blair.”  She turned away.

 

“Thanks, Wendy,” he called to her, before shutting the door.  He opened the cassette box as he moved to the TV.  He knelt and placed the tape in the VCR, then grabbed the remote.  He pushed “Play”.

 

There was dead air, then a view of any empty podium going in and out of focus, obviously from Wendy and the cameraman making sure they had all their equipment set up properly at the university conference room.  Blair fast-forwarded until he saw himself enter.  He sat back on the floor and watched the tape run.

 

The Blair Sandburg of four weeks ago – which seemed like a lifetime in many ways – came to a halt before the podium with a sheet of paper, on which he had scribbled the words that would destroy so much.

 

“Hi. Thank you all for coming.”

 

At least he had managed, despite his trembling, to be polite to the press that had hounded himself and Jim.

 

“I just have a short speech prepared here. Um....”

 

Four weeks later, his throat tightened just as it did on screen.

 

“In our media-informed culture, a scientist receives validation by having his or her work published and after years of research there is great personal satisfaction when that goal is reached.”

 

Simple fact.  He’d gotten through that part with just a quaver or two.

 

“However, my desire to impress both my peers and the world at large drove me to an immoral and unethical act.”

 

In modern society, tough, macho athletes cried on television – sometimes outright bawling – when they announced retirement or changing teams.  So, he was in good company, wasn’t he?  At least the words were clear, he comforted himself.

 

“My thesis ‘The Sentinel’ is a fraud.”

 

Blair gulped as his stomach tightened.

 

“While my paper does quote ancient source material, the documentation proving that James Ellison...”

 

Blair put his hand over his eyes, unable to look at himself.  A long moment passed before he heard himself continue.

 

“...actually possesses hyper-senses is fraudulent. Looking back, I can say that it's a good piece of fiction.”

 

He opened his eyes, peeking through the fingers of his hands.  Had he really expected that last sentence to come off as funny?  It obviously hadn’t.

 

 “I apologize for this deception. My only hope is that I can be forgiven for the pain I've caused those that are close to me.”

 

Jim.  That last sentence had been solely for Jim, and he’d had no way of knowing if Jim would even be able to see it.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Thank God that’s over with.  It was all he’d been able to think at the time.  It’s what he thought now.

 

Blair took a deep breath and rewound the tape.  He made himself watch it again, all the way through.  At least I didn’t start bawling like a baby, though I felt like it.  Maybe some people didn’t even realize how choked up I was, he thought hopefully, because they were too focused on the words.

 

He watched it over and over.  By the eighth time, he felt no emotion.  Is that a good thing? Maybe it means this is truly over and done with?

 

He ejected the tape, put it in its case.  He took it into his room and tossed it on the desk somewhere.  Blair felt refreshed.  In two weeks, he would start courses at the Police Academy.  He still had his hair and intended to keep it.  He’d filed a protest against the Academy’s hair length policy, based upon reasons of religious rights.  There was no question it was a cheap shot on his part, but no more ludicrous than the policy in the first place.  The point of short hair was to keep it from interfering with one’s ability to do a job, such as it blowing in one’s face at a crucial moment.  Well, he’d spent most of his life with long hair and knew how to keep it out of the way.  He’d pointed out in his protest that most people couldn’t even tell he had long hair when he had it tied back in a neat ponytail, tucked inside the collar of his shirt, or underneath a hat or helmet.  He’d made an agreement with himself that if his protest kept him from entering the Academy, then he would withdraw it and cut his hair.  But the odds were on his side.  He would be testing out of most of the courses.  As for the others, he would probably be finished with them and have graduated before the bureaucracy had ruled on his protest, for they had agreed to let him attend classes while they were deciding.  By then, even if they ruled against him, it would be a moot point.

 

In reality, his preference for long hair had nothing to do with any religion.  He was a scientist (at least until recently) who studied many religions as a way of understanding people, both past and present.  Though raised Jewish, he didn’t believe in any particular religion more than any other.  But his protest to the Academy pointed out that his hair had a great deal to do with his own individual spirituality. He wrote his protest while knowing his words were complete bullshit; but by the time he’d finished the powerful letter, he had convinced himself that, indeed, his hair did seem to affect the way he felt about his relationship with whatever intelligence there might be that ruled the cosmos and all of existence.  His hair said, “I am who I am,” just like his earrings had (though he seemed to have grown out of any desire to wear jewelry on his body).  It was important to know who one was in the grand scheme of things.

 

Of course, Jim and Simon had been appalled that he’d filed the protest.  They couldn’t figure out why he was trying to alienate himself from the very institution that was going to allow him to officially “belong” to the brotherhood of the Cascade PD.  As though belonging had ever been important to a liberal, fast-track, marches-to-his-own-drummer man such as himself.  Thankfully, he hadn’t needed to deal with their disapproval after the initial shock.  He had little reason to hang around the PD until he graduated, and he and Jim had so many personal issues to talk through that the formal protest about his hair was too trite for either of them to spend energy arguing about.

 

Blair smiled.  The one shining bright spot in the entire upheaval of his life was that he and Jim were actually working on their personal issues.  There was no more running away.

 

 

 

PART ONE

 

In his mind’s eye, she was on top of him.  Slick, well-trained vaginal muscles squeezed around him.  Blair groaned, both out loud and within his mind.  With the beauty of fantasy, her large breast was stuffed in his mouth, even as she sat straight and tall while she drew reams of pleasure from his center, undulating while straddled atop of him.

 

Man, this is going to be so good, he thought, stroking himself with reverence.  As he’d gotten older, exciting fantasies to accompany masturbation had seemed fewer and farther between.  Then he’d stumbled upon the idea of a slender Asian woman with huge breasts and incredible muscles.  Once it had lodged itself in his mind, self-indulgence had become something to look forward to, rather than a necessary release of frustration or excess tension.  Just like in adolescence….

 

He grunted.  Today’s session was the best.  He’d kept the fantasy going quite a while now, refusing to grant himself release.  It was going to be so good when he finally pulled the trigger.

 

Sounds outside.  Not fantasy.  Rattling of the lock.  Turning of the door handle.

 

Fuck.    

 

Don’t panic, he soothed himself, even as the peak drew back from the brewing orgasm.  Heavy footsteps walked into the loft.  He has no reason to come in here.  Oh, shit, I have my door partially open!

 

Resigned to the fact that the greatest of orgasms was now lost to him, Blair focused on completion.  The Asian girl had disappeared, and now all he had was a fistful of his own flesh and the desire to finish as quickly as possible.

 

“Hey, Sandburg?”  The voice was coming from the kitchen.

 

Jeezus, fuck.  He pulled desperately at himself, feeling the volcano recede.  He pulled harder.

 

Footsteps neared the French doors.  The obscene sound of them parting.  “Hey, Chief, here’s – “

 

His balls cried in protest as his male juices were strangled with impropriety.  Blair gasped painfully as he looked at the doorway from hooded eyes.  Jim was there, one foot inside the room, holding a package, his mouth open.

 

Suddenly, Jim threw a hand – the one with the package – over his forehead, turning his face away.  “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”  He backed out quickly, footsteps moving back to the kitchen.  “Sorry, Chief,” he left in his wake.

 

Blair rose up, leaning back on his elbows.  The apology was sincere – as it should have been.  Jim knew better than to walk in without giving Blair a chance to respond when Jim had first called his name.  It was simple courtesy, understood for eons by those who lived under the same roof. 

 

Jim had had some package in his hand, and his desire to deliver it – to be helpful – had overridden his sense of common decency.  He must have had the dials turned way down, as they often were upon arriving to the comfort of home.  Surely, walking in on his roommate at an inopportune time was punishment enough.  Blair decided he wasn’t going to waste energy on pretending to be angry or appalled or indignant.

 

He glanced down at himself.  His cock lay to one side upon his sweats, like dead flesh, even though it wasn’t shriveled.  It only shriveled after release.  Blair grit his teeth as he tucked it away, still feeling the ache of frustration in his groin.  He wiped driblets of pre-cum on the spread and let out a long, steady breath.  It helped.

 

Glancing at the doorway while using a moist wipe, he wondered how he was going to face Jim and the necessary awkwardness.  Pots and pans were being pulled from the cupboard.  He’s going to fix dinner.   That was a pleasant thought.  Granted, this was Monday, one of their days off since they’d been working most weekends after Blair had earned his badge a year ago, and they did usually try to eat real meals when they were both home on their days off.

 

Blair laid back, a hand behind his head.  He fantasized about emerging into the kitchen and making a crack about how he hadn’t been laid in a while.  As though a man needs an excuse for jerking off.  Then he considered some mumbo-jumbo about human nature and the need for release. 

 

Release of what? 

 

Of tension, his mind immediately supplied. 

 

What tension? He snorted to himself.  There hadn’t been anything in particular to be uptight about lately.  He and Jim were working some pretty mundane cases, as far as Major Crimes went.

 

All right, he decided boldly.  I’ll ’fess up.  “I was beating my dick because it feels good.  Satisfied?”  And Jim would laugh, amused in a way that would gently rub in the teasing.

 

Yeah, like you never jerk off, Blair continued their fantasy conversation.

 

He took another deep breath.   What’s with the defensiveness? he asked himself.  He had no reason to defend himself for jerking off.  He had no obligation to explain it.  What’s more, he suddenly realized with relief, Jim wouldn’twant to hear any explanations.  Jim was sorry.  Jim was the one who had caused the awkward situation, and he had immediately admitted his faux pas and apologized.      

 

Not before getting a good look at my shrinking cock.  Blair frowned.  Some masculine part of him still wanted to feel indignant about being violated.  He probably thinks my cock is small.  He didn’t see how huge and thick it was right before he walked in the door.  He’d have to repeat the fantasy next time – next time when he was sure Jim was going to be gone for at least thirty minutes.  Maybe an hour.  Then he’d have that long, thick, throbbing erection back in his hand.

 

Noises continued from the kitchen.

 

Blair sighed again.  The release of carbon dioxide from his body relaxed him even more, and he barely noticed the ache in his nuts.  Time to face the music.  He rolled over the side of the bed, grabbed his hair band, and created a ponytail just before pushing through the French doors.

 

“Hey, Chief.”  It was stated as a greeting, Jim turning away to reach for the overhead cabinet.

 

Blair watched the strong back muscles ripple underneath the flannel shirt.  Jim hadn’t said it like he was struggling to be nonchalant.  The words had sounded genuinely casual.  Sincere.

 

Blair banished the defensive one-liners he’d been stabling in the back of his mind.  Instead, he reached for the package on the counter.  “What’s this?”  It was about two feet long and half as wide, and a few inches thick.

 

Jim turned back around, a couple of bottles of spices in his hand.  “That’s what I was wondering,” he said, stirring a pot on the stove with his free hand.

 

That’s why I walked in on you¸ Blair heard behind the statement.  He glanced at the pan long enough to see that it was spaghetti sauce.  Water was starting to boil on another burner.

 

“I didn’t think you had any relatives in South Dakota,” Jim continued, now adding spices to the sauce.

 

“I don’t,” Blair said, picking up the package and sitting in a chair next to the dinner table.  “Crystal Evans” was the name at the top of the return address line.  “Crystal, Crystal,” he muttered to himself, tearing off the brown paper wrapper.  He knew he should know who she was, but like many in the teaching professions, he couldn’t immediately match any personal data, let alone a face, to the name.  But the back of his mind was working on it.

 

When the paper came away, it revealed an old, scratched wooden box.  Blair opened it.  Then he grinned.  “Check it out!”  He carefully picked up the long, slender gift, then held it out for his partner’s benefit.

 

Jim stepped closer.  “What is it?”  Upon asking the question, it was obvious that he knew, since he wrinkled his nose with distaste and returned to the stove.

 

Blair put the gift down and picked up the card.  “Blair,” he read aloud.  “Just a little something to show my appreciation for all you’ve done to help me along my path.  After spending the six months in the Black Hills, I could write an entire thesis on the importance of this pipe to the Lakota people.  But I assume you probably already know at least a little about it, so I won’t risk the writer’s cramp.  A card of its history is enclosed.”  Blair continued to study the long pipe, noting the wear lines that indicated it was rather old.

 

“A pipe?” Jim asked in disbelief.  “Who would send a non-smoker a pipe?”

 

Blair rolled his eyes.  Surely, Jim was just pretending to be obtuse.  Still, he turned in his chair to enlighten his dense roommate.  “You don’t smoke it,” he scolded.  Then he realized that didn’t make sense.  “I mean, you do smoke it.  Or, rather, the Native American Indians smoked it.  But she didn’t send it to me to smoke.  It’s…. you know, a keepsake.  Like an ornament.”

 

Jim wrinkled his nose again, dumping spaghetti into the boiling water.  “Smells like it’s been smoked.”

 

“Yeah, because it’s been used,” Blair said.  He gazed at the slim wood reverently.  “Probably decades ago.  Maybe a hundred years or more.  Then the white man came and it probably lay out on some battlefield for a long time, then when Wounded Knee and such made people more sympathetic toward the Indians, somebody figured out that stuff like this might actually be valuable some day.”  He answered the next question before it could be asked.  “People like me who have an interest in other cultures.”

 

“So who’s this Crystal woman?”

 

“Someone who used to be in my study group a few years back.  We’ve stayed in touch.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Jim goaded, obviously certain there had to be more.  “Helped her on her path, huh?” he quoted teasingly.

 

“Yeah,” Blair said sincerely, remembering now.  “She was sort of… lost.  You know?”  He waited until Jim looked at him to see his seriousness.  “Came from a rich family and was all confused about everything and didn’t know what she wanted.  Then she got enraptured by the ways of the Plains Indians.  I wasn’t sure she would stick with it, but I encouraged her to follow her heart, despite her parents threatening to pull her out of Rainier and all that crap.”  He looked back at the pipe, nodding.  “She’s now studying their ways in the Black Hills of South Dakota.  I’m proud of her.”

 

Jim came to stand over him, and Blair – for the thousandth time, it seemed – found himself having to look way up to meet those blue eyes.  Jim said, “No offense, Chief, but can you put that thing away?  The smell is giving me a headache.”

 

“Oh, sure.” Blair stood to oblige, realizing he shouldn’t have waited for Jim to mention it.  Even he could smell some of the ancient tobacco on it.  He picked up the box and took it and the pipe into his room and placed them on his bureau.  He came back out, brushing off his hands.  “Are we having anything else with the spaghetti?”

 

“If we are, you’re making it.”

 

Blair opened the refrigerator and bent to pull out the crisper, feeling Jim brush past his rear.  There was just enough lettuce and other fresh vegetables to make two small salads.  He grabbed the plastic bags.

 

“Chief?”

 

Glad he was able to get the bags of carrots, radishes, and celery out in one hand – and the head of lettuce in the other – Blair let the door drift shut as he placed the vegetables on the counter next to the sink.  He pulled out two bowls.  “Yeah?” he said with a quick glance over his shoulder.

 

“Don’t take this question the wrong way.”

 

Blair furrowed his brow in puzzlement.  This sounded serious.  He turned around.

 

Jim was leaning back against the counter, next to the stove top, his arms crossed, but his face looking relaxed.  Then he chuckled upon seeing Blair’s worried expression.  “Come on, Chief, promise me you won’t blow this all out of proportion and think I mean something other than what I mean, when I ask this question.”

 

Blair’s heart thundered.  “What question?”  Then he suddenly knew what it was going to be.  Jim hadn’t really been that casual about catching him masturbating.  He was going to ask a question in a deadly serious tone – perhaps something about the size of his pitifully shrinking cock – and then fall on the floor in a fit of manly giggles, laughing at his own joke.  Laughing at Blair.  It was guy stuff, Blair had come to realize a long time ago when he grew flustered with the way his “friends” teased him. About his hair.  About his liberal views.  About his height.  About his mother.  About his upbringing.  About… just about everything. 

 

Jim glanced down and rubbed a food morsel off his hand.  Then he shrugged, as though the question he was going to ask should have already been figured out.  He met Blair’s eyes, his own growing intent.  “I was just thinking that since things are pretty settled now and, you know, you’re pulling in an acceptable income, and I’ve got this sentinel thing under control…,”  He shrugged again in an over-exaggeration of casualness.  “I just thought maybe you should start thinking about getting your own place.”

 

So you can masturbate in private, Blair finished for him.  It wasn’t a bad idea, really.  He turned back around to the salad bowls.

 

Almost timidly – if such a word could be applied to Ellison – Jim said, “You aren’t going to think this means I’m throwing you out, are you?” 

 

Blair hadn’t even formed an answer before Jim spoke again.  “I’m not saying I want you to leave, Chief.  I’m just saying it would be understandable if… you know.  If you moved somewhere close and I needed you,” Blair could imagine another shrug, “I could just call you.  And of course, we’d still be working together almost every day.”

 

Blair hardly heard the last, for his mind had tripped into fantasyland.  He was sleeping in the big bed – the master bedroom – at some apartment a few blocks from here.  It was the middle of the night.  The cell phone beside the bed rang.  Groggily, he reached for it.  Thankfully, the little screen was all lit up, so he could press the right button.  “Hello?” he’d answer while still blinking the sleep away.  “Sandburg?” It would be Jim’s anxious voice on the other line.  “Something’s wrong.  My senses are, like… going crazy.  Outta control.  I need you here, man.”   Blair would sit up, instantly alert.  “Okay, Jim, just calm down.  Calm down.  Relax.  Focus on the dials, man.  Five minutes, that’s all.  I’ll be right there.”  “Okay,” Jim would agree, assured and relieved.  They’d hang up simultaneously.  Blair would throw on his clothes, charge down the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator.  Then he’d be in his primed Volvo and gun his car the few blocks to the loft.  He would help Jim.  Save Jim.  He would be Jim’s hero.

 

“How come I’m talking to your back?”

 

Blair grinned at the tone of insecurity, his hands deftly working at chopping up celery into each of the two salad bowls.  “Because I’m making the salads, man.”  His grin widened, loving the comeback.  Then he wiped the smirk off his face and turned around, showing proper respect.  “Okay, I got it,” he said amiably.  “You want me to look for another apartment, but you’re not throwing me out.”  He nodded toward the stove.  “It’s splattering.”

 

Jim quickly turned to the stove and lowered the gas levels, tending to their dinner.  When all was under control, he said, “I don’t want you to leave, Chief.  I’m just saying I understand, if you’d like to.  It’s not like you have to be here anymore.  I’m good at this sentinel thing now.”  A beat, then, “Thanks to you.”

 

Blair picked up a salad bowl in each hand.  As he stepped past Jim, he looked him in the eye.  “Thanks for the afterthought,” he noted, then grinned again when his back was turned.  Inside, he was relishing the fact that he seemed to have Jim so off balance that he was making Jim work at this communication.  This communication that seemed surprisingly easy, all things considered.

 

“You’re playing with me,” Jim accused, but his tone was amused, perhaps a touch admiring.

 

Blair put the salad bowls in their places.  “What’s the matter?” he asked, studying the table.  “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it back?”  He went back into the kitchen, not looking at Jim as he grabbed more dishes for setting the table.

 

His ponytail was gently yanked.  “Who put a quarter in you and pushed ‘start’?”

 

You did, Blair silently replied.  He wished Jim tugged his hair more often.  That small gesture carried so much affection. 

 

As Blair concentrated on laying dishes and silverware out on the table, Jim took the main course from the stove.

 

Blair supposed that his “start” button had been pushed from the moment he’d first heard about Jim Ellison, first realized that his dissertation idea was a genuine human reality.  He’d been bubbling enthusiasm ever since.  Except… now he needed a quarter on occasion to get the bubbles going.  Hmm.  He’d never noticed that before.  But apparently Jim had.

 

He was still wondering if there was something wrong with him– his lack of consistent bubbling – when Jim put a dish of spaghetti and sauce onto the table and sat down.  Jim scooped a huge serving onto his plate.

 

Blair plopped into his own seat, placing salad dressings on the table.  “Okay, I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.  “But really, I’ve never needed a lot of space, things, whatever.  And I’m used to going without much privacy.”  He shrugged, concluding the discussion.  “So, I doubt I’ll want to move.”     

 

Jim grunted an acknowledgement, his mouth full of dangling spaghetti.

 

---

 

Who put a quarter in you and pushed Start?

 

The question – full of affection – replayed itself over and over in Blair’s mind as he stared into darkness.  He wondered at himself, at how such a small thing like that question could mean so much.  Just like when Jim yanked his ponytail.  Just like when Jim grabbed him, or shoved him away – all in play.  It wasn’t like he never played back.  He could do his share of grabbing and shoving, too.  When he did, it was because he was about to burst with love.  He wondered – bordering on assumed – that Jim was feeling that same bursting when he was the one doing the playful gestures.  Or playful words.

 

“All right, my little guppy,” Jim had said to him once.  When had that been?  Perhaps a couple of years ago now.  When Jim was teaching him fly fishing.  That was a one-liner that in particular puzzled Blair.  Had puzzled him ever since it was spoken.  He didn’t like being called “little” anything, since it punctuated his lack of height.  He’d had to deal with the unpleasant stigma of being short his entire life.  He’d learned to laugh it off most of the time, rather than being defensive about it.  But when Jim called him “my little guppy”, he’d glowed inside.  He’d glowed some more when he’d caught his first fish in a matter of moments, and Jim had beamed with pride.

 

Blair had analyzed it, accepted it, and gone on.  Analyzed it, accepted it, and gone on.  Analyzed it, accepted it, and gone on.   But having “gone on” meant that, eventually, he ended up back where he’d started.  And the mental gymnastics would begin again.

 

From an objective standpoint, it all seemed so simple.  He’d grown up with the complete, one hundred percent absence of a male role model.  No one to teach him about carpentry, about machinery.  No one to teach him how to shave.  To tie his tie.  No one to kick his ass – even verbally – when he got out of hand.   No one to give him that birds-and-the-bees talk about sex and explain how his hormones worked.  No one to say, “I love you and I care about you, stupid, so do as I say or you’ll have to answer to my masculine superiority.”

 

And then, at the age of twenty-six, here came Jim Ellison into his life.  Showing him how to fly fish.  Being the stoic stone-face, like Jim’s own father had been.  Being uneasy with emotion.  Threatening to kick Blair’s ass when he did wrong.  But saying, “I love you and I care about you” in dozens of miniature ways.

 

Blair rolled onto his side, determined to shut the brain circuits down and settle into sleep.  In the effort to blank his mind, a scene from the recent past unfolded before him.  The last time he and Jim had gone to the races was about six months ago.  As they viewed the horses being saddled for one race, Blair watched sympathetically as a young man self-consciously led a nervous thoroughbred around in short circles in front his saddling stall, the tack having already been applied.  The young man jerked a little on the bridle, trying to still the jittery thoroughbred.  An elderly man – surely the trainer and the handler’s father, judging by appearances – grumbled at the younger man and grabbed the reins from him, and then walked the horse around himself, obviously his experience indicating that racehorses were best handled with minimal attempts to restrain them.  Blair had felt bad for the young man, for he was obviously embarrassed at having failed at this task – probably his first try – at simply being able to lead a horse around the paddock.  He wasn’t doing it right, and he had disappointed his father to such a degree that the elderly man had felt compelled to take over, which had put a stamp of failure on the younger man’s inadequacy.  It had hurt Blair, watching the little interchange.

 

Yet, in most healthy father-son relationships there came a point when the father saw his son as an equal, rather than as an inferior that needed to continually prove himself.  Blair wondered when that time occurred in the father-son relationship.  He had always been curious as to when sons no longer felt intimidated by their fathers; but instead, felt they could speak to them man-to-man.  As for Jim’s relationship with his own father, Blair was certain that line had been crossed – finally – when Jim had unraveled the murder mystery from their past.  Not only were father and son finally able to express some concern for each other, but their relationship had become more cordial since then.  Jim no longer felt the struggling son when around his father; that was obvious from Blair’s observations within the elder Ellison’s home.

 

But when had the line been crossed in their relationship?  Blair knew that, the next time he and Jim went fishing, Jim wouldn’t call him “my little guppy”.  Though the phrase had been highly affectionate – and Blair had basked in it – it no longer was appropriate for the stage of maturity their relationship had reached.

 

But… when had they reached it?  What had Blair done – or what had happened within the bubble of their lives – that had caused Jim to see him as an equal, rather than as a younger observer/roommate/friend whom he both needed and was sometimes irritated by?  When had the irritation and age superiority given away to simple… love?

 

Blair drifted into sleep.  There were simple answers – Jim bringing him back to life, his completion of the police academy courses – but some part of him suspected that it wasn’t that cut and dried.

 

---

 

“You’re awfully quiet today, Chief.”

 

It wasn’t a complaint.  It had come out as simply a statement of fact.

 

Blair pursed his lips together, trying not to smile.  They sat in the truck, parked on a busy downtown street, waiting for a suspect to show so they could question him.  He and Jim were both wearing shades.

 

“It’s hot,” he finally replied, complaining.

 

Jim sighed.  “I could turn on the air conditioning, but I think the engine would overheat, sitting here on idle.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Blair sighed back, meaning it.  He thought he almost caught a whiff of the superior tone.  Almost.  And that was okay, he decided.

 

Blair shifted restlessly, wishing he weren’t so hung up on behavior within male relationships, and saw a Have You Hugged Your Child Today? bumper sticker on a passing car.

 

Through the corner of his eye, he saw Jim look over at him.  The older man’s expression was commenting again about how quiet Blair was.  He was obviously just a touch agitated at the lack of routine behavior.

 

“I’ve was thinking about The Brady Bunch,” Blair told him.  It was more or less true, after all.

 

As he’d hoped, that pulled a degree of animation from the normally impassive face.  “The Brady Bunch?” Jim returned in disbelief.  A snort.  “Chief, obsessing over The Brady Bunch is even more absurd than my obsessing overBonanza.”

 

Blair shrugged.  “Not really.  It’s just our different viewpoints over family bonds.”

 

“Family bonds,” Jim repeated doubtfully.

 

Blair nodded.  “Yeah, family bonds.  See,” he turned in his seat, needing the room to gesture with his hands as he got into his subject, “for a man like you, raised in a non-emotive household environment, and being, well, you know, sort of this weird freak to your father, so he doesn’t know how to handle you, how to help you… to say nothing of how to show love for you….”  Blair watched a mouth corner twitch in discomfort.  “Well, you get a glimpse of something like Bonanza and – WOW!”  Blair threw up his hands dramatically.  “Boom.  The ultimate in male bonding within the western family structure.  Not only do you have a father and three sons, but they all work toward the same goal – running the ranch.  The sons are old enough that the father respects each of the sons as equals, doting on their individual strengths.  And the brothers respect each other as equals.  And, best of all, they’re so busy being a family together that it’s really hard for any of them to get serious about a woman.”

 

“And if they do, the woman is automatically doomed to die,” Jim quipped.

 

“Right.  But better yet,” Blair pointed out coyly, “not only is any woman who loves any of those men doomed to die, but each of the three men have a different mother.  So… think about it.  There’s no feminine principal, so to speak, bonding those guys together.  They can’t even reflect fondly upon ‘Mom’, because none of them had the same experience with the mother figure.  So – “

 

“Except Hop Sing,” Jim deadpanned.

 

“Yeah, except Hop Sing,” Blair played along, then returned to his subject.  “So, Bonanza is like this – this… pure maleness.  While still retaining the family structure.  It’s the ultimate in the subliminal homoerotic experience.”

 

Jim’s mouth fell open.  Then he shut it, the corners grimacing.  “Sandburg, you’re sick.  Count on an anthropologist to try to turn such a white-bread family show as Bonanza into gay sex.”

 

Blair sputtered.  Jim sounded like he really believed that.  “No, man,” he emphasized.  “Not gay sex.  Subliminal homoerotic messages doesn’t have anything to do with the act of sex in and of itself.  It doesn’t even really have anything to do with being gay.  It has to do with sexual undertones between peoples of the same gender.  It’s really no more sexual, on a literal level, than Oedipus complexes.” 

 

Jim was shaking his head in stubborn denial.  “Rationalize it any way you want, but you anthropological people still want to turn everything into sex.”

 

“We don’t turn everything into sex,” Blair defended calmly.  “It’s human beings who turn everything into sex.  Well, animals, too.  Really, that’s what life is:  sex.  Whether you’re an animal, an insect, a single-celled amoeba… or a human.  Reproducing ourselves is the drive that stimulates all our actions.  Even us sitting here in this truck.  Ultimately, it’s sexual.  Because we want to catch this Anderson guy to keep him from hiring anybody else to kill.  So, catching him ultimately insures our individual survival, so none of us will be killed via his actions in the future.  And our individual survival means that we have a chance of living long enough in order to reproduce ourselves.”

 

“Even when you use a condom,” Jim said, clearly amused at his own cleverness and sarcasm.

 

Blair was prepared for something like that.  “The homo sapiens brain has developed so that we can use our intelligence to override our instincts.  We can choose when to mate, including choosing not to mate at all.  For some people, that might be the ultimate need for survival – not getting involved in a relationship.”

 

Jim looked bored.  “So, what does all this subliminal gay crap have to do with The Brady Bunch?”

 

Blair was flattered that Jim still remembered the beginning of the conversation.  “It doesn’t have anything to do with it.  I was talking about your obsession with Bonanza.  It’s – “

 

“Let’s talk about your obsession with The Brady Bunch,” Jim interjected smugly.

 

Double dose of flattery.  “Okay.  I was just reading in the paper this morning about how there’s something of a Brady Bunch comeback.  You know, the baby boomers trying to relive their youth.”

 

“You aren’t a baby boomer.”

 

“Right.  But I’ve seen The Brady Bunch.  And every time I see it or hear about it, it makes my wheels spin, because I want to scream to the world, ‘Does ANYONE know of ANY family that truly BEHAVES like that?’”

 

“Calm down, Chief,” Jim cautioned.  Then, apologetically, “I never saw that show much.  Behaves like what?”

 

“Super, super, super white bread,” Blair replied with disgust.  “The blandest vanilla.  No color.  No spice.  The biggest conflict that show has is what one of the girls is going to wear to the high school prom.  The parents never raised their voices.  The children instantly made amends for any wrongs they did.   Just the blandest, most uninteresting upper middle class American family I can ever imagine.  And the viewers LOVE it!” Blair punctuated in disbelief.

 

Jim chuckled.  “I think you’re trying to over-analyze something simple,” he said, but sounded sympathetic.  “Maybe the viewers love it because they wish that’s what their families were like.”

 

Blair shook his head, not wanting to hear it.  “If I were any of those children, I would be a teenage suicide, for reasons of sheer boredom and lack of stimulation in my life.”

 

That brought another chuckle.

 

“But you know what’s weird?” Blair looked directly at Jim.  After all, it really was weird.  He waited until he had Jim’s full attention again.  “Those parents – as perfect as they were – never hugged their perfect kids.  Now that’s a crime.”

 

Jim seemed to consider that while gazing out the windshield.  Then he said, “Honestly, Chief, I don’t think you have to be a touchy-feely person in order to be a good parent.”

 

“Of course not,” Blair said easily.  “Naomi is a perfect example of that.”

 

Jim looked over at him, frowning. 

 

Bullseye. Blair felt his heart pound.  This conversation was fun. 

 

“Naomi wasn’t a touchy-feely mother?” Jim asked, his tone hinting at disapproval.

 

“No, man,” Blair replied.  “I mean, she was a loving parent.  She cared about me, cared very much that I was raised to be as liberal as she was.  And, you know, I can remember being really small and sitting in her lap and stuff.  I can remember her or her ‘boyfriends’ putting an arm around me or whatever.  But it really wasn’t like…,” He shrugged, suddenly at a loss for words.  Not sure what he really meant, what he was trying to say here.

 

“Like what?”  Jim’s voice was carefully level.  Concerned.

 

Blair shrugged again, suddenly uncomfortable.  “I don’t know,” he snorted, trying to demean himself in order to change the subject.  “The grass is always greener, right?”

 

The dark sunglasses gazed at him for a long time.  And then they looked away, Jim seeming resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to get a clear answer.

 

Blair bit his lower lip.  He wanted to continue this conversation.  Over time, Jim had become more talkative around him, and he liked sharing conversation with him – actually getting more than grunts and growls from his partner.  He tried to subtly take a breath and release it, then realized that it was hardly subtle with Mr. Sentinel sitting right in the truck.  Still, his determination to be more relaxed was working.  His voice was casual when he said, “I never believed parents really behaved like that.  You know, I’d be watching something on TV or whatever, and see people hug – non-sexually – and not just parents and children, and I’d think, ‘This is so phony, because people don’t reallybehave like that.’  Because, you know, from what I’d seen, living with Naomi, is that if you kind of, sort of liked somebody, then you had sex with them.  And if you couldn’t stand them, but were sexually attracted to them, then you had sex with them then, too.   Touching was all about sex.  You don’t hug somebody you aren’t going to have sex with.”

 

Ellison pulled off his sunglasses, staring at Blair.  Frowning, he asked, “Blair, were you molested?”

 

Blair blinked.  He was amazed at the concern.  The use of his first name.  He understood why Jim would think he was putting two and two together and coming up with four.  But… “No.  Oh, man, no.  Naomi wouldn’t have stood for anything like that.  I mean, she wanted me to not be shy about sex and I knew lots about sex at an early age – when I was eight I walked in the bedroom once and she was part of some orgy – but she drew the line at me participating.  And it was suggested more than once by some ‘friend’ or other that maybe I should participate.  But she was always firm that I should be able to make my own choices, and I couldn’t do that until I was old enough.”

 

Jim shook his head, having put his shades back on, and drew a heavy breath.  “Eight years old, huh?”

 

“Yeah.”  Blair felt a sense of unease, that somehow he’d misrepresented his mother to Jim.  “It’s not like it messed me up or anything, to see that.  All those bodies in bed together.“  He chuckled.  “I was just way ahead of my age group, man, when it came to sexual things.  And I was well into my teens before it finally got drilled into my head that there’s some things you just don’t talk about to casual acquaintances.  I mean, because of the ultra liberal environment I’d been raised in, I didn’t get that the average person considered sex to be a taboo subject.  A group of us would be talking, and I’d start talking about sex like nothing, and everyone – well, girls especially – would walk away, because they would get so uncomfortable.  They must have thought I was some kind of sex fiend.”

 

“Imagine that,” Jim said blandly.

 

The humor felt good.  “When, really,” Blair continued, “I was just talking about sex the way other people talk about their professors in class or shopping for clothes.  And I was, like, so amazed at how little most everyone else knew about sex.  For instance, in high school, some kids didn’t even know that there was such a thing as anal sex.  And I remember,” Blair laughed, shaking his head at the memory, “there was one girl who actually thought that oral sex was sex on the telephone!”

 

Jim threw his head back and laughed.

 

Blair was delighted with the reaction.  “I’m not kidding.  So, I’d feel this obligation to, like, enlighten everybody I came into contact with. ‘Hey, man, the definition of sexual intercourse is not all there is to know about sex.’  And the next thing I know, I’m really lonely because it’s like everybody is avoiding me.  Took me a while to ‘get it’.  That talking about sex is naughty in polite conversation.  Then Rainier was something of a fresh start.”  Blair suddenly felt drained, having wound down.

 

They were quiet for a long time, and Blair started to wonder just how long they were going to wait for this Anderson character in the summer heat.

 

Jim’s voice interrupted his thoughts.  “Then, if you thought touching was all about sex, why does it bother you that the Brady Bunch parents didn’t get touchy-feely with their kids?”

 

This was cool that Jim was so interested.   Blair replied, “Because by the time I ever saw The Brady Bunch, I was in college.  And I’d been to friends’ houses and I’d seen how some of them interacted with their parents.  Some people really did hug their kids and stuff.  And even professors who were greeting each other – sometimes I’d see them hug, just in a friendly way.  So, the light bulb went on in my head, and it dawned on me that there really was a difference between sex and love.  That you could love somebody – physically – without it having all sorts of sexual connotations.  More than that, it was a good thing to be that physically affectionate.  It was… nice.”  Blair stopped, realizing his voice had become dry and a bit too emphatic.

 

Jim came to the rescue, turning the conversation back on himself.  “Okay, so now what does my ‘obsessing’ over Bonanza – classic, sublimated male homoeroticism, according to you – say about me?”

 

Blair shrugged.  “It says that you like the idea of a loving, male family.”

 

“It’s not like those guys were touchy-feely toward each other,” Ellison hedged.

 

“No, like you said in the beginning, you don’t have to be touchy-feely to love somebody.  I was just saying that I can understand the appeal of the touchy-feely thing.  And I don’t mean just talking about it.  Anyway, considering the time it was made, Bonanza was actually pretty darned open with these guys – macho, western characters, you know – being able to show brotherly and fatherly love and all that.  They weren’t ever going to say ‘I love you’ right there in front of God and middle class got-a-color-TV America.  But they said ‘I love you’ in lots of other, masculine-acceptable ways.  Considering the ratings and how long the show ran, middle-class America obviously responded favorably.”

 

“There was an episode where the sons outright said, ‘I love you’ to Ben,” Jim pointed out.  “The one where Joe gets lost in the desert with a horse that was a gift all the brothers had wanted Ben to have for his birthday.”  A pause, then a shrug.  “It was a big deal, though, that they outright said it.  And that’s the only time I remember.”  Another pause.  “Bonanza is a good show.”

 

“Yeah.  Exactly.  I wasn’t trying to say otherwise.”

 

“You just see lots of homoerotic undertones in it,” Jim mused without accusation.  He made a tsk, tsk sound.  “I don’t know, Sandburg.  I think that says a lot about you.”

 

Blair would have been happy to let Jim have the last word, but this was too good to resist.  He straightened in his seat, rallying.  “Hmph,” he snorted deliberately.  “It’s not me who tape records episodes with blatant homosexualovertones.  To say nothing of S&M.”

 

The sunglasses came off again, Jim looking at him in disbelief.  “What?”

 

Blair chuckled wickedly.  “Come on, man!  I was watching some of those episodes from your Bonanza collection, you know, last week when I had that fucking cold and couldn’t sleep.  Three guesses as to the one that made me sit up straight and wonder how anyone can call it an innocent family show.”

 

Jim looked puzzled, his shades permanently off now that a cloud cover had blanketed the city.  “What are you talking about?”

 

“Guess which episode,” Blair taunted.

 

Jim sputtered.  Then, in an overly patient tone, “Look, Sandburg, I don’t memorize the stupid plots.  Tell me what you’re talking about.”

 

“The episode with Lee Marvin.”

 

Jim threw up his hands.  “Doesn’t help.  I don’t memorize the guest stars, either.”

 

“Okay, okay.”  Blair crossed his arms, smug in his assuredness that he was going to get to play with Jim’s head some more.  “The one where Adam is out riding alone in the desert, dying of thirst or something, and he comes across Lee Marvin, who is mining some cave for gold, all by himself.  Adam is sooo grateful to have Lee Marvin come to his aid and nurse him back to health.  And so, you know, he offers to help Lee Marvin out, help him dig for the gold.  Because there’s some reason – I forget – as to why he can’t leave right away.  His horse ran off or something.”  He looked over at Jim.  “Ring a bell?”

 

Jim appeared thoughtful. Then, “Yeah, I remember something about that.  Then Lee Marvin gets all sadistic and starts treating Adam like livestock and making him do all the work around the camp.”  Then, as though he just now was surprised by the truth of it, “and Adam does.”

 

“Exactly!” Blair said with relish.  “I mean, come on, Jim, that’s not exactly something you’d want your eight-year-old child to watch, is it?  Lee Marvin making heroic Adam Cartwright grovel?  Treating him like livestock.  Like his slave.  Having him work around the camp like a mule.”  He shook his head.  “Don’t tell me that, after watching that episode, eighty percent of white-bread middle class America didn’t return to their bedrooms and masturbate like mad to the idea of being the enslaver – or the enslaved.”  He shook his head again.  “Sexual implications were all over that little campsite.  I mean, why wouldn’t Lee Marvin make Adam have sex with him? He was the one wielding all the power.  Adam had no choice.  And they were out in the middle of nowhere, after all.” 

 

Jim was quiet.

 

Blair looked over at him, deciding against removing his own sunglasses.

 

Then Jim was grinning, just barely – like he was trying not to let it show.  “So,” he said with extreme casualness.  “Was your sexual fantasy,” he couldn’t continue the game and his mouth corners curled up, “of being Lee Marvin or being Adam?”

 

Man, Jim, you’re good.  I think I liked it better when you blew me off as soon as I opened my mouth.  When did you get so interested in listening to anything I have to say?  “Come on, man, I had a fucking head cold when I was watching that.  The only fantasy I had was of my sinuses being blown open so I could breathe again.”

 

Jim nodded slowly, still amused.  “Right.  And your cold distraction is why you remember the episode so well – much better than I remember it.”

 

“Really, Jim,” Blair said in his best scolding voice, “I was appalled that you’d have smut like that in your white-bread middle class America male homoerotic tape collection.”

 

Jim laughed out loud.  “Sandburg?” He shook his head.  “You’re a nut.”

 

---

 

 Even with his hearing dialed down as he approached the kitchen, Jim could hear Blair’s end of the conversation as the younger man moved restlessly around his bedroom with his cell phone.  “Yeah, wow, I’m really sorry you’re feeling so lousy, Megan.  But I’ve been looking forward to this and thought I’d go anyway, if you don’t mind me taking one of the bikes.”  Jim opened the refrigerator and grabbed an apple from the crisper.  He bit into it just as Blair said, “Maybe I can talk somebody else into coming.  Maybe Jim.”

 

Jim chewed, the noise interfering with that of the conversation.  Blair tended to talk to Megan a lot.  As far Jim knew, he’d never slept with her.  That puzzled him.  Blair had tried to explain it to him once – that there were some women a man bedded and some women a man genuinely enjoyed talking to – but for some reason within the Sandburg Zone of human relationships, the two couldn’t be combined.  Jim couldn’t imagine not combining them.  Or, rather, his experience had been that if you liked a woman enough to bed her, then conversation was merely foreplay leading up to the main event; and, if you didn’t have any intention of taking her to bed, then you either avoided her completely, or else developed an antagonistic relationship with her, so you’d never be tempted.  The latter is what he himself had done with Megan Connor and Cassie Wells.  He’d found both women attractive, but hadn’t had any intention of sleeping with either of them – too complicated with them also being employed by the Cascade PD, for one thing.  While the mouthy arguments could brew their own brand of arousal, they contained just enough hostility that it made it impossible to seriously consider something so intimate as a roll in the sack.

 

Megan was one woman Jim had been tempted at times to cool the hostility games with in the name of coming on to her, but he’d felt too odd about it when she and Blair became such good friends.  It would have been way too strange to have Megan waking up in his bed in the morning, then have her doing most of the conversing with Blair at breakfast while Jim looked on silently.  Of course, that was assuming Megan would have ever been willing in the first place.

 

Doubly weird, though, was that he knew Blair also found Megan to be enormously attractive; but for some reason his young partner didn’t seem to even consider her as a potential lover.  Yet, probably some one-third of the women Blair ever came on to eventually ended up welcoming him to their bed.  Of course, it was rare that he returned to any of them for a second round.

 

Jim shook his head at the absurdity of Sandburgian relationships and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

 

Blair emerged from his room, the phone abandoned.  “Hey, Jim, want to go mountain biking tomorrow?  Poor Megan has the flu.  I’m still going to go, but it would be great if you could come along.  It’s supposed to be in the eighties, no rain.  The bikes are in her storage garage, and I have a key so she doesn’t even want us to come up and say hello since she’ll be in bed, and she thinks it’s best for us not to be around her germs anyway.”

 

Take a breath, Chief.  Jim shrugged.  After taking another healthy swallow of orange juice, he said, “Sure.”

 

Blair grinned.  “Great!”

 

Jim braced himself, hoping Blair’s enthusiasm didn’t mean he was going to launch into some psychobabble about male bonding rituals while out amongst nature.  Or about the need for greater exercise in both their lives.  Or the great misfortune of Megan being ill somehow leading to the opportunity to go biking with his partner instead – karma and all that.  Or….

 

But Blair had turned to his room and now reappeared with his wallet.  “I’ll go down and pick up supplies for tomorrow.  We should probably leave about eight in the morning to pick up the bikes from her place.  And then it’ll be a half hour or so to drive where we need to go.  She has a map and everything of this really neat trail she’s been on before.  She says it’s pretty secluded, and it’ll take us a few hours to do the whole thing, and then you figure a half hour or so to stop for lunch at the pond that’s out there, and ….”  Blair trailed off while examining the contents of his wallet.  He looked up.  “Hey, Jim, do you have a twenty or something?”

 

---

 

Most of the bike path was narrow so that they could only travel single file.  Jim led the way and Blair peddled along behind, an arrangement that Blair considered to his benefit.  A sentinel in the lead could watch out for any obstructions ahead or sudden curves in the road.  Behind, Blair could enjoy the woodsy scenery and not be responsible for directions or safety.   All he had to worry about was his automatic responsibility of keeping his sentinel safe and making sure he didn’t zone or otherwise suffer any unpleasant consequences of his unique abilities.

 

It had been months since there had been any unpleasant consequences.

 

Both were in athletic shorts, t-shirts, sunglasses and hats – Blair a visor and Jim a baseball cap – for it was one of the warmest days of the year.  In fact, after two hours of peddling with a few quick breaks to study the map, sip water, or scarf down an energy bar, Blair felt he was starting to melt.  He finally called out, “Jim, wait up, man.”

 

Jim glanced back while braking to a halt.

 

Blair put his feet to the ground as his own bike stopped.  He pulled out Megan’s map.  “The turnoff to the pond should be coming up pretty soon.  She said that it can be easy to miss.”  Jim moved back toward him, and Blair relinquished the map to the held-out hand.  He grabbed his water bottle and took a healthy swallow.  After gasping for breath, he ran his hand across his sweating forehead.  “Man, feels more like ninety than eighty.”

 

Jim glanced toward the sky.  “Yeah, it’s a hot one.”  He was holding the map back toward Blair, and Blair tilted his head to study it as Jim pointed.  “We should be right about here.”

 

Blair nodded.  “Too bad it’s not to scale, but you’re probably right.”  He also pointed.  “She said that the two reddish rocks are easy to miss because you might not realize there’s a trail there, since the vegetation is so thick.”

 

Jim turned to look at the path ahead.  He was still for a moment, then glanced back with a smile.  “The two boulders are about twenty yards ahead.”

 

“All right!”  Blair folded up the map.  “I knew there was a reason I wanted you to come,” he chuckled.

 

“Ha, ha,” Jim responded.  He began peddling.

 

Blair was still grinning as he followed.  Though traveling single file hadn’t allowed for much conversation, he could tell that Jim was in a good mood and enjoying himself.  Blair always took particular satisfaction in the rare moments when Jim was able to use his sentinel abilities for some small personal benefit, rather than solely as a tool to help protect the city.  With all that the freakish gift had cost him, it was only fair that Jim be able to take personal advantage of that same gift at times, too.

 

Jim turned left when they came upon two reddish boulders on the edge of the path.  They traveled through vegetation taller than themselves, the leaves of plants brushing past their bare legs as they followed a trail that would have, indeed, been missed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it.  Blair tilted his head when some of the leaves slapped him in the face as he peddled past.  If it weren’t for the protection of his shades, he might not have been able to see.  As it was, he was glad he’d chosen to tie his hair back.  He would have preferred to feel the occasional breeze brush through his hair, but the need to keep his hair from his face had won out.

 

Finally, the vegetation parted ahead, and they came upon a bare bank that surrounded a pond.  Blair was disappointed to find that the pond itself didn’t have any trees around it to offer shade. Just some huge boulders off to the left.  Still, it was water and, more importantly, time for a lunch break.

 

Jim set his kickstand and removed the pack from the back of his bike.  Blair slid his hair band off as he dismounted his bike and moved to the pond, which was inhabited by a couple of male mallard ducks.  He knelt at the edge of the water, removed his visor and sunglasses, then splashed water onto his face.  It felt wonderfully refreshing, and he bent even more, trying to splash water onto his head.  The trickle that registered with his scalp seemed more a frustrating tease than a relief.  He stood, unable to gauge how deep the water might be.  He glanced around, assuring himself of their seclusion.  Then he looked over at his companion.  “I don’t know about you, Jim, but I’m going in.”  He pulled his shirt off, then squatted to untie his shoes.  When he glanced up again, Jim was looking at him, squinting through his own shades.  Then Jim turned back to their food supplies.

 

Tossing his shoes and socks aside, Blair slipped out of his shorts and underwear in one motion.  Since he didn’t know how deep the water was, he couldn’t risk diving in.  Instead, he trotted out from the bank, the water cold against his heated skin.  He shivered but kept moving, feeling it come up to his waist.  Then he turned away from the bank and began swimming.

 

Ahhh.  It felt so good.  Conscious of the heat at the very top of his head, he dived under water, wetting his hair thoroughly, and then came up and turned around.  He bounced in the water, toes searching for the floor.  When he found the bottom, the water didn’t quite reach his chin.  “It’s not very deep,” he announced.

 

Jim stepped to the edge of the bank.  “We don’t have any towels, Sandburg.”  He sounded faintly amused.

 

Blair shrugged and nodded skyward.  “There’s the sun.”  Surely, it wouldn’t take long to dry off in this heat.

 

He lay back and kicked, propelling himself through the water.  When he was getting close to shore, he stood briefly then flipped over on his stomach this time, moving gently through the water with a breast stroke.

 

At the far end of the pond, where the ducks scurried out of the way, he found his footing again and turned around.  Jim had just pulled off the last of his clothing.  Long arms stretched out as the tall body bent at the waist.  Then powerful legs pushed off the bank, and there was a mighty splash as Jim disappeared beneath the surface.  Blair watched in fascination as Jim, with the one dive and powerful kick, made it smoothly across the pond to where Blair was, before finally emerging and taking a deep, but not desperate, breath.

 

“Man,” Blair marveled, “you look like you were made for the water.”

 

Jim shrugged, and Blair recalled that his sentinel had had lots of experience with surfing in the ocean.  Too bad they hadn’t been able to go to the ocean in recent years.  He wondered if, now, there might be some water play – the expected male bonding ritual – especially with Jim standing so near.  But Blair discarded that thought a moment later.  After what had happened at the fountain over a year ago, he doubted Jim would even dare a little splashing, never mind that Blair himself had no lasting phobias about being drenched.

 

He told himself that it was just as well and watched again as Jim plunged once more into the water and kicked powerfully to cross to the other side, where their bikes were.  Blair satisfied himself with a little dog-paddle movement, just to keep the circulation going, and watched the two ducks glide along the outer edge of the water.  He’d been watching them a long time when Jim appeared beside him.

 

“What are you looking at?” Jim asked.

 

He thought it was nice of Jim to wonder.  “The ducks.”  He watched them another moment.  “The thing about ducks is that they’re always so peaceful.”  He squinted up at Jim.  “You know?”  Then he looked back at the waterfowl.  “They just sort of paddle around like they’re so content and don’t have a care in the world.  They don’t even seem that afraid of us.”

 

Jim cocked his head to one side.  “Hmm.  They’re both males.  I wonder where the lady ducks are.”

 

Blair shook his head.  “They might not have won over any lady ducks.  I don’t know that much about ducks, but I know that with other animal species, sometimes bachelors hang out together.  Not everything is territory and mating.”  He nodded at the mallards.  “They seem just fine with it being just the two of them.”

 

Skeptically, Jim said, “I doubt they’d feel that way if there was a lady duck for them to compete over.”

 

Feeling a shiver, Blair stepped back into a slightly deeper part of the pond and gently treaded his arms back and forth.  He looked at Jim, who was standing in a spot where the water only came up to his chest.  “It’s not always that way in the animal kingdom.  Take lions, for instance.  Two – or more – bachelor males will team up together until they find a pride they can take over.  Once they defeat the resident males and take over the pride, those bachelors still remain friends.  They’ll share the females, and they’ll each love the cubs that were sired by the other.  Of course,” Blair amended uncomfortably, “they kill the cubs sired by the prior males, so the females will come into heat again and bear their offspring.  But they treat each other’s cubs as if they were their own.”  Blair had always found that tidbit about lions to be an amazing thing.  “So,” he shrugged at Jim, who had casually crossed his arms while listening, “it’s not automatic that males in nature have to fight over females.  Sometimes,” he nodded toward the ducks, “friendships formed are friendships for life, no matter what else happens.”

 

When Blair glanced back, Jim was smiling at him.  It seemed to be an expression of affection.  Jim said, “Well, maybe in our old age, we’ll be like those ducks.  Still unattached but content with life.”

 

Blair liked the thought, but he chuckled as Jim stepped away from him.  “It’s kind of hard to imagine you ‘content’, Jim. You just don’t seem cut out for it.”

 

Jim started a casual backstroke toward the bank.  “And you do?” he teased back.

 

Except… maybe he really hadn’t been teasing.  Blair thought about that.  Had he ever been “content” in his life?  The word conjured an image of being very settled, and very peaceful about being very settled.  What an odd thought.  He always had seemed to be striving in his life. Striving to make a place for himself, striving to get through his seemingly endless education, striving to complete his thesis on sentinels, striving to learn about Jim’s abilities in order to assist him, striving to get through the police academy so the Cascade PD could officially recognize him as Jim’s partner.

 

And, now, there was no more striving.  He was thirty-one years old and had nothing to strive for.

 

Did that mean he was content?  And, if so, was that a good thing?

 

---

 

Jim stepped from the water and onto the bank.  He used his clothes to brush off the water droplets from his skin, then draped the clothing along the handle bars of his bike so it would dry faster.  He turned as Blair moved toward the bank with a determined stride.  As soon as he was out of the pond, Blair bent to grab his shades, then climbed up to the boulder, some eight feet high, which was closest to the pond.  Jim watched as, atop the boulder now, Blair leaned back on his elbows and stretched out, one knee bent.  He let his head fall back, as though sacrificing himself to the heat of the sun.

 

Jim shook his head slowly, aware of a grin at his mouth corner.  Blair was going to get sunburned, stretched out like that, his pale skin no match for the Cascade heat wave.  Jim regretted not bringing sunscreen.  But then, he’d never intended to get naked on this little trip.  He shook his head at Blair again.  The man was wearing nothing except his sunglasses.  Jim wished he’d brought a camera. 

 

He was tempted to call out a warning to Blair about getting rock pebbles in his ass crack, but found himself reluctant to break the mood.  Besides, Blair was sitting – or lying rather – perfectly still.  Jim turned back to the supplies on his bike, grabbing the small tablecloth Megan had thoughtfully included.  He batted away some insects as he spread it on the ground and then lay the lunch supplies upon it.  He went to Blair’s bike and open the pack strapped behind the seat, then brought the food supplies over to the blanket.

 

Finally, there was movement on the boulder, and Jim glanced up to see Blair straighten into a sitting position.  Shaded eyes looked over at him.  “Hey, Jim?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You aren’t in any hurry, are you?  If you don’t mind, I’d like to do a short meditation, just fifteen or twenty minutes.”

 

Jim shrugged.  “Fine, but I’m not waiting for you.”  He bit into his first sandwich.

 

“No problem, but save something for me.”

 

As if I wouldn’t, Jim muttered to himself.  Been taking care of him since day one, whether he realizes it or not.  Chewing, he watched as Blair sat up, then drew his legs to his body, Indian-style.  Blair rested his open hands, palm up, on his knees, and took a deep, deliberate breath.  His whole body relaxed and he became still.

 

Jim settled carefully onto the tablecloth, mindful of preventing foreign debris from getting worked into his own ass crack.  He thought his clothes were probably dry enough to put back on, but he found himself surprisingly okay about sitting naked, out in the middle of nowhere, eating his lunch.  He supposed Blair would say something about the appeal of the primitiveness of it.

 

Jim cocked his head, wondering about the need to meditate.  He’d only half-listened over the years when Blair had babbled to him about things like “Earth rhythms”, “getting in touch with himself”, “clearing his space”, and so on.  He wondered what was bothering Blair that he felt he needed to activate the process right now.

 

Jim’s stomach uncoiled.  Applauding himself for shooing away his temptation toward paranoia, he instead considered that Blair was, in fact, paying him an enormous compliment.     Blair usually started his meditations when Jim wasn’t around, and often ended them the moment Jim came home.  That seemed as it should be, for Jim found it a little unsettling to be in the same space with somebody who was blatantly ignoring him and playing weird background music – to say nothing of having the scent of candles about – and surely Blair felt funny about sitting still with his eyes closed, knowing Jim could, if he chose, sit there and stare at him.  No, meditation was a private, personal thing, and Blair was doing it in front of Jim now, knowing that Jim could be watching him; but apparently not at all bothered by it.

 

Jim had become engrossed in the satisfying flavors of the pickles and crackers and cheese.  It was only when he glanced up, thinking he was full, that he saw Blair starting to stand.  The other man straightened in a slow, deliberate motion, and then stretched with his arms above his head.  He then released a satisfying, “Aah.”

 

Jim wadded up the trash and put it in a plastic baggie, then carefully moved the remaining food to one side, so that Blair would be able to sit on the tablecloth.  He hoped the other man wasn’t going to get dressed yet, because then he himself would feel self-conscious about being naked.

 

Blair hopped down from the boulder and approached with a smile.  Jim’s eyes automatically dialed up and zeroed in on the redness developing at the top of Blair’s shoulders.  But he couldn’t resist teasing, “You better hope your cock didn’t get sunburned.”

 

Blair paused before the blanket and glanced down at himself.  Then he shrugged.  “If it did, it’ll heal.”

 

Jim decided that he was glad that Blair wasn’t taking the bait and teasing back.

 

Blair plopped down on the cloth, stretching out a leg in either direction, one of his feet brushing against Jim’s calf.  As he reached to take the food that Jim was shoving toward him, he said, “Man, this is cool, huh?  I can understand why some people like doing the nudist camp thing.  It’s like it’s so… freeing.  You know, not having to be ashamed of how you look, or the fact that you were born this way.”

 

Jim started in on the crackers again, to give himself something to do.  All the food had now been gathered so that it was in front of his young partner’s crotch.  “Sandburg, just know that if you feel compelled to do the nudist thing while at the loft, it’s okay with me.  Might even be helpful the next time some Jehovah’s Witnesses come to the door.”

 

Blair burst out laughing, and Jim chuckled, too.  “Hey,” Jim poorly mimicked Blair the last time they’d been paid a visit, “would you like to come in for some tea?”  Damn, he’d been boiling mad that Blair had invited them in.  He himself was walking around in his boxers, trying to look as intimidating as hell, but of course the two elderly ladies had been so taken in by his partner’s charms.   Now, he mimicked from fantasy rather than memory.  “I’m sure you nice ladies don’t mind that I’m in the buff.  I don’t believe in clothing because God made me this way, and I believe in following the desires of God.  I’m sure you nice ladies have no problem with that idea.  Why don’t you get undressed, too, and join me here on the sofa?”

 

Blair was still chuckling while trying to eat his sandwich.  “Man, you are so nasty.”

 

“Might get rid of them even faster than you talking their poor ears off,” Jim pointed out.  None of his intentional rudeness had fazed the women, but they couldn’t get out of there fast enough once Blair had launched into a full lecture on the Bible and its historical facts versus fiction, based upon various archeological digs, complete with quotations from appropriate sources.  The funny part had been when Blair had seemed to genuinely want them to hang around until he could finish his lecture.  But the nice ladies had abruptly decided that there were others in greater need of converting.

 

They fell silent as Blair scarfed down his first sandwich.  Jim waited for him to swallow and sip his water.  Then he nodded toward the rock.  “So, what does one need to meditate about out here in the middle of nowhere?”

 

Blair took off his shades, an act of courtesy so that Jim could see his eyes, which were peaceful and smiling.  “It was just a way of saying thanks.”

 

“Thanks?”

 

Blair nodded, chewing on the first bite from his second sandwich.  He swallowed, then glanced around.  “Yeah.  Thanking the Powers that Be, so to speak, for creating this place, so we could be here today.”

 

Jim blinked.  He could never seem to get a grasp on this spiritual stuff, even though his spirit animal, the black jaguar, was vitally important to him.  He envied the way Blair seemed to automatically understand so much – and believe it.

 

“So you… what?” Jim pursued.  “Just find your ‘center’, and then say thank you?”  He didn’t think he was treading too personally here.  Blair always seemed to like talking about this stuff.  Hell, Blair liked talking about anything.

 

Blair nodded.  “Something like that.  For me, I always imagine ‘God’ – for lack of a better term – as this bright golden light.  Warm and unconditionally loving.  So, I imagine this light in my mind and I say, inside myself, ‘Thank you for the pond.’  ‘Thank you for providing the ducks and flowers and the rocks.’  ‘Thank you for getting me and Jim here safely, and please see us safely home.’”  He took a sip of his water, then met Jim’s eyes again.  “It’s true what they say – you know, about a little humility being good for the soul.  I think it’s healthy to appreciate… life.”

 

Before Jim could say anything, Blair continued, “You know, Jim, all the meditation you do is always because there’s some need for it – to like get your senses under control or access a suppressed memory.  I can see where it would seem like work to you. But it really is a neat thing when you do it just for the pleasure of it, just for the sake of getting in touch with your spirit on its purest level and feeling a connection to all things.  A simple meditation, like I just did, can really help you feel like you belong – like you’re an important part of the whole grand scheme of things.”

 

Jim smiled softly, not wanting a lesson just now, but touched by Blair’s beliefs.

 

Blair pointed out, “In our jobs, we see the absolute worst in humanity.  Day and day out.”  His eyes outlined the pond, before turning back to Jim.  “So, it’s all the more important for people like us to really stop and appreciate that there are good things in this world.  Even if,” he waved his hand, “it’s just a couple of gay ducks.”

 

Jim grinned, as he knew he was expected to.  Then he picked up the ball.  “I haven’t seen them hump each other.”  He looked at Blair with mock seriousness.  “Do ducks hump?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Blair admitted.  “I don’t know ducks.”

 

“Speaking of humping,” Jim said, glad he was able to slide into the next subject so smoothly.

 

“Yes?” Blair prompted warily.

 

Jim licked at the melting chocolate from a snack bar he’d just unwrapped.  Then he looked his companion in the eye.  “When are you and Megan ever going to get it on?”

 

Blair emphatically shook his head back and forth.  “Jim,” he protested.

 

“I just don’t get this,” Jim said seriously.  “It doesn’t make any sense to me.  You two like each other, like being around each other, like talking to each other.  She’s great looking – but don’t you dare tell her I said that – and you seem to be so stubborn about insisting that nothing will ever happen between you.”

 

Blair shrugged, his face contemplative.  “Why does it matter so much to you?”

 

“It doesn’t,” Jim said quickly.  “It’s just that I don’t understand it.  I don’t understand how you can separate sex and intimacy and put them in such isolated little boxes, and never shall the two of them meet.  Megan’s the best shot you’ve ever had at a real relationship.  What are you so afraid of?”  Jim fell silent, for he hadn’t meant to ask the last.  It had just fallen out, and he didn’t like putting the younger man’s vulnerabilities on the spot.  Though he wascurious as to the answer.

 

Blair shifted nervously.  “Come on, Jim, what’s between me and Megan isn’t just about what I want.  We adore each other.  But, you know, it’s not like I’m her type.”

 

Jim didn’t get that either.  He wondered if he was truly the idiot he sometimes thought he was when it came to relationships.  “What do you mean you’re not her type?  How could you not be her type?  She likes you.  Like you just said, she ‘adores’ you.”

 

“Yeah, as a friend,” Blair replied.  “But wanting to sleep with somebody is a different ballgame, pal.  You know, there’s passion, physical attraction… the chemistry for sex has to be right.”

 

Jim released a breath.  He was definitely in the Sandburg Zone, and he had no idea how his partner could think like that.  “Of all the women with whom you have the right ‘chemistry’ for sex, how is it that Megan is one that you don’thave it for?” Quickly, before Blair could give another indecipherable explanation, Jim said, “Let me ask you something.  If you and Megan had gone on this ride today, would you have gone skinny dipping?”

 

“Sure, I would have,” Blair replied.  “And I wouldn’t be surprised if Megan would have, too.”

 

“And you wouldn’t have gotten a hard-on for her?”

 

“No,” Blair replied after the briefest of pauses.  “I don’t feel that way toward her.  I love her.”

 

Jim sputtered.  “And since you ‘love’ her, that makes her hands-off for sleeping together?”  He shook his head in disbelief while Blair considered that.  “Can you see how ludicrous that sounds?”  His tendency toward paranoia made him consider that Blair was completely snowballing him and would burst out in chuckles at any moment, combined with the confession that he and Megan had been sleeping together for months.

 

Blair looked off toward the water, however, his expression contemplative.  Then, “I can see where that sounds weird.  But, you know, I grew up differently than other people when it comes to sex and relationships and stuff.  Sex is something that feels really good, so you do it with anybody who consents.”

 

“And never see them again,” Jim added, trying to keep the disapproval out of his voice.  It wasn’t like he genuinely disapproved – who could blame a guy for getting all the action he could handle? – he just couldn’t see how Blair could have so little respect for the beauty that could come from mixing intimacy and caring for another person with pleasure.  Not that Jim himself had a lot of experience in that department, despite having some dozen more years than Blair to practice what he preached.

 

“It’s never been important to me,” Blair said.  He was finished with his sandwich and tried some crackers.  “I don’t keep score like that.  I don’t know why it should matter to you whether or not I sleep with them a second time.”

 

“It doesn’t,” Jim said quickly, wanting to make it clear he wasn’t being judgmental.  “I just would be happy for you if you ever fell in love.  It’s not something that should ever be missed from one’s lifetime.”

 

“No matter how bad the fallout,” Blair said pointedly.

 

Jim wasn’t surprised at that.  Hell, he even remembered Megan herself saying something like that – that she didn’t want to get married because she didn’t think she could stand it if it fell apart.  As though it was automatic that it would fall apart.

 

Well, crap, for most relationships that was unfortunately true.

 

Still, Jim nodded, hoping Blair could see the sincerity in his eyes.  “Yes, no matter how bad the fallout.”

 

“Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved it all, huh?”

 

Jim realized he was smiling sadly.  “Yeah.”  He got up and went to his bike.  His clothes were dry, and he started dressing, turning toward Blair to show he was willing to continue the conversation.

 

“This is all academic where Megan is concerned,” Blair said from where he sat on the blanket.  He put his sunglasses back on.  “I’m really am not her type.  She outright told me that early on.  She likes tall, muscular guys.  I’ve met some of the ones she’s dated.”  He shifted and began gathering his trash.

 

Tall, muscular guys like you, Jim heard at the end of the sentence.  Well, if he hadn’t been convinced before, he certainly was convinced now:  He would never try to get Megan into his bed.  Yes, painful as it was to admit, he liked her.  She was a good cop.  A fun person.  But, despite all his rationale as to why Blair was responsible for his own relationship failures, some part of him couldn’t forgive Megan for not wanting the man, even if Blair didn’t want her,that way.  Blair deserved better, even if Blair himself didn’t realize it.

 

What is all that crap, anyway, about growing up differently than everyone else? Jim wondered as he automatically took over the cleaning chores so Blair could dress.  There was no doubt that Blair had had an unusual childhood.  But had it really been so fucked that Blair genuinely believed there was no such thing as making love to somebody he loved?  And did he even, perhaps, think that there was no way he even could fall in love with somebody?  Looking back, Jim was surprised to find that the only person Blair had ever admitted to being in love with was Maya.  Blair had eventually told him that he’d never bedded her because she was a virgin.  That was his Blair:  blissfully draining his balls into any ‘consenting’ female, but totally running away from sex if there was any hint of love or intimacy involved.

 

“Sandburg, you’re a mess,” Jim muttered under his breath.  He mounted his bike, put on his sunglasses and cap, and moved his bike over to Blair’s.  The younger man was ready and had taken out the map again.

 

“According to this,” Blair said, “if we get back on the main trail and keep going, it’ll eventually circle back to where we parked.”  He glanced up.  “So, I guess it would be better to do that than turning back and retracing our route.”

 

Jim nodded and indicated the path that would take them back to the main trail.  “You lead the way.”

 

He caught the hint of surprise in Blair’s eyes as he folded the map.  The younger man obediently turned his bike and started to peddle.  Jim let him get a few strides ahead and then fell in behind him.  He watched the slender back underneath the cotton shirt, the ponytail that had been neatly created, despite lack of a comb.  For something as passive as bike riding, he could play the protector more efficiently while keeping Blair in his sights.  He didn’t feel any inclination to question his belief that Blair very much needed a protector right now.

 

---

 

Blair watched Banks cross his arms as he sat on the corner of his desk.  “You need to scope out the abandoned buildings in the area, and find which will have the best view for surveillance for the arms manufacturing operation on Thirty-Second.  If we can get some photographs, video – any evidence of what’s going on there – then we can get a warrant and go in.”

 

Blair turned his head to look at Jim, who was his usual stoic self.  Trudging up and down old buildings infested with rats wasn’t the kind of task that Blair looked forward to, but if they could get the necessary evidence and make a bust that would stick, there would be that many fewer illegal weapons on the streets.   “Are we the only ones on this?” he asked Simon.  He thought there were probably some half dozen prospective buildings near the one on Thirty-Second that might qualify as surveillance possibilities, and he wasn’t looking forward to investigating all of them.

 

“Do you see anybody else here?” Simon bellowed sarcastically.

 

Blair shook his head with a little shrug while Jim’s mouth twisted slightly with chagrin.  Even though Blair was now a real cop, Banks tended to use the same “I don’t have time for you” tone that he had in the early days.

 

“All right then,” Simon relented.  “Get to it and let me know where you’re going to set up.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Jim said congenially, rising to his feet.

 

Blair followed him out the door.

 

---

 

Simon Banks reached for a cigar.  Instinctively, he sniffed it, honoring the pleasure it promised, then flipped his lighter and lit the end.  One day he would yield to Daryl’s concerns and give up smoking.  But not today.

 

Exhaling the first puff, and enjoying the rush it brought to his system, he watched out the window of his office as Ellison and Sandburg sat at their desks, which were side by side.  Simon shook his head.  He still, after some five years now, was not quite able to shake the feeling that his top detective team presented a bizarre picture.  Ellison, he’d never had any problem with.  Yes, he’d been an egotistical snob when Simon had first taken over as captain of Major Crimes, but Simon had appreciated Ellison’s detective skills immediately.  What’s more, it was readily apparent that beneath the snobbish, self-centered exterior, Ellison had a genuine respect for authority.  Being a highly decorated military officer, he obviously understood the need for rank and file, and for subordinates to follow the orders of their superiors.  They had, through the course of the superior-subordinate relationship, established a friendship of mutual respect.  They both had a no-nonsense approach to life and little patience with the ineffectiveness of sentimentality.

 

Which made Ellison’s lasting partnership with Sandburg all the more puzzling.  The younger man had New Age, left wing liberal written all over him – one of the last breed of men (if one could even call such an immature breed “men”) to ever consider a career with law enforcement.  Of course, the irony was that Sandburg had never had any interest in law enforcement.  He’d only wanted a chance to study his subject, in the form of Ellison, up close and personal on a long-term basis.  And Ellison, despite the grumbling and occasional irritation with the lack of privacy from having the kid so “in his face”, had allowed it.  Not only that, he’d nurtured the kid along, taken opportunities here and there to instruct him about detective work, with the kind of unconditional belief in his protégé that could only be attributable to an older brother, or even a father.  Amazingly, Sandburg had actually listened.  And learned.

 

Ellison was on the phone – probably talking to a warehouse landlord – and Sandburg was at his own computer.  The younger man’s eyes were intent on the screen.  Such large eyes they were.  Banks so clearly remembered, after he’d okayed the Ride Along pass five years ago, he’d pulled out all the stops and done every bit of research possible to find out more about the oddity that was Blair Sandburg.  After all, Ellison seemed so taken with his new sidekick – and seemed to think Sandburg genuinely necessary, since he was feeling outright vulnerable with his new sensory abilities – that Simon felt compelled to closely examine what Ellison was likely to overlook.  Simon had been sure he’d find evidence of drugs somewhere.  A person just didn’t have that much bounce and enthusiasm for life, and such depth to his eyes, unless he was using some kind of drugs, most likely uppers.  The fact that the kid supposedly attended class and taught during the mornings, graded papers at night and had an active social life, and still managed to spend most afternoons and a lot of evenings following Ellison around doing police work, made it all the more likely that Sandburg was receiving some sort of chemical assistance, most likely of the illegal kind.  But police records, education records, medical records – all were remarkably clean.  In fact, the education records hinted at pure genius.  Medical records indicated a history of psychological counseling and anxiety attacks that appeared to have been outgrown, but no problems with, or prescriptions for, hard drugs.  The police record had shown parking tickets and a couple of speeding tickets in adolescence, but that was all.  Simon couldn’t believe the kid hadn’t even ever been charged with the misdemeanor of marijuana possession.

 

It had taken a long time, but Simon finally had to admit to himself that he was guilty of stereotyping.  The long hair, youthful “cool, man” enthusiasm and excessive liberal views, hardly made Sandburg a criminal.  Not even a minor one.

 

Simon released another long puff from his cigar as he continued to watch through the blinds.  Ellison was holding his hand over the receiver, and saying something aside to Blair.  Sandburg, eyes on the computer, laughed, and then he glanced at Ellison and his smile deepened.  Which made Ellison’s smile deepen in return, and then the older man was back talking on the phone, and Sandburg was once again intent on his computer screen.

 

Simon shook his head.  Loath as he was to admit it, he supposed part of his dislike of Sandburg had been pure envy, of the most indirect kind.  He loved his son Daryl in a way that couldn’t be explained in words – as any father would love his son – and Daryl idolized him enough to want to go into police work, without even bothering with college.  Simon disagreed strongly, yet it made him proud that Daryl thought so highly of his old man’s profession.  Still, Daryl had never looked at him with the utter hero worship that lit up Sandburg’s eyes whenever he looked at Ellison.  And looking at Ellison occupied the vast majority of Sandburg’s attention when the two were in the same room together.  Granted, the sheer idolatry had tempered a bit with maturity – yes, even Simon could admit that Sandburg had grown up a lot during the five years he’d been involved with Ellison and Major Crimes – but it was still there.  It was there right now as Ellison hung up the phone, passing along another grinning comment to his partner, and Sandburg tilted his head back toward him, switching his gaze from the computer to Jim, and laughed out loud.  No one else in the bullpen was paying attention; it was strictly a private joke between them.

 

Simon took a slow puff this time and wondered about Ellison’s attachment to “the kid”.  In the beginning, whenever Simon had mentioned it in passing, Jim had acted like he was merely a laboratory rat for Sandburg to obsess over, brushing off the hero worship as nothing more than a scientist being fascinated with the subject of his study.  But surely a part of Jim had been flattered, too.  Hell, who wouldn’t want to matter that much to somebody else?  To be the subject of such undivided, loving attention?   However, for the past year the laboratory rat excuse no longer applied.  The thesis was history.  There was no longer a reason for Sandburg to study Jim so intently.  But those gazes were still there, the big, blue eyes so determined to follow Jim’s every move.  Looking concerned every time Jim frowned, looking enthused every time Jim got excited about closing in on a perp, almost dancing for joy whenever Jim had made a point of including him in police work when he hadn’t really been a cop. 

 

Of course, now Sandburg was a cop.  A damn good one, though really not much different from how he’d been before the title was official.  After over a year on the payroll, Sandburg had yet to draw his gun in public.  Simon had seen the two at work since Sandburg had earned his shield.  In potentially dangerous situations, Jim would pull his gun and lead the way, Sandburg following.  Sometimes, Sandburg would have his hand behind his back, hovering over his holster, prepared to draw his weapon if necessary.  It hadn’t yet been necessary.  Simon had pulled Ellison aside the first time he’d witnessed the two in action, post-Academy.  “Are you sure this is going to work, Jim?  It’s time to stop protecting him.  He’s earned his shield and the risks that go along with it.”  He was surprised that Ellison’s reply hadn’t sounded defensive.  But it had been confident.  “I’m not protecting him.  I’m protecting the citizens of Cascade.  This is how we work, Simon.  When I lead, sometimes Blair’s able to stand back and process things, and come up with a way to get us out of sticky situations with words.  You know he can talk down anybody faster than the most highly trained shrinks on Cascade’s payroll.  And if I’m trying to use my senses, and I have any sort of problem, he’s right there steadying me, instead of worrying about whose head he ought to be blowing off.  If my senses act up, I’m more handicapped with a gun than he is without one.  Sometimes, I’m so intent on working the problem, that I outright forget to use my senses, and he has to remind me.  Working the way we do makes us both better cops, Simon.  Why mess with success?” 

 

Simon had spent a few days tossing Jim’s words around, and then made a decision.  Ellison and Sandburg were his top team.  There was no doubt that, on the surface at least, Ellison was doing most of the work in the “team”.  Blair’s contribution was more that of assisting Ellison, as unobtrusively as possible. Simon’s decision was to let them be, let them work out their own procedure.  He couldn’t deny the truth of what Ellison had said.

 

He’d had a hard time over the years even understanding what it was – exactly – that Sandburg did to help Jim.  Then once, while with the two at the loft, Sandburg had suggested that Jim tap into a forgotten odor using “sense memory”.  In order to remember, Sandburg had guided Jim through a meditation session.  Simon had looked on silently, amazed not only at what Jim had been able to remember via Blair’s directions on relaxing and then accessing the information, but that Jim was allowing himself to be verbally guided by Sandburg.  Up until then, Simon had seen a relationship where what Jim said went, and all Sandburg could do was trail along behind.  But that time at the loft, he’d seen strong, confident Ellison yield to Sandburg’s demands that he close his eyes… take a deep, deep breath… and then think back to when he’d first smelled the odor.  Simon’s mouth was agape, simply because, if he’d been Jim, he’d feel foolish sitting there on the sofa, responding to some New Age hippie’s directions to breathe deep.  But it was obvious that this wasn’t the first time they’d practiced this.  Ellison had showed his utter trust in Sandburg’s ability to guide him to where the sense memory existed in his subconscious.

 

Simon drew the last puff from his cigar as Sandburg pulled out his gun, holding it carefully at the handle in his loose fingers, and was talking seriously to Jim about it.  Jim’s brow furrowed in concern as he took the gun and examined it.  Then Ellison gestured with his chin toward the door, talking all the while.  Sandburg nodded agreement and took the gun back, holstering it as he stood, and both men grabbed their jackets.

 

As they exited the bullpen, Banks wondered what it would be like to have one’s own personal shaman.

 

---

 

 Leading the way as they traveled past the shooting range to the Weapons desk, which was really a booth, Jim turned back toward Blair and held out his hand.

 

Silently, Blair took his revolver from its holster, handing it to Jim just as the two reached the desk.  “Hey, Hansen,” Jim said to the clerk, “my partner’s .45 has a problem with the safety.  Do you think you can check it out?”

 

Blair returned Hansen’s nod as the clerk accepted the weapon.  Standing next to Jim, he said, “I was shooting here with it this morning, but something wasn’t feeling right; almost like it was wanting to jam.  And then when I was done and put the safety on, it almost jammed completely.”

 

Hansen fiddled with it a moment, then asked, “Are you in a hurry for it back?”

 

Blair looked at Jim, who shrugged, then looked back at Hansen.  “No,” Jim replied.  “I’ve still got mine and we’re looking at a boring afternoon, running up and down abandoned warehouse buildings. But can you get to it by the end of the day?”

 

“Probably,” Hansen nodded.  “I’ll take it apart and see what I can find out.”

 

Jim reached to briefly touch his arm.  “Thanks, man.  We owe you a beer.”

 

“Thanks, Hansen,” Blair chimed in.

 

He and Jim turned away as Hansen said, “I’ll hold you to it.”

 

---

 

 “After you,” Jim offered as he held open a first level door, having unlocked it with keys provided by the landlord.

 

Blair sighed as he trudged forward.  Darkness had fallen, and he was glad that this particular building – their fourth – hadn’t been abandoned all that long, so there were some old nightlights burning along the ceiling corners, making a flashlight unnecessary.  One of the earlier buildings had had a promising room on the third floor that looked like it had the necessary view, but he and Jim had mutually agreed to search for an even better spot.  They climbed the stairs, because they didn’t want anything lower than the third floor, and Blair was looking forward to this day being over.   This was the last building that looked hopeful.   Sprawling on the sofa with a beer and the TV remote was sounding like the only way to top such a boring but laborious day.   Of course, he never had control of the remote if Jim was also watching TV, but it still made for a nice fantasy.

 

“So, what do you think this building was last used for?” Blair asked conversationally as they reached the third floor.  He’d ended up leading the way, since Jim was pausing to use his senses for closer inspections of… whatever.  Blair led the way down a wide aisle, anxious to get to the windows that faced the building that would be the subject of their surveillance.   He whisked his hair away from his face, realizing that his ponytail had been loosening throughout the afternoon.

 

“I’m getting lots of different odors,” Jim said from behind him.  “But they pretty much smell like auto garage stuff.  Synthetic oils and that sort of thing.”

 

“Here we go,” Blair said, resting his hands on the first window ledge.  He looked to the building across the street, where the third and fourth floors were lit up, supposedly because the people there were making an arsenal of illegal weapons while appearing to run a garment factory.  “Well, damn,” he said, disappointed.  The building prior had a better view than this.  He asked, “What do you think?”  He waited, while Jim stood very still as he gazed out the window.

 

“The last one had bigger windows and a better area for the equipment,” Jim finally replied, glancing around at the aisle.  The last one had had a large bay, which would allow them plenty of room during stakeout.  “We could go up to the fourth floor and see if that’s any better.”

 

“You sound like you’re as enthusiastic about that as I am,” Blair chuckled.  Still, they were already here, and it wouldn’t take that long.  He glanced up, noticing that the stairs they’d taken didn’t go any higher.  “There’s got to be another staircase somewhere around here.”  He turned and led the way back down the aisle, until it turned into a more open space.  A door ahead, at the end of the bay area, was marked with a sign that read Stairs.

 

“Here we go,” Blair said, knowing Jim could hear him, even though the sentinel had dropped a few paces behind.  He’s probably hanging back to sniff for rats.   The last building had had quite an infestation on a lower floor, according to the superior sentinel nose.  But, thankfully, there hadn’t been any signs on the third floor, where it now appeared they’d be making their surveillance – unless this building had a better lookout on the fourth floor.

 

As he moved closer to the door, Blair noticed that there was another staircase, this one wide, just to the left of the door, leading downward to an even larger bay area.  As he reached for the door, Blair wondered – as he always did when in abandoned buildings – what its original use had been for, and how grand the intentions had been of the original builders.

 

“Hey, Chief,” Jim called from where the hall had turned into the bay, “take a look at the supplies stored here.”

 

Blair’s hand was on the door knob, and he let it drop, turning abruptly while stepping back toward Jim.  His feet suddenly engaged a slippery substance and shot out to the left, and he was aware of being suspended in the air for the briefest of seconds.  Then he hit the cement steps – hard – his right forearm taking the bulk of his weight as he fell.

 

Blair cried out in surprise, and then he was being propelled downward, realizing he was hitting the cement steps with a series of painful jolts.  He had no sense of direction or control, but his right side and arm were scraping along the stairs, and all he could think was keep my head up so he didn’t hit it against the concrete. 

 

Finally, finally, his body came to stop on his right side and back.  “Ohhhh, God,” he groaned.

 

“SANDBURG!” echoed above him, as was the pounding of shoes on concrete.

 

Blair was horrified as he imagined the disaster ahead.  “Jim!  Watch out for – “

 

He was too late.  He heard Jim’s whoosh of surprise, the clatter of something hitting the lower bay floor in the near darkness.  Blair braced himself, expecting Jim’s 200 pounds to come barreling down on top of him.  Instead, only the cell phone crashed down and landed near Blair’s head.

 

“Chief?  Chief?” Jim called frantically.

 

Thank God.  Jim had somehow avoided the same fate as his cell phone, Blair, and whatever else it was that Blair had heard hit the floor.

 

Just as he felt relief that Jim was barreling down the stairs – on his feet and under his own power – Blair became aware of the most awful pain flaring up his right arm.  He pressed it protectively against his body and grit his teeth.  “Oh, God.  Oh, God.  Jeezus Christ.  Fuck!”

 

“Chief?  Sandburg?” Jim said more gently as he reached the bottom of the stairs and knelt next to Blair.

 

“Oh, God, my arm.”  Blair tried to rise, but his position was too awkward, considering that he couldn’t use his right arm to help.

 

“All right, it’s okay,” Jim soothed.  “Stay still.  Stay still.”

 

“What the fuck was that?” Blair demanded angrily.

 

“I don’t know,” Jim said, putting his hand on Blair’s left shoulder.  His fingers squeezed.  “Some kind of oil or transmission fluid.  Obviously not the kind that evaporates.  Let me check you out here.”

 

“I can’t believe I didn’t fucking see it!”  Blair wondered if he stayed angry, if it would somehow fight off the throb in his arm.

 

“Settle down, Chief, settle down.  Stay real still and let me check you out.”

 

Blair took a breath, then grit his teeth.  “God, it hurts!”  He felt sentinel fingers probe along the part of his back that wasn’t against the floor, pressing against ribs and his spinal column.  “It’s my arm,” Blair told him.  “It’s my fucking arm.”

 

“I know,” Jim soothed, “but you might still be hurt elsewhere.  I don’t want to aggravate anything when we move you.”  He reached to the cell phone near Blair’s head and picked it up, hitting a few buttons.  Blair felt the nausea set in as he watched Jim frown at the phone.  “What?” he gasped.

 

“It’s busted,” Jim grimaced.

 

“How the hell did you keep from falling?” Blair gasped as the probing started again, along the ribs in his back and sides.

 

“I almost didn’t.  When I heard you cry out, I grabbed my gun and ran to the top of these stairs.  Then I slid in – whatever it was – and my gun went flying out of my hand.  Not even sure where it landed.”

 

“I heard it hit,” Blair told him, trying to tell himself to take deep breaths and relax.  Jim was now probing around his head.  But it was the throb along his arm that was the problem. 

 

Scowling as his fingers continued to gently examine Blair, Jim said, “I whirled around so hard that when I slipped the cell phone went flying out of my jacket.  Somehow, I managed to grab the railing, so I didn’t fall, too.”

 

“Thank God,” Blair gasped.  Still, the throb wouldn’t quit.  “Dammit, I broke my arm when I was little, and I don’t remember it hurting like this.”

 

“All right, take it easy, Chief,” Ellison said firmly.  Then, “We’re all tougher when we’re little tykes.”  He grasped Blair by the left shoulder and put his hand near Blair’s belt, below where the arm rested.  “Okay, I’m going to sit you up, so we can bind that arm and get you out of here.”

 

“Okay,” Sandburg gasped gratefully, though he was nervous about being moved.

 

“Can you grab hold of me?”

 

Blair’s left arm shot out to grip Jim’s jacket.  He was surprised, considering the fall he’d taken, that his left arm didn’t hurt at all.  Maybe his right arm was truly all that was injured.

 

“Okay, buddy, here we go.  Hang on tight and let me do it.  I’m going to sit you against the wall.”

 

Blair glanced to where the wall was just a few feet away.  “Okay.”

 

Jim’s face was suddenly close to his.  The older man said, “You be sure and tell me if you hurt anywhere when I move you.”

 

Blair nodded quickly, then was sorry when it made him feel woozy.  “Yeah, I will,” he gasped.

 

“I’m going to sit you up first, then put you back against the wall.”

 

Blair swallowed.  “Just don’t touch my arm, man.”

 

“All right,” Jim said, “here we go.  Easy now.”

 

Blair tightened his grip and let his eyes drift shut as the hand on his left shoulder wrapped around his upper body and then lifted.  Simultaneously, the hand at the top of his jeans also lifted, and he felt the pull of the seam at his crotch as he was placed into a sitting position.  Thank God for muscular strength.

 

“Okay,” Jim gasped from exertion, “step two now.”

 

Both hands lifted again, just barely, and scooted him back.  It was a little brighter here, for one of the nightlights was located above them.

 

Blair sighed with relief when he was able to relax his back against the wall.

 

Jim’s hand came up to the side of his head, resting in his hair.  “Okay?”

 

Blair managed a pained smile as he looked at the eyes that were directly across from him – and so concerned.  “Yeah, it’s better.”  He nodded his head, then grimaced with the realization that nodding hurt more than before.

 

“What?” Jim asked with alarm.

 

“It’s just my neck,” Blair gasped, glad that the sentinel hearing allowed him to speak softly. 

 

“Your neck?”

 

“The muscles,” Blair corrected.  He grimaced again.  “They’re real tight around my neck.  I had the foresight to hold my head up on the way down.”

 

Both of Jim’s hands came up and slipped behind Blair’s throat.  There, they probed at the vertebrae.  “Try to stay real still and move as little as possible.”  He glanced at the cell phone.  “Damn, I wish I could get an ambulance, so they could immobilize you.”  He paused and looked Blair in the eye.  “If I try to find a pay phone, or if they let me use a phone in the building across the street, I’ll probably be gone fifteen or twenty minutes, and I don’t really want to leave you that long.  Plus, I don’t want them to see me if we end up doing the surveillance.”

 

 “I don’t want you leave either, either.  Just get me out of here.  I’m sure I can walk.”  Blair hoped he could.  He hadn’t noticed any sharp pain in his legs, beyond the bruises he was sure to have from sliding against the cement.

 

“Okay,” Jim agreed, pulling his hands back.  The blue eyes raked over Blair.  “Will you let me take off your jacket?  I’d hate to rip it.”

 

Taking off the jacket sounded good, because Blair could feel the sweat in his armpits.  But he was also afraid it would hurt when it was pulled away from his right arm, which was throbbing even more, the throb having reached up to his head.   Still… it was expensive leather, and he’d hate to just trash it.  “Yeah, go ahead.”

 

“Take it off?” Jim clarified.

 

“Yeah, just be careful of my arm.”  Blair took a deep breath.  He felt pain along his right side, separate from his arm.  He knew Jim had already checked for fractured ribs, so he wondered if maybe it was from lacerations.

 

“Easy,” Jim soothed.  He worked with Blair’s left sleeve, slowly slipping the jacket off the arm.  “Okay, let me do this,” he directed as he leaned close, still holding the jacket.   “Try to lean against me, but keep your head still.”

 

That was impossible, but still Blair tilted his body forward, while trying not to let his head bow.  He couldn’t really rest it against Jim, but his back was now far enough away from the wall that he could feel Jim remove the jacket from around his back.

 

“That’s good there, Chief.  You can sit back.” 

 

Blair let himself rest against the wall again.  He wanted to feel relieved, but he closed his eyes and braced himself as Jim started pulling the jacket’s sleeve from his right arm.

 

“Oh, God,” Blair gasped, as the throbbing was accompanied by the pressure of the jacket along the flesh of his arm, which seemed ultra-sensitive now, having swelled up.

 

Jim didn’t say anything.  The hardest part was getting the jacket past his forearm.  Blair felt his eyes water, and he grit his teeth as the pain flared when the jacket finally flipped free with a small jolt.  Blair couldn’t stifle a grunt.

 

“Okay, Chief,” Jim said softly.  Blair’s eyes were still closed, and he felt Jim shift on the cement.  “Now just bear with me, and I want to feel how bad it is and where the break is, so I can make sure I don’t injure you further when I bind it.”

 

“Oh, God,” Blair muttered.  He really didn’t think that was necessary.  The bone was broken and very painful.  What else did Jim need to know?

 

“Chief?”  The word was gentle and accompanied by a tender grip on his face.  Blair reluctantly opened his eyes.  Kind, blue orbs gazed back at him.  “Turn down the dial for pain.”

 

“Ha, ha,” Blair said, without humor.  His throat felt dry and his head was pounding.

 

“No, you can do it,” Jim said.  “Close your eyes.”

 

Blair gratefully closed his eyes.

 

“Imagine a dial.”  Jim paused, then softly said, “Imagine all the pain you feel, because that dial is turned up.”  Pause.  “Can you see the dial?”

 

“Yeah.”  He could see one.  In fact, whenever he’d done these exercises with Jim, he’d automatically imagined dials at the same time that he’d directed Jim to imagine them.

 

Jim said, “See yourself reaching out, and turning down the dial.  Turn it way down, and feel your pain slip away as you turn it down.”

 

Years of meditation practice allowed Blair to hold onto the fantasy of the dial, even though the pain-filled part of him was tempted to tell Jim to go fuck himself.  He held his focus, turning it down… down… down…..

 

“Better?” Jim whispered.

 

“Yeah,” Blair whispered back, surprised at himself.  He didn’t dare open his eyes, for he knew this could only work if he kept imagining the dials.

 

“Good boy,” Jim said.  “Keep seeing the dials and know that you can control them.  I’m going to feel your arm.”

 

Shit.  The pain flared back up, and Blair quickly sought his focus.  Down… down…

 

Fingers landed on his right shoulder and squeezed and probed.

 

“Your shoulder’s fine,” Jim said, as though surprised.

 

Don’t think…. Down… down….

 

The fingers slid down his upper arm.

 

Ouch!  Blair gasped loudly as his arm was probed a few inches above his elbow.

 

“Okay, okay,” Jim soothed as the fingers quickly skittered down to the elbow itself.  “You’ve probably got a fracture there.”

 

Blair felt his heart pound and his body quivered.  Dial down… dial down….

 

“You’re elbow’s fine, too,” Jim said after a moment.  His fingers skittered lower….

 

“Don’t touch it,” Blair warned as the fingers started on his forearm.  He tried to find his dial again as he brought the arm closer against his body.   “I know it’s broke there.”  Fingers skimmed along his shirt sleeve.  Dial down… down… down….  Sweat broke out on his forehead.

 

“I can feel the swelling through your shirt.  I’m going to tear your sleeve.”

 

Blair kept his dial in front of his closed eyes.  He felt his forearm lifted a smudge, then a grunt and sound of tearing cloth.  Pain flared as the tearing allowed his swelled flesh the freedom to swell even more.  He gasped raggedly. Down… down….

 

“Yeah,” Jim said with resignation, “I’d give odds that you’ve got a compound fracture there.”

 

Blair let out a sigh of relief as the fingers moved on to his wrist and probed, then to his fingers, giving each individual one attention.

 

Blair let his eyes drift open when he heard the sound of a belt buckle.  He watched as Jim pulled his belt from his pants.

 

“Okay, now hold still and I’ll bind your arm against your side, then finish with a sling.”

 

Thank God.  With slit eyes, Blair felt more sweat pop out along his forehead.  He didn’t try to assist when Jim pressed near to bring the belt around his body.  Jim wrapped it around his upper torso, then around his upper arm, above where the fracture was.  The belt was tightened, then buckled.

 

Pain washed over him, and Blair closed his eyes again.  Dial down… dial down…

 

“How you doing, Chief?”

 

Blair’s eyes opened again.  Jim had removed his own jacket, was unbuttoning his shirt.  “Been better.”  He forced a crooked smile.  “Been worse.”  Just then, an uncomfortable thought crossed his mind.  “Oh, God, why did it have to be my right arm?  I’m not going to be able to do anything.  Not drive my stick shift.  Not sign my name.  Not type on the computer.”

 

“It’ll heal,” Jim said compassionately, pulling his shirt off.  He held it out by the sleeves, then twirled it, so that the main part of it wrapped around itself.  Then he bent toward Blair and maneuvered the bunched body of the shirt beneath his forearm, leaning over Blair to tie the sleeves at the back of his neck.  “There you go,” he said as he straightened.

 

“Thanks.”  Blair managed a smile.  It felt good to have the security of the sling, and to know that the belt kept his arm from moving accidentally.

 

Jim put his jacket back on, then picked up Blair’s.  “Here you go, buddy.”  He leaned toward Blair.  “Let me get this around you.”

 

Blair bent forward a few inches, and tried to focus away from the pain and instead on the gentle way Jim settled the jacket around his shoulders, before maneuvering his left arm into its sleeve.

 

Afterwards, Jim gripped Blair’s left arm and asked, “Do you think you can stand?”

 

“Think so,” Blair said, knowing his voice wasn’t very convincing.  His head throbbed and the relentless pain along his arm was making him nauseated.  He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible and to an emergency room, where a shot of lidocaine would be bliss.

 

Jim straightened to grab for the damaged cell phone, slipping it inside his jacket.  He glanced around.  “I don’t know what happened to my gun.  I can’t see it.”

 

“I heard it somewhere over there.” Blair indicated vaguely with his left arm.  “It fell hard and clattered away.”

 

Jim turned away.  “I see some sort of grate in the floor there.  Damn.  I’ll need to come back here later and see if I can get it out.”  He smiled warmly when he turned back to his partner.  “Ready to give it a try?”

 

“More than ready,” Blair said, forcing confidence into his voice.

 

Jim slipped his arms around Blair’s waist.  “Take a good hold of me.”

 

Jim was so close the Blair could almost rest his head on his chest.  With his left arm, he grabbed at a handful of leather jacket, near Jim’s shoulder, and braced himself for the strain of standing.

 

Suddenly, Jim’s body went rigid, his head turned away, toward the darkness at the other part of the floor, away from Blair and the stairs.

 

Blair’s heart pounded.  Just when he was about to ask What? Jim sharply hissed, “Shh.”

 

Blair clamped down on his questions.  He thought Jim was listening, but he himself heard absolutely nothing, despite the silence that stretched to nearly thirty seconds.

 

“Somebody’s inside this building,” Jim finally whispered, fear in his voice.

 

Blair gulped.  Jim’s gun had been lost, and his own gun had been left at the station for repairs.  Damn.

 

“A lot of somebodies,” Jim added forebodingly.  “Sounds like they have automatic weapons; I can hear the metal.”  He looked around, staring into the darkness of the room.  Abruptly, he stood and grabbed Blair by his left arm and started dragging him backwards across the cement floor.

 

Blair was so surprised to be moving that it wasn’t until Jim finally slowed that he was able to wonder if there couldn’t have been easier way to find safety, rather than having his good arm nearly pulled from its socket.  He heard creaking, and turned on the floor to see Jim open what looked like a dark, and not particularly wide, storage closet.  “In here,” Jim hissed urgently, backing into the closet.  He pulled at Blair again.

 

His sentinel was always so calm and collected.  Blair’s heart thundered against his chest as he scooted backwards on his rump, pushing with his feet to help Jim propel him into the closet. He’d rarely known Jim to be so outwardly frantic before.

 

The closet was impossibly narrow, Blair realized when he tucked his feet back to clear the door.  He was mostly facing Jim, his head and left side against Jim’s shoulder and left side.  He felt the enormous effort as Jim strained to reach and close the closet door.

 

A hand slammed against the back of Blair’s head, pressing his face into Jim’s leather clad shoulder.  The force of the motion clearly warned, Stay quiet!

 

Blair had just enough time to realize his whole arm was throbbing high on the dials before he heard something himself.  Somewhere, out in the blackness of the building beyond their tiny sanctuary, there were muffled voices.  Lots of them.  Even though he couldn’t make out what they were saying, they sounded sinister to Blair.  He bit into the leather of Jim’s jacket, making sure he wouldn’t squeak if the pain in his arm became unbearable.

 

Lying against Jim as he was, Blair was all the more conscious of the fear that permeated their closet.  Jim was a man used to taking the offensive, no matter how slim the odds.  But he had no weapon, and he had an injured partner to look after.  So, they could only sit and wait, and hope that the men out there didn’t open the closet and find them.  Surely they didn’t know they were there.  Blair did a quick mental inventory.  Had they left anything at the foot of the stairs?  Jim had picked up the broken cell phone.  They hadn’t left any clothing about.  The only concern was Jim’s gun.  But even if they found it, would they have any reason to think it had been put there just a few minutes ago?

 

Jim stiffened even more. 

 

The voices were loud now.  Foreign voices.  Speaking a language that sounded Middle Eastern.  Perhaps Iranian.  Or Iraqi.  Assertive voices, like they were searching for something, or expecting to find something. 

 

So loud now.  Almost as though some of the men were right outside closet.

 

Blair closed his eyes.  Oh, please, God, oh please.  Buddha.  Harhi Khirshna.  Jesus Christ.  Wakan-Tanka.  White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman.  Isis.  Zeus.  Please.  Any God.  All Gods.  Don’t let it end like this.  Don’t let them find us when we can’t defend ourselves.  Don’t let Jim go down this way.  Please.  Please don’t let them find us.  Please.  Please.

 

The closest voices seemed to have moved away – just a bit.

 

Blair wanted to shift his feet, but he didn’t dare move.  His teeth still had a hold on the leather of Jim’s jacket.

 

The hand that had been pressing so hard against his head now eased just a smidgen.

 

Blair let a silent, relaxing breath go through him.  His head rested more heavily against Jim’s shoulder.  He hoped it would help Jim relax, to know that he himself was making an effort to be calm.

 

His right arm throbbed viciously, as though choosing that very moment to remind him of how badly it needed attention.

 

Dial down… dial down… dial down….

 

He continued to let the full weight of his head rest against Jim’s shoulder.  The voices were still audible, but they seemed to be moving away, though not nearly fast enough for Blair’s taste.  Thank you, God.

 

Jim’s hand eased up more.  Now it stroked down his hair, and Blair realized his hair band had come free during his tumble down the stairs.  Once reaching the bottom of his strands, Jim’s hand continued its motion, rubbing down Blair’s back, down his spine, the hand stretched open with spread fingers, as though trying to connect with as much of Blair as possible.  It continued down to his lower back, falling into the curve there, then down farther still to his buttocks.

 

Wha – ?

 

Before he could complete the thought, the hand moved even lower to the back of his left thigh, and that was as far as it could go, because of the way Blair was folded in on himself.  It reversed direction now, moving back up, retracing its path.  Only, this time, the hand introduced a circular motion, almost encompassing both of his buttocks as it moved past them.  Then up his back….

 

Damn, that feels good.

 

What was Jim doing?  Blair released another breath, letting himself stay relaxed, despite the tremendous pain in his arm.  The motion of Jim’s hand didn’t have an aura of being comforting or soothing, even though that was the effect.  Instead, it was more like it was… cataloging?        

 

Was Jim cataloging him?

 

The circular motion was briefly at his neck, and then the large hand moved up to his hair, the back of his head.  There it stayed, moving back and forth… almost petting…..

 

Oh, God, has Jim zoned?

 

Blair listened.  He couldn’t hear their visitors any more.  He was about to say something to snap Jim out of it.  But before he could speak, a gentle, “It’s all right,” penetrated the darkness.

 

So… Jim hasn’t been zoning?

 

Then what…?

 

“I can still hear them,” Jim whispered.  But he was more relaxed now, obviously confident that the men would leave the building soon.  His circulating hand now dropped down to Blair’s back, and was rubbing there with gentle strokes.

 

Ohmigod, what if…?  Blair held his breath, trying to figure out where their various body parts were.  His left knee was against the inside of Jim’s left leg.  Not close enough to be touching the older man’s crotch.  But if he were aroused, I should be able to feel him trembling.

 

No, he was sure his sentinel wasn’t aroused.  But Jim was cataloging him; Blair was sure of it.  He wanted to ask so many questions right now, but this was hardly the place.  Instead, he decided he may as well take advantage of Jim’s willingness to do this – it did feel good, after all.

 

He again let his head rest more heavily on Jim’s shoulder, releasing a deliberate, relaxing breath, so there was no way Jim could mistake it for unwillingness.  In fact, Jim’s hand was now on the back of his head again, as though stroking Blair.

 

Blair wallowed in it for many moments.  Sweat popped out on his forehead, and it reminded him that he’d been living with pain for what seemed like quite a long time now.  Except for the burden he’d be for Jim, he wished he could be lazily unconscious.

 

“How’s the pain?” Jim whispered.  Very gently, his hand settled between Blair’s shoulder blades, rubbing so carefully.

 

Blair muttered, “Past the point of imaging dials.”  He realized he’d left some sloppy spit where he’d bitten into the jacket – weird, considering how dry his mouth was – and tried to keep his chin away from it.

 

“We have to make sure they’re completely gone,” Jim whispered, his hand moving in a slow, circular motion down Blair’s back.

 

Does he even realize what he’s doing?  It was all Blair could do to not ask Jim about it.

 

He did grunt his understanding of what Jim had just said.  With his injuries, they wouldn’t be able to move very fast, and it would be hard to avoid any of the foreigners who might be hanging around as they made their way down three flights of stairs to Jim’s truck.

 

Who were those guys anyway?  Blair wondered if Jim had any idea.  Wondered if Jim was contemplating it at this very moment, even as his hand down drifted over Blair’s buttocks again, rubbing….

 

Blair swallowed loudly, and that little release opened the floodgates, for it was followed up with a groan he hadn’t intended to emit.  But the pain in his arm was so persistent, not granting even the briefest moment of respite, that the groan lasted a long time and left him feeling all the more weary, all the more anxious to leave this place and get help.

 

“We’ll get you out of here, Chief,” Jim said.  He lightly patted Blair’s back.

 

That pat had definitely been intended to be soothing, as had Jim’s voice.

 

“I hear them leaving,” Jim went on, his voice a little louder.  He started to shift beneath Blair.  “All right, buddy, I’m going to leave you here, for just a moment, and make sure they didn’t leave anybody behind.  All right?”

 

“Yeah,” Blair said gruffly.  He didn’t really want to be left alone, but it was a good idea to make sure all the foreigners had left – whoever they were.

 

“Okay, easy does it.”

 

Blair held still and let Jim’s strength gently push him away, until he was sitting up.  Jim stretched, turned the handle on the closet door, and pushed it open.  He slid to one side and partway out the door.  Then he carefully allowed Blair to slump on his left side against the edge of the doorway.

 

“I’ll just be gone a minute, Chief.  I just want to listen to the floors below.”

 

Blair nodded.  “I’ll be here.”  He hoped that small assurance sounded amusing.  They were alive.  They had survived the strange invasion of this supposedly abandoned building.  It should be okay to laugh again.

 

Soft, quick footsteps moved away.  Blair saw Jim spare a few moments to scan the bay for his missing gun – unsuccessfully – then disappear down the hall to where the first staircase had been.  He allowed himself a loud sigh and some self-pity for having to endure the pain of his broken bones for so long now.  At least, it seemed like a long time.  He felt even more self-pity at the idea of a cast that was going to put limitations on himself and Jim both.

 

Jim returned in less than two minutes.  He helped Blair to his feet, and they made frustratingly slow progress down the stairs – since the slightest jarring sent the pain shooting through his arm – and, finally, out to the pickup. 

 

Once Blair was strapped in and they were on their way, they started talking about the voices.  Blair was at first annoyed that he was being expected to think; but then realized that it was a good diversionary tactic to take his mind off the pain as they rushed to the hospital with the red mars light going, but the siren off.  He hated disappointing Jim, but he told him that he couldn’t figure out what the specific language was of the men in the building, let alone understand any of the words

 

He looked over at Jim as they neared the emergency room entrance.  “You think they had anything to do with the weapons manufacturing across the street?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jim replied, deep in thought.  “If so, what were they doing in our building, instead of the one across the street?  I got the feeling they were searching for something.”

 

The truck braked to a halt behind an ambulance.  “Stay here, Chief.  I’m going to have them bring out a wheelchair for you.”

 

Blair felt the automatic need to protest but didn’t voice it.  Matter of fact, being wheeled through the hospital halls, instead of walking, sounded very fine indeed.  His headache and the wooziness had returned, even as he convinced himself that the multiple throbs in his arm were an unavoidable fact of life.

 

As he waited for Jim to appear with the chair, he thought back on that cramped closet.  Being so afraid.  Wondering what would have happened if any of those men had bothered to notice the closet and opened the door. 

 

Wondering if something indefinable had been opened, anyway, when that large, comforting hand had rubbed up and down his back.

 

---

 

Part Two