THE PASSING SHADE

(c) August 2003 by Charlotte Frost

PART TWO

"Hey, Jim," Simon greeted as they both entered Major Crimes from opposite doors, "it's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," Jim replied.

"Come into my office so I can get you caught up." Simon led the way. "How's Sandburg?"

"Just tender in the rib area and where they opened him up. Everything else is healed. He's back teaching today." Jim ended the details there. He thought Blair had seemed rather distracted lately, but Blair had just shrugged off Jim's inquiries with the explanation that he was focused on preparing to return to the classroom.

"Is he going to make it in?" Simon asked, sitting behind his desk.

"I told him not to. Just teaching a class three times a week and holding some office hours is probably stressful enough for now. We'll see how he feels after another week."

Simon chuckled. "So, you two didn't kill each other during your enforced confinement, I take it?"

Actually, no. They had gotten along remarkably well. But Jim knew Simon wouldn't get any enjoyment from his honest answer. So, he said, "Let's just say that all the household projects we tackled kept aggression to a minimum."

Simon laughed again. "I guess you two make better domestic partners than Joan and I did." He held out a coffee pot, and Jim extended his cup for Simon to fill. "I remember, after we were married a few months, we wallpapered the bathroom. There ought to be government warning that spouses aren't allowed to do wallpapering together. It's a divorce waiting to happen."

Jim grinned, remembering when he and Carolyn had tried wallpapering. He had quickly taken over the whole project because Carolyn wasn't doing it right, and Carolyn had been more than happy to leave him to it.

Ugh. Why did he have to think of Carolyn? She hadn't tried to call back. At least, she hadn't left any messages. Neither he nor Blair had much interest in answering the phone these days.

Jim had gotten some muttering out of Blair that he'd finally called Naomi and told her about the accident. However, the fact that that unpleasant task was now out of the way didn't make Blair appear any less burdened where Naomi was concerned.

Jim had given up trying to understand Sandburgian relationships.

He leaned over the stack of files that he assumed Simon had put aside for his return. "What do I need to get started on first?"

Blair moved slowly to the mailboxes. Holding his left arm protectively against his ribs, which Jim had bandaged each morning to give him extra support, Blair turned his key to open their mailbox. He was grateful that it was Friday. It had been a tiring week, and the mere fact of moving in front of a classroom -- albeit in a slow shuffle -- to say nothing of walking about campus, took more of a toll than he had expected. He was anticipating a hot soak in the bathtub, supplemented with Epsom salts.

Blair normally didn't even look at the mail. Usually, all of it was for Jim, since most of Blair's mail came to his Rainier post office box. This time, though, there was a business envelope addressed to Blair Sandburg. The return address read Naomi Sandburg, at an address in Florida.

Blair's stomach churned. His mother hadn't called back, but now she had sent him something.

He shuffled to the waiting elevator. While going up to the third floor, he fantasized about putting the envelope away somewhere and forgetting about it, until Naomi called or emailed him to ask if he'd received it. He could then tell her how he hadn't bothered getting around to looking at it.

But he couldn't come up with any reason to do that, other than childish spite.

As he unlocked the door to 307, he wondered if his childhood ulcer was returning. His stomach had a vaguely remembered burning sensation from long ago.

He put Jim's mail in the basket next to the door -- so Jim would see it upon arriving home -- and put the envelope on the kitchen counter. He went to the refrigerator and spent a long time drinking milk straight out of the carton. He considered a snack, but realized his stomach wasn't going to stop churning until he opened the envelope.

He took it into his room.

He sat on the bed and started to open the seal.

Thank goodness it's Friday, Jim thought as he parked the truck. His first week back had been busy. He'd missed Blair's presence quite a few times, but he wasn't going to say anything to his partner. Blair had looked a little worn out each of the three days he'd had to teach. He had spent the other two days working on his computer.

But not on the diss.

Yet, Jim had no intention of asking Blair about his reluctance to work on his thesis. A few months back, when Incacha had died, they'd had an uncomfortable conversation about it. Jim couldn't even quite remember what had been said; only that Blair had mentioned something about having a lot of data. And something about if he left Jim's cop world and went back to his academic life, it would be similar to getting off a roller coaster and climbing on a merry-go-round.
 
Which was good, right? Because that meant Blair wanted to hang around.

Jim inwardly sighed. It was the damned "lots of data" that was troubling. His whole private self laid out in black-and-white. Christ, he could just see it now -- Blair's analysis of Jim having married a woman who became an addicted gambler.  Even though he'd never specifically mentioned it, would Blair put two-and-two together and figure out that Carolyn was unable to have orgasms when her husband made love to her?

Christ.  

Jim decided to think of something else. Like dinner. After he'd provided most of the meals during Blair's convalescence, they'd both gone back to mostly eating out this past week. Jim wondered if there was enough hamburger in the refrigerator to make a meat loaf.  Surely, Blair didn't have plans this evening.

When Jim opened the loft door, his nose detected humidity from the direction of the bathroom. Blair had had a shower. Or maybe a bath, considering some other odor that he detected. Epsom salts?

Blair emerged from his room, fully dressed and smelling fresh, as though he were going out. An envelope was his hand. "Hey, Jim," he greeted with a hint of impatience.

Jim almost fell for the cheerful smile. There was something in Blair's demeanor that warned him how false the smile was. "Where are you going?" he asked as he studied Blair across the kitchen island.

"There's just something I need to take care of." Blair was avoiding his eyes, though his voice was still upbeat.

"Are you sure you're okay...?" Jim started, though that really wasn't what he wanted to ask.

Blair broke into another smile, though Jim sensed his eagerness to leave. "Jim, I'm fine. I'm ninety percent. I was a little achy when I came home, so I had a nice soak, and I haven't had any trouble driving, as long as I don't have to make any sharp turns. You don't have to baby-sit me anymore."

All of Jim's instincts came down to one simple fact: Blair's upset. And what was with the defensiveness of that last statement?

Jim placed his hands on the counter, one on each side of the stove. "What's going on?"
 
"Nothing. I just.... " Blair paused. Then he lowered his gaze. More seriously, he said, "Jim, there's something I have to do. Alone."

Something that scares you, Jim realized. Frustrated, he asked, "Why can't you just tell me?"

Blair quickly shook his head. "It has nothing to do with you. This is just something I have to do on my own." He pushed away from the counter, as though preparing to make his exit.

Jim felt as though Blair had placed both hands on his chest and pushed. Hard.

Dammit. After all he'd done for Blair -- after telling him Carolyn's secrets -- Blair thought he could just walk out without explaining anything?

Jim snorted harshly, angry at being discarded. "Oh, that's great, Chief," he snapped. "That's wonderful. You just go right ahead." He knew that he was being sarcastic and, more importantly, that Blair hated his sarcasm.

Blair's mouth fell open.

"What a great friendship this is, huh?" Jim taunted. "I spill my fucking guts to you, tell you every goddamned detail about myself that you want hear -- whether I want to tell you or not --," Jim sputtered at the unfairness of it, at how he'd been used. "But, ofcourse, that's just for your sentinel research. You get to know every goddamned thing about me -- including the first time I touched myself," he deliberately exaggerated, "and how I felt about it -- but I can't ask the same thing of you?"

He took tremendous satisfaction at the look of stunned surprise that had taken over Blair's face. "No," Jim answered himself. "Of course not. Reciprocation would be like-like real friendship. But that's not what we have here, is it, Chief? It never has been. No, it's all one-sided. You get to know all about me, but I don't get to know a damn thing about you."

Fuck, but he was pissed. "Great," Jim blew more air out his nose, feeling the pressure release, allowing his body to relax. "Fine," he said more calmly, backing toward the door. "Go do whatever you have to do. Alone. Just go."

"Jim, I - "

Jim held up a hand, cutting him off as he reached for his jacket. "I'm just the heartless sentinel who's a fucking robot with five senses. Your toy to play with and experiment with. I'm not supposed to need friends, am I?" He pulled on his jacket. "Especially not friends whom I might actually be able to help. Friends I might have feelings for because they're important to me. That I might care about."

Good. Blair's eyes were bright. It's what he fucking deserves.

Jim abruptly turned and left the loft, slamming the door loudly.

Blair had no idea how long he stood there with his mouth hanging open or how long it took for the shock to pass.

What the hell just happened?

Losing his grip on the envelope, he placed both hands on the counter and leaned on it. Over and over, Jim's words bounced through his mind.

Where the hell did all that come from? He'd never, ever known Jim to be that pissed off. At least, not at him.

What the hell did I say?

Blair tried to recreate their conversation in his mind. Didn't he simply tell Jim that there was something he needed to take care of? Alone?

What's the big fucking deal? Of everyone Blair knew, Jim understood best that sometimes people had private business that couldn't be shared with anybody else.

But Jim had been bellowing something about being 'just' a sentinel -- a robot with five senses.

Is that how he thinks I see him?

He ran more of Jim's words through his mind, trying to look at them objectively. Doesn't he think I see him as a friend? After all the care he's given me since the accident?

He thinks he has a right to be included in everything in my life now?

Blair tried to feel annoyed about that. After all, he'd been somewhat put off by Jim asking so many questions about why it was taking him so long to tell Naomi about the accident.

But... there was another side to it. Another side that was warmed and grateful that Jim was so interested in his life.

Was that part of his friendship with Jim destroyed now? Just because he hadn't wanted to tell Jim where he was going -- and why?

Jim thought he had a right to know.

Did Jim have a right to know?

Confusion swirled in Blair's head. This was suddenly so complicated.

His thumb brushed along the edge of Naomi's envelope. Friday rush hour traffic was in full swing now, and the bank would be crowded. Blair didn't feel up to fighting the crowds. He'd soaked in a hot bath, but it had been thoroughly unsatisfying. His stomach had hurt more and more, and he knew the only remedy was to hurry up and get this errand over with. Then he would find out if it made his life simpler... or more chaotic. Or if it just turned out to be a moment-in-time situation that really wouldn't matter in the overall scheme of things. After all, Naomi did have a flair for the dramatic. She could make a mud pie sound like one of the great creations of the universe -- or one of the great disasters.

Blair tried to tell himself that he should leave anyway, before the bank closed.

He tried to take a step toward the door, but his throat tightened.

He had hurt Jim.

He had really hurt Jim.

Jim was the last person on earth he would choose to hurt -- and he had done so just by rejecting Jim's desire to help.

Why had he done that?

Why had he not wanted to tell Jim about this?

Blair's stomach twisted into a tighter knot.

His feet felt heavy as he pushed away from the counter and turned to his room. He flung himself onto the bed and curled into a tight ball, wondering how long it would take for his brain to shut down and allow him some peace.

His eyes fell on the tall dusty stack in the corner. It contained most of his notes for his thesis -- his thesis about the one known living being that was a sentinel. And his friend.

He was supposed to be turning in an introductory chapter for peer review within a couple of months. He hadn't even started yet. His work on the thesis consisted of continuing on with his journals, which were full of observations about Jim, and what he and Jim encountered each day. The thought of actually putting his notes into a format for a proper thesis paper -- and using thesis-speak to describe Jim and Jim's gift -- seemed like an unbearable task.

If Jim had the point of view that their friendship was unbalanced, what would he think of what Blair intended to write in his dissertation?

    The subject often exhibits self-doubt about his ability to use his senses in a complicated setting, such as picking out one particular scent from a crowded public area, where there are lots of scents. Despite his unique and outstanding abilities, the subject can resort to stubbornness and refuse to believe that his abilities are capable of doing the job.

Blair gulped, imaging Jim's reaction to reading something like that. He would be so hurt.

        The subject has demonstrated a highly defined sense of territory. If he feels his territory is threatened, he will exhibit paranoid behavior -- sometimes to an extreme -- in an effort to protect said territory.

Blair could imagine Jim's eyes blazing at Blair's betrayal by writing such a fact.

        When every action of the subject is broken down to its core, it becomes apparent that the subject makes choices that are based on fear. Every action is a reaction to a perceived threat.
  
Great, he'd just called Jim a coward. At least, that was how Jim was sure to see it.

Blair rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. If he found the energy to write in his journal tonight, he knew what he really wanted to say:

        I hurt Jim really bad. I'm not even sure how I managed that. But I did. This hurts worse than being scared shitless about the meaning of Naomi's letter.

Blair kicked the wall with his foot, trying to release some of his frustration. Naomi and Jim were the only two people he'd ever been close to for a prolonged length of time.  Now both those relationships were rocky. He knew his mother would always love him. But Jim.... He'd never had Jim mad at him before. At least, not for more than a few minutes.

He wrapped his arms tight across his chest. The feeling of isolation was unbearable. He would do anything to get back into Jim's good graces.

But first, he had to figure out what he'd done wrong. He placed his hands behind his head, determined to think the matter through.

Goddammit.
 
Jim released a heavy breath as he applied pressure to the brake. He was out of the city limits, where traffic had thinned a little, and he was pushing eighty. He slowed down, as the last thing he needed to top off this wonderful Friday afternoon -- now evening -- was to be stopped by a highway patrolman.

All right. Okay. He'd acted like an ass. He could admit that.

He'd had no right to expect -- let alone demand -- that Blair tell him whatever godforsaken secret thing Blair needed to go do by himself. Blair was a grown man. Reasonably healthy. He could do whatever the hell he wanted with his life, without having to report to Jim about it.

Intellectually, Jim had no problem with that concept.

But, dammit, his gut still churned at the idea that Blair got to have this whole secret life, while Jim got lectured and badgered whenever he didn't tell Blair everything that the anthropologist demanded at any given moment.

Why the hell do I even put up with him?

Jim expelled another sigh. An exit ramp to the suburb of Stanton was coming up. It would be three miles before there was another exit.

He didn't have a problem with the idea of turning around. It's just that he knew that going home and saying, "Hey, Chief, I'm sorry, I was out of line," wouldn't be the end of the consequences of his tirade. Blair would want to fucking talk about it. Analyze it to death. Not just analyze Jim, but explain his side.

Jim couldn't get the image out of his mind of Blair standing there, staring at him in shock with his mouth hanging open.

He'd liked leaving Blair like that -- for about ten seconds. Then he'd felt like a shit.

And wouldn't you know it, he didn't think Blair was feeling all that great, physically, to begin with.

And what fucking right did he have to lecture Blair about sharing things? About letting Jim into his personal life? Really, did Jim even want to go there?

He didn't think so.

Yet, he'd stood there, yelling at Blair about their one-sided friendship. God, what did Blair think of him now? Sure, Blair liked for him to emote. But he'd been whining, for chrissake. Jim Ellison did not whine.

Fuck.

Jim made a sharp right, just catching the exit ramp. Yeah, he'd get back on the highway and return to Cascade. If he was lucky, maybe Blair would have left to do whatever he needed to do (alone), and he wouldn't be back for the whole weekend. Then this would all blow over by the time he returned, and they wouldn't have to spend six hours talking about it -- as though that was supposed to solve anything.

Now, headed back to Cascade, Jim glanced at his cell phone on the seat. He could call Blair and tell him that he was on his way back and he was sorry. Maybe they could order a pizza and make up? Of course, he wouldn't say it like that.

For that matter, why hadn't Blair called? Blair was usually the first one to apologize whenever they had a snit.

Maybe he had left and gone... wherever.

He better not have.

This was worse than being fucking married. Blair was just his roommate -- a roommate who came and went as he pleased. It's not like he had any responsibility for Blair.

But, dammit, he'd watched over Blair while he was laid up. Bandaged his ribs each morning this past week before he went to Rainier. Arranged his pillows just right before Blair got into bed while he was convalescing. Let his own body be used as a piece of furniture to hold onto while Blair got up and got down. Wiped Blair's tears when he first woke up at the hospital and his emotions were out of whack.

He would have wiped his butt, too, if that had been required.

What the hell else was new? He'd stood by Carolyn when she'd put herself into financial ruin, and she still divorced him, anyway. Never mind that he'd refused to read the chapter she'd left out about how to help your wife have an orgasm.

Why should Blair be any different? Here you go, Chief. A roof over your head. A sentinel to study for your doctorate. A laundromat down in the basement. A private room to jerk off in. A refrigerator full of food. And when you get bored, you can drop by the station at your whim to see if there's anything exciting going on. A roller coaster, at your beck and call.

When Blair was done with Jim and the life Jim offered, he would leave. He'd been darn tempted, already, when that Borneo expedition got waved under his nose. Jim would like to think that Blair wouldn't be tempted if another such offer came along. That Jim himself was more important to Blair.

But apparently not. Jim had had Blair's mother in his home. Had even looked at Blair's bare-assed baby pictures while flirting innocently with her. And yet, there was this whole fucking secret veil around Blair and Naomi and that goddamned car accident that Jim was not privy to. Never mind that it was he at Blair's side when Blair woke up. Never mind that it hadn't been Naomi whom Blair had wanted summoned.

Never mind that he and Blair had gotten along famously after being around each other for two solid weeks.

It was all for naught. As soon as Blair was finished with that goddamned fucking-assed paper, his butt was going to be gone. Maybe forever. Jim could hear the conversation now: "Your senses and everything are working all right, aren't they, Jim? Good. But, you know, here's my phone number and my email address in case you have any problems. Of course, while I'm studying the effect of freezing cold on close-knit societies in Antarctica, it might be a while before you're able to get a hold of me. But I'll check my email and my messages as frequently as I'm able."

Jim snorted at the idea of warmth-loving Blair participating in a study in Antarctica. He smiled. 

He'd freeze his precious dick off.

The phone rang.

Ah-ha! Jim was feeling better already. Blair was going to apologize first.

He grabbed the phone and pushed a button, then put it to his ear. "Ellison," he answered cheerfully, to show that he was unaffected by their spat.

"Jim?"

Jim blinked. Not Blair. A woman's voice. Warm and inviting.

"Jim? It's Carolyn."

Fuck.

Sweetly, "Please don't hang up."

"What do you want, Carolyn?" he asked as nicely as he could manage. He had to slow down another 10 mph, because he was back in Cascade's city limits.

"I just wanted to thank you," she said.

That puzzled him, and he suspected that was the very reaction she was hoping for.

"The ten thousand," she clarified. "It's really helped. I'll send you your first payment next week. It won't be much, but it'll get larger with time."

He didn't know what to say.

She went on, "We worked out an arrangement with Wendy's new doctor. They've already started the treatments."

"I hope that goes well," Jim said sincerely. Or was this all a lie?

Is that how a paranoid person thinks? They're always suspicious that everything is a lie?

Had Blair figured out that he had paranoid tendencies? Was he writing that down in his thesis?

"I suppose I overreacted before," Carolyn said with embarrassment, "about the extra five grand, I mean. I'm sorry I badgered you."

Jim waited. He didn't want to get caught saying something he didn't really mean -- like if you need any more, just let me know -- and then have to live with the consequences.

She seemed to be waiting silently for him to do just that.

Jim said, "I'm glad to hear that things are working out." He didn't see any reason to say that he didn't really care if she ever paid him back or not. If fact, he decided it was okay for him to remain suspicious until the loan repayments actually started coming in on a regular basis.

"They are," Carolyn responded. "It feels so good to be feeling optimistic now. For a while there, things seemed really bleak."

"I'm glad I could help," Jim said, then inwardly cringed. He wished he hadn't stated it that way.

"How's Blair?" she asked casually.

Huh? Where did that come from? "Uh... he's doing fine. Great. He's almost completely recovered. He's back teaching, and he should be back with me at the station next week." Unless he's never speaking to me again. At least, if he leaves me, I'll understand why. And I won't have to feel guilty that I didn't give him orgasms because there was something wrong with how I touched him. His pleasure isn't dependent upon anything I do.

Thank God for that.

"Tell him I asked about him," Carolyn said.

"I will. He's concerned about Wendy, too."

"Oh. Tell him thanks," Carolyn said awkwardly.

Jim realized that she must not have anticipated that he might have mentioned Wendy's situation to Blair.

We live together, for chrissake. We're partners. What the hell did she expect?

"I'll let you go, Jim. I just wanted to say thank you and apologize again for my behavior before. I was just feeling a little freaked."

"It's okay," Jim said soothingly, hating the way he seemed to follow when she led him into statements that he really didn't want to make.

"Thanks again. Goodbye, Jimmy."

"Bye, Caro." He punched off and put the phone down.

Fuck.

If only he could believe everything she'd said. But he couldn't help but think she was just buttering him up for a later request for more money.

He wasn't going to give in. Ever. Blair's logic -- that she would have thought it through well enough to have an idea of how much money it would take to bail her out the first time -- made sense to him. It gave him the confidence to keep saying No.

Besides, he had his own domestic problems to deal with.

So far, so good.

Jim trudged up the stairs to the third floor. Blair's car, the one loaned to him by Taggert's nephew, had been in the lot. Now, just to make sure Blair was home, he extended his senses up to the apartment.

One heartbeat. Good.

It was just a matter of how to enter. March in, act like nothing had happened, and turn on the TV?

That'll never work. Blair would insist on talking.

Had Blair perhaps worked up to being good and angry while Jim was away? Or would he be meek and apologetic?

Jim didn't know which he preferred. He knew he'd been out of line and he'd have to be honest about that. He'd have to say "I'm sorry", which would be okay because he owed Blair that.

Jim took out his key and unlocked the door. He pushed it open.

Blair emerged from his room with an unreadable expression. "Good. You're home."

Jim hung up his jacket, not sure if he was relieved that Blair was being the proactive one. "Look, Chief," he said as he turned toward the kitchen, where Blair was standing near the table. "I was out of line. All right?" He put a hand to his chest. "I'm sorry. I had no right to say the things I did." He tried for his best congenial tone. "So, can we not make a big deal out of this? I'm sorry."

Blair looked confused.

Christ. Apparently, Jim's apologizing first wasn't on Blair's agenda.

"Jim, we have to talk." Blair put a hand to his stomach.

"Why?" Jim asked, as levelly as he could manage. "I was an ass. I admit it."

Blair blinked and shook his head. "No, Jim. No. I've been thinking -- "

Ugh.

"-- and I realize how it must seem to you. A-And you were right about a lot of things that you said. I want to explain."

Jim wasn't sure if he managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He reached to the overhead cabinet for a glass. "You don't need to. All right?"

Blair almost seemed to grit his teeth. "I want to. It's important to me." His fingers spread out across his stomach. "You can't blow up like that, and then not allow me the courtesy of responding back."

Cripes, this is worse than being married.

Blair's eyes narrowed and his hand moved again.

What the hell? "Chief, what's wrong?" Jim put the glass down and stepped closer. "Is it your incision?" The scar isn't that low, is it?

Blair looked down, as though surprised, then dropped his hand. "It's just stomach acid." His jaw firmed as he stepped back. "Don't try to change the subject."

Jim mentally sputtered that he was concerned about Blair.  Then he realized that he could feel stomach acid rumbling in his belly, too. "I haven't eaten yet. So, why don't we order a pizza, and then we can eat and talk?"

Blair thought about that. "All right." He seemed to relax a bit. "You know what I want on my half." He moved into the kitchen and took the milk carton out. He stood there with the door open and drank deeply.

Jim turned to find the phone to order the pizza. He hit speed dial #8 and was annoyed to get put on hold as soon as the call was answered. This was Friday night. They were busy.

He noticed that when Blair put the carton back, he was holding his stomach again, though he didn't seem to realize it.

Damn.

The clerk came back on and Jim ordered a large, and a medium on the side for only four dollars more. They said it would be up to an hour before the pizzas arrived.

"How about a beer?" Jim said, before Blair left the refrigerator. He'd been thinking about orange juice when he took out the glass, but now beer sounded better. Especially since his stomach was empty and he was going to have to do the "talking" thing. It might not hurt to be feeling a buzz.

As Blair brought two bottles to the table where Jim had already taken a seat, Jim noticed that the envelope Blair was holding earlier was on the counter. He dialed up sight and saw the return address. Naomi.

All right then. Maybe talking this out would solve the mystery of Blair's issues, or whatever it was, that he had with Naomi.

Blair sat with his back to the kitchen. He, too, had a beer since he wasn't taking his medication anymore, though he had yet to take off the cap.

Jim asked, "So, what's going on?" His eyes flicked meaningfully to the envelope on the counter behind Blair.

Blair studied the tabletop. Then he looked at Jim. "First, I-I want to talk about those things you said to me."

Jim looked away, biting his lip to keep from assuring Blair that no explanations were needed. He knew Blair didn't want to hear that, but instead felt a need to confess his shortcomings, or whatever it was that he'd thought Jim had been right about.

"Just let me say what I need to say," Blair insisted.

Jim nodded, but he still felt like a jerk for making Blair think he needed to explain anything at all.

Blair took his beer and picked at the bottle's label. "I don't know how to do the long-term relationship thing," he said, eyes firmly on his task. "Any kind of relationship."

Shit.

Blair's fingers stopped, but his eyes held to the bottle. "I've always only needed to deal with the moment, when it comes to interacting with other people, because," he swallowed as he looked up, "it's not like any of those bonds were ever going to be for forever. Or even for a few years." Blair started back on the label. "More like a few months. But, mostly, a few weeks." He looked at Jim again. "I've never had a need before to learn how to be around somebody who intends to always be there."

Jim squirmed. He didn't want to hear this... and yet he did.

Blair presented a sad smile while still picking at the bottle. "I don't mean that as pathetically as it sounds." He glanced up briefly.

Jim was glad he wasn't expected to say anything.

Blare tore some of the labeling away. "It's always been okay with me -- you know, to just know people for a finite length of time, before moving on to something else. Something else always meant some new adventure, new people to interact with." He looked up with a serious expression. "I know how to do that really well -- how to interact with others when I know I'm not going to be around any of them for very long."

"I'm getting the point here," Jim couldn't resist saying. He really didn't want Blair to feel like there was something wrong with him. His easy-going nature around strangers was a great asset.

"Let me finish," Blair pleaded.

"All right," Jim said with sigh. He sipped his own beer.

Blair looked squarely at him. "I like what I have here. Hanging out with you. Here and at the station, and on fishing trips and stuff. It's meant a lot to have somebody around. To have somebody to care. Especially after...," Blair shrugged uncomfortably, "the car accident." He suddenly shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter. He let go of the bottle. "I guess I'm not sure how to take advantage of that. How to let somebody else in, even when it would be really helpful. I'm just so used to doing everything on my own."

Jim squirmed again. "Chief, I understand that. Completely."

"Yeah, I suppose you would," Blair relented, his eyes back on the table. "But you know how to be close to people, when you want to be."

I do? That was how Blair saw him?

"I don't," Blair went on. "I've never needed to deal with that before. But now," he looked at Jim and swallowed again, "I-I think I do need to learn how to do that. Because I don't want to lose out on the benefits that come from having that sort of close relationship. It seems like it's a pretty nice thing." He returned to the bottle again, his voice unsteady. "To have somebody who wants to be there."

Blair didn't say anything for a moment, and Jim wondered if he was supposed to jump in and rescue him.

Then Blair said, "I've tried to look at things from your point of view, and I can understand how it seems to you. I think you're even right about a lot of it -- that our friendship has been all one-sided, in that I only wanted from you what Jim the sentinel could give me. I've also wanted to be whatever I could be to help Jim Ellison the man." Blair's voice faltered. "Because he means so much to me."

Chief...

Blair swallowed harshly. "It just never occurred to me before that letting you help me, too, was one of the things you needed." He looked up at Jim. "Pretty dense, huh?" He smiled briefly.

"Apology accepted," Jim interjected, not wanting Blair to wring himself out over this. "It was never needed, but thank you anyway. Now, how about telling me what's going on?" He nodded toward the envelope again, hoping it would get Blair's mind off the emotional stuff.

Blair moved out of his chair and took the envelope, which was open. As he sat back down, weariness seemed to come over him. He wet his lips while staring at the envelope. "I'm not even sure how to tell you about this," he said in a thick voice.

Despite his increasing impatience, Jim gently said, "Why don't you start by telling me what's in the envelope."

Blair considered that. Then he said, "I have to give you some background first." His mouth worked around for a moment, and Jim noticed that Blair's hand went to his stomach again.

Blair sat staring at the table for a long time. Then he muttered, "This is all a lot harder to talk about than I thought it would be."

Jim felt like an ass.

Blair worked at swallowing again, as though his throat were impossibly dry.

Jim reached for Blair's naked beer bottle and twisted off the cap. "Try this."

With the hand that wasn't on his stomach, Blair picked up the bottle and tilted it back. It was visibly shaking, and part of the contents spilled over the corner of his mouth.

"Jesus, Blair," Jim said, coming out of his chair.  He realized, far too late, that he had no right to ask Blair about any of this, all of Blair's emoting about long-term friendships be damned.  Yet, he could hardly say "Never mind" at this point. That would be even more insulting to Blair.

Jim took the beer away from him, squeezed Blair's shoulder reassuringly, and went to the refrigerator for a bottled water. He twisted off the cap and tossed it aside, then took a glass from the strainer and poured water into it. He set the glass in front of Blair, and took Blair's hand to place it around the glass. "Try this," he said, resisting the temptation to help guide the glass to Blair's mouth.

While Blair lowered his head to sip from the glass, Jim brought his chair over until it was next to Blair's. He sat in it and draped his arm around Blair's shoulders. He was still tempted to tell Blair that he, himself, had way overstepped the boundaries of even long-term friendship by wanting Blair to tell him whatever was so upsetting. Yet, the very fact that Blair was so upset showed that he was in no condition to deal with... whatever it was... all by himself.

And where are you, Naomi? He couldn't help but feel that she had something -- a lot -- to do with Blair's pain.

Jim waited until Blair had pushed the water aside. Then he touched the envelope, asking, "Can I look at this?"

Blair nodded, even as he said, "You won't understand what's in it."

Keeping one arm draped over Blair's nearest shoulder, Jim took the envelope and pulled out the contents. A key -- appearing to be one belonging to a safety deposit box -- fell out. There were two sheets of paper. One was a notarized legal document, where Naomi gave Blair permission to open her safety deposit box at a bank in the suburb of Stanton.

The other was handwritten and had been torn out of notebook. "Can I read this?" he asked Blair.

Blair nodded.

Jim unfolded the paper and silently read:

Blair Sweetie,

        I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to tell you this. I always intended to tell you when you were still young, but the years kept going by and there was never a time when it seemed necessary. The fact that you never asked about it -- even though I knew you couldn't ask about something you'd never had reason to wonder about -- helped me believe that it wasn't necessary to say anything.
        But it's obvious that the time is now. You mentioning your accident brought back a lot of difficult memories. I believe it was a sign that it's time for you to know. After all, you have been curious about why I would react so strongly to hearing yet again that I could have lost my baby to a car accident. Especially when I knew you were safe.
        Take this document and the key to the Westward Bank at Broadway and Eighth in Stanton. You'll find a safety deposit box with some envelopes containing papers and photographs. It's been many years, so I don't quite remember what all the papers will say. Hopefully, they'll answer all your questions. If not, please give me a call. I promise not to react as badly as I did the last time.

Much love to my dearest son always,

Naomi

Jim fingered the key. "What do you think the papers in the box say?" He could now see that there was something about a car accident, which was meaningful to both Blair and Naomi. Her note sounds like she's already lost "her baby" to an accident. How could that be?

He felt a sense of foreboding.

Blair didn't say anything for a long moment.  Then he dryly began, "All my life, my mom and I have had this running joke. When she hadn't seen me for a while, she'd often say, 'How's my favorite son?' And then I'd say, 'I'm your only son.'"

Oh, no.  Jim had a feeling where this was leading. He squeezed Blair's shoulder.

"I-I never thought anything of it. Then, one day -- maybe when I was thirteen or fourteen -- my Mom got back from a trip somewhere. And when she said 'How's my favorite son?' it's like I knew -- somehow," he swallowed thickly, "that there really was more than one son." Voice unsteady, he said, "It was one of those moments in life when you suddenly understand something in a way you never did before."

Blair stopped a moment. Then, "I don't know. For some reason, I didn't pursue it. I didn't say anything to her about it. I guess I convinced myself that it didn't really matter. That there was a good reason why she'd never told me. Or maybe," Blair's stiff shoulders shrugged with exaggeration, "maybe I never said anything because I didn't think I could deal with whatever she would tell me. Not after so many years had passed."

"So," Jim said softly, trying to help Blair along, "you've still never asked?"

Blair was silent.

Then Jim remembered, "What does this have to do with a car accident?"

"I'm not sure," Blair said, rubbing an open hand against his leg.  "Maybe... whoever my brother was, he was killed in one."

"You don't remember?" Jim asked, not sure he understood this.

"I don't remember anything about a car accident," Blair said woodenly.

"Then how come you've put off telling your mother about your accident?"

Blair was again silent. Then he admitted, "I don't know. It's like an instinct or something. Like, maybe I was too young to have a memory of anything, and yet my subconscious knew that Naomi would be freaked if she heard that I'd been in one, because it would bring up bad memories."

Crap. This seemed so contorted -- and unnecessarily so. If Naomi just would have said something to Blair. For godssakes, Blair could have a brother, albeit one who might no longer be living.

Or would he be a half brother?

"Jim?"

Jim had felt Blair's body go stiff as he spoke. He squeezed Blair's shoulder again.

"What if...?" Blair continued to stare at the tabletop. "What if whatever is in that safety deposit box has some information about my father?"

Jim sputtered, "Why wouldn't Naomi have told you?" Keeping the identity of a child's father from him had to be outright criminal. He'd always understood from Blair that the reason he'd been raised fatherless was because there had been too many candidates who could have been his father, and Naomi had never considered it important. Blair had always acted like it hadn't been important, either.

But a brother. That ranked differently.

Jim found it hard not to be outright angry. Hell, he was angry.

"She had her reasons." Blair turned his head to look up at him, his expression so sincere. "I don't judge her for decisions she made twenty-nine years ago. I don't want you to, either."

"Except," Jim huffed, "if she's been keeping it from you all this time, then she's been telling you a continual lie, right up until the time she sent you this." He indicated the papers.

Blair made a little snort. "After all of this, it may turn out that all that's in the safety deposit box is some newspaper clipping about a car accident and a birth certificate or death certificate or something. I mean... it may be nothing that really tells me much."

There was a knock on the door.

"Pizza," Jim realized. He stood and took out his wallet.

Blair stood and got out dishes and silverware while Jim paid for the pizzas. Jim was grateful for the respite as they sat down and prepared to eat. He was relieved that Blair seemed willing to eat; in fact, Blair also seemed relieved to have the distraction. But then, it was probably good for him to get something in his stomach if he was having pains.

Casually, after pulling away a slice, Jim asked, "Are you going to have the doctor look into your stomach pains when you go back for a check-up?"

Blair shrugged. "If I still have them." He chewed for a minute. "It may just be some sort of psychosomatic thing, with me thinking about all this stuff. I used to get ulcers when I was a kid."

Jesus Christ. Yet, it all fit, didn't it? Panic attacks. Therapy sessions. A mother who couldn't be forthright with her son if her life depended on it. Decidedly calm, Jim asked, "Only when you were a kid?"

"I took some medication for a few years and they went away."

Thank God. Jim mused, "I'm surprised that Naomi would consider putting you on 'medication', as opposed to some sort of natural remedy."

"She was living with a doctor for a while. So, she sort of deferred to him." Blair grimaced. "Let's not talk about how many enemas I had up my ass one summer, because I got constipated a lot. And that's not counting the lovely barium enema the doctor gave me once, to try to diagnose my ulcer."

Yes, let's not talk about that. Still, Jim was amazed at all the physical traumas Blair had survived. What a tough kid he must have been. "How old were you when your ulcer went away?"

"Twelve, I think."

Jim nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. Old enough to reasonably independent and not need Naomi so much anymore. He mentally snorted at the idea of Naomi's mere presence giving Blair ulcers. Hell, she'd give me ulcers. Now. As an adult. If he had to be around her for very long. All that flightiness....

Blair pushed his plate away. "This is all I can eat right now."

Jim was glad that Blair had at least gotten a slice and a half down. "If I hadn't interrupted you, I guess you could have made it to the bank in Stanton before it closed." Now, Blair was going to have to agonize all night long, wondering what was in that safety deposit box.

Blair shrugged half-heartedly. "Maybe it's for the best that I had to stop and take a breath." He sipped his water.

Jim sat back and crossed his arms. "You don't have to do this alone, Chief." You shouldn't do it alone. "I'd like to come with you. I assume you're going down there tomorrow morning?"

Blair didn't answer, but only pulled his water closer.

Gently, Jim said, "I don't have to go into the vault with you. I can wait outside. In fact, maybe you should just pick up the envelopes and not look at them until we come back here. And then... you can look at them in your room." If you need me, I'll be right here.

Blair lowered his face, his expression weary. "I don't know. I don't know what I'll want to do, once we get there." He looked up at Jim. "Yeah, I'd like... like you to be there." The corner of his mouth twitched.

Jim nodded, pleased. "Okay."

Blair gazed at the table for a long moment. Then he said, "I'm so afraid that I'm not going to like what I find out."

Jim could understand that. Otherwise, why all the secrecy? If Blair had had a brother or half-brother, he couldn't conceive of any reason whatsoever for Naomi to have concealed that from him.

But Sandburgs seemed to have their own brand of logic.

Jim felt another flare of anger at Naomi. Why couldn't she just call or email Blair and at least prepare him for what was in the safety deposit box? For all their chatter, Naomi and Blair both seemed to be amazingly dense when it came to talking about the truly important stuff.

But then, that's what Blair had confessed tonight, wasn't it? What he'd come to realize, perhaps for the first time? That he had some short-comings -- some arrested development -- when it came to having any sort of clue as to how to form close, intimate, long-term relationships with another person?

Jim was full. He flipped the pizza box closed, then took it and the unopened medium pizza to the refrigerator. He tilted his beer back, finishing it. Then he went back to Blair and placed both hands on his shoulders. He squeezed. "It's going to be a long night, huh?"

Blair looked up at him and managed a smile. "I'm going to put on some quiet music in my room and try to lose myself in meditative bliss."

Jim squeezed his shoulders once more. "I'll keep the TV turned down."

Blair reached up and gripped Jim's hand. "Thanks."

Jim stepped back so Blair could stand, and they went their separate ways.

The drive to Stanton was quiet. Jim took the boulevard, rather than the highway, since it was a more direct route and traffic would be light on a Saturday morning.

But Jim couldn't stay mum the entire trip. "Chief, there's something bugging me about what you told me last night."

"What's that?"

"You said your mother and you had that joke about you being her favorite son."

"Yeah?"

Jim couldn't believe he had to spell it out. "If there was some tragic car accident -- or something -- that traumatized her, then why would she keep reminding herself of it by having that long-running joke with you?"

Blair shrugged. "Maybe it was her way of keeping his memory alive, while not letting it make her sad. Maybe it was her way of hinting to me that I did have a brother. After all, it did finally dawn on me one day."

In a low voice, Blair muttered, "Maybe it's not a brother at all. But a sister. Or maybe it was Naomi who was in a bad car accident and that's all there is to it, and that's all we'll find in the safety deposit box."

Jim didn't believe the latter and he didn't think Blair did either.

Soon they were in Stanton, and as they neared the intersection to Broadway, with the bank only a couple of blocks away, Jim asked, "How are you holding up?"

Blair was looking out his side window. "Other than my stomach feeling full of lead..." He drew a deep breath.

"As long as it's lead and not acid," Jim joked. Blair had drunk some milk this morning, but that was as much as he could handle for breakfast. Jim hadn't done much better. His curiosity was killing him. He had to keep reminding himself that he needed to follow Blair's lead in how to play this when it came to the heavy stuff. He hoped Blair would want to take the contents of the safety deposit box home before looking at them, but he had the feeling that wasn't going to happen.

As Jim turned right, Blair said, "I don't think my ulcer's back, if that's what you're wondering. I think I was just reacting to a lot of memories. Or rather, subconscious memories."

Two short blocks later, they were at the bank. "It's open," Jim said, noting a few people going in the entrance as he parked the truck. His watch said it was a little after nine, which was when they had assumed that the bank would open on a Saturday.

Blair opened his door and started out.

"Chief? You want me to come in with you?"

Jim listened to Blair swallow thickly.  Blair nodded without turning.

Jim could hear Blair's heartbeat increasing as they crossed the parking lot to the entrance. Thank God this would all be over soon. Whatever 'this' is.

Jim spotted the sign that directed customers downstairs for the safety deposit box vault. He put his hand on Blair's back and guided him to the stairs.

The stairwell opened to the correct area. Thankfully, the only person there was a young woman behind the counter.

Jim had to remind himself to not take over the proceedings. He took a step back behind Blair.

Blair handed the woman his key and the notarized letter. "I've come for this box," he said in a dry voice. "It's not mine, but I have a document that gives me authorization."

The woman wrote down the key's number, then handed it back to him. She took the document and said, "One moment."

Jim listened to her consult with a supervisor in the backroom.

The woman had Blair sign in a few minutes later.  "Would you like a private room?"

Blair nodded.

"This way."

Jim trailed behind the other two. The tension coming from Blair was almost palpable.

In the vault, she used her key, then Blair's key, to retrieve the medium-sized box. She led them to a little room with a table and two chairs. "Come get me when you're through."

Blair made a noise that Jim assumed was supposed to be a thanks.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Blair was already opening the metal box, as though determined to delve right in.

Jim took one of the chairs and pulled it back to the corner opposite the door. He sat down, determined to not interfere unless Blair invited him. He had full view of the door and of Blair standing over the desk.

He tried not to stare at Blair. Blair's mouth was set in a firm line as he turned two large manila envelopes upside down. Jim could see clippings, photographs, and other papers falling out.

He resisted the temptation to dial up sight. Instead, he sat back and crossed one leg over the other.

Blair's eyes scanned the papers. He started leafing through them, and then appeared to sort them as he read, overlapping them on top of each other, so he could see all the headings at a glance. Then he scanned them some more. He sometimes reached to move up one of the pages, so he could see more of it.

Blair's heart had calmed down considerably. Jim wondered what he was thinking. And feeling.

Finally, Blair picked up a photograph and looked at it. He held it out. "This is my father," he said in a level voice.

Jim came forward and accepted the photograph.  Stepping back -- to keep from seeing what else was on the table until Blair gave him permission to look -- he studied the picture.

It was black and white. It showed a longhaired man -- hair much longer than Blair's and less thick and curly -- with a matching beard, in a country setting. He was sitting on the hood of a beat-up old Ford. The man looked remarkably serious for such an obvious hippie. Or maybe, Jim considered, his impression of the hippies of the 60's was skewed. It wasn't like he'd ever met any of them.

Jim turned the photograph over. It read, "Tim. 1967."

Blair was born in 1969.

"How do you know this is him?" Jim asked.

Blair's hands moved over the piles of papers. He picked up a newspaper clipping and handed it to Jim without looking at him.

Blair's hand was trembling.

It looked like a clipping from an editorialist's column. It was titled, "When Is a Family a Family?" And  in smaller print, "And When Isn't it?"

Jim read:

        Naomi is nineteen and spends a lot of time looking out the window these days. One can't help but think she's still waiting for her18-month-old son, whom she gave up shortly after his birth.  Yet, this isn't the story of an unwed teenager giving up her baby for adoption. In one sense, it's that; but it's also much more.
         Welcome to the new generation of free-spirited hippies. In a settlement of young people who have turned their backs on modern society, our traditional definition of what constitutes a family is being turned on its ear.
        "It was a simple agreement," Naomi tells me. "I wanted a child. My good friend Tim wanted a child. We needed each other to have what we wanted. We agreed on two children, with him raising the first as his own, and me raising the second as my own."
        This agreement apparently went through without a hitch.  There was no written contract, only "a contract of the heart and recognition of mutual need." 
        Crying from the back room interrupts our conversation. Naomi excuses herself and sees to her infant son, Blair. After he is settled, she returns. "I wouldn't have Blair now, if it weren't for Tim," she says with a sad smile. 
        I ask her how she could have given up her first child to Tim, after carrying him for nine months and giving birth to him. "We agreed," she says simply. "I knew the next one would be for me to keep." 
        Naomi was the lucky one in the whole arrangement. Last week, Tim and the son that Naomi had produced for him were killed when their car was hit head-on on a lonely country road in Illinois.
        I point out to her that her sadness seems to be stronger than what one would expect for a son she could give away as easily as a litter of puppies.  At first, she seems angry at my question. Then she tells me, "Trevor will always be a part of me. It's not important that I probably would never have seen him again." More sadly, she says, "Now I never will."
        I tell her I'm sorry to hear of the accident. But I can't help but ask the obvious: Why not have simply married Tim and raised the two children together?
      "Neither of us wanted to settle down," she tells me, "in the way that society considers 'normal'. We both wanted to do different things. We weren't in love with each other, but we both had lots of love to give to a child." She looks toward the room where her half of the bargain with Tim is sleeping. "My little Blair is my whole life. He is everything. No one could love a child more. I know Tim loved Trevor like a second heart."
        I ask her if it's scary to contemplate a future raising Blair alone.
       "No," she tells me with defiance. "I have a whole community of people to depend on. I don't expect you, or others from the establishment, to understand. I just hope that my little Blair will have a healthier world to grow up in than I did."
        Frankly, Naomi doesn't yet seem "grown up" to me. While I don't claim to understand her ways and those of her 'community of people', I want the same thing that she wants: for her little Blair to have a healthier world to live in than the world that exists right now.

Jim didn't know what to say. The article was poignant. But how could she simply give up her first son? And deny Trevor and Blair an opportunity to be brothers?

Of course, if destiny would have seen to Trevor's death at eighteen months anyway....

"He was born a year before you?" Jim realized his voice was gruff, but he didn't think it carried any judgment. Born just a year apart, like a childbearing factory.

Blair nodded, not meeting his eyes. His face looked very tired. "The date's at the top."

Jim glanced up. The clipping included the top margin of the newspaper. It read November 19, 1969.  The newspaper's name was The Portland Times.

Keeping his voice as gentle as he could, Jim asked, "Why wouldn't Naomi have told you about Tim?"

Blair shrugged. "Maybe it was all too painful to her. I think losing Trevor -- giving him away -- affected her a lot more than she wanted to admit to anybody, including herself."

"Do you think that maybe, deep down inside, she hated Tim for taking Trevor away?"

"I don't know."

"I wonder if she ever saw Trevor after she gave him up."

"Probably. Tim had to stay around until I was conceived. Afterwards, I think he left to live in Illinois. Naomi and I stayed in a commune in Oregon for awhile, until I was maybe a year old."

Blair swallowed. Then, in an unsteady voice, "It must have been really hard for her when she heard about the accident. You know," he swallowed again while still refusing to look up, "knowing that Trevor was gone for good and there would be no second chances."

"Must have," Jim agreed softly, "since she reacted so badly to hearing about your accident after all these years."

In a barely audible voice, Blair said, "Maybe she's been waiting all these years to let loose about how she really felt about it."

Maybe.

Jim carefully laid the clipping back on the table.  Blair had lost his earlier aura of determination and efficiency. Now, he just looked tense and miserable. "How you doing?" Jim asked.

Blair quickly held up another newspaper clipping, forcing a smile. "This is Trevor. It's from a paper in Illinois."

Jim accepted the distraction. Trevor was a cute little one-year-old. Yeah, he could see toddler Blair looking like that.

A full brother who Blair never got to know.

A father who Blair never got to know.

Damn you, Naomi. And Tim and all your people who felt you were free to fuck with innocent lives like this.

Blair had picked up the picture of Tim again. "Guess I didn't get his height, huh?" His voice sounded almost normal.

Jim took the picture. Then he said, "Actually, I think you did, Chief. He just looks taller because he's slender.  But look how he's sitting on the car. The way his foot doesn't quite reach the ground. I bet he's five-eight, tops."

Blair stared at the photo.

Jim asked, "How do you feel about him right now?"

Blair took the photo and tossed it to the table. "Sperm donor," he declared.

The harsh assessment concerned Jim, even though he couldn't imagine feeling otherwise. "Maybe he was as bothered by not having you with him as Naomi was about not having Trevor."

"Guess we'll never know."

How easy it was, now, to see so clearly that Blair was covering his true feelings. Just a day ago, Jim would have let the comment pass without any further consideration. But after having heard Blair's confession that he didn't know how to "do the long-term relationship thing", Jim felt he had permission to reflect upon things on Blair's behalf.

"What's the rest of this stuff?" Jim asked, resting his hand on Blair's shoulder.

"Just stuff about the commune. Notes from meetings they had." Blair touched a small stack of spiral notebook paper. "Some creative writing." He moved some papers. "More photographs."

"Any of you as a baby?"

Blair shook his head. "She must have already put those in the photo albums."

Ah, yes, of course. The photo albums Naomi had showed to him.

Blair started gathering up the papers and putting them back into the envelopes.

Jim slid his hand across Blair's back to the opposite shoulder. He squeezed it. "What's going on inside that head of yours?" he asked gently. And your heart.

Blair shrugged as he continued to clear the table. "I got what I came for," he answered roughly.

Jim wondered if that was really true. He had more questions he wanted to ask, but he didn't feel right about badgering Blair. Instead, he admitted, "Why do I get the feeling that you're not filled with relief?"

"It's a lot to take in," Blair said. "Not that any of it really surprises me."

"Yeah," Jim said. He wondered if Blair's last statement meant that he'd always suspected that Naomi had known who his father was.

How can you lie to your own son for twenty-nine years?

Jim pulled Blair next to him. Blair had just finished putting away the last item when Jim hugged him closer, feeling a need to comfort, though he wasn't sure if it was what Blair needed.

He had his answer a moment later, as Blair shifted to place his head against Jim's chest.

Jim put both arms around Blair, feeling as though something inside of him was melting. He cared so much for Blair, and felt so honored that Blair had allowed him to be here for this. And especially that Blair was turning to him for solace.

Blair tentatively wrapped his arms around Jim, and then squeezed harder. He released a slow, heavy breath, and Jim felt him begin to relax.

"Take your time," Jim whispered, realizing that he'd started a slight rocking motion. "We don't have to be anywhere."

Blair's head grew heavier against his chest.

Jim closed his eyes, savoring the closeness.

The cell phone rang.

Shit! Jim couldn't believe he hadn't thought to leave it in the truck.

For a moment, he considered not answering it, especially since Blair was still resting against him. But the second ring became too intrusive within the small, quiet room.

Jim stepped away from Blair. With a sigh, he took the phone out of his coat pocket and hit a button. "Ellison."

He watched Blair slowly pick up the envelopes from the table as a female voice said, "Jim?"

"Caro." Jim rolled his eyes at Blair, who looked up at him with a bleak expression.

"Jim, I thought I'd tell you -- "

"I'm busy right now," Jim cut her off.

"Then will you call me later? On my cell, 555-6262. I'm in Cascade."

"I don't know when I'll be free." He cut the line, thinking two phone calls within fifteen hours was bad news.

Did she say she was in Cascade? Again?

Blair was holding the envelopes close to his body, reminding Jim of a schoolboy who was afraid of releasing his homework to the teacher, for fear that she'll find it lacking.

Is that how he feels about his whole identity right now? Jim wondered. That others will find him lacking?

"Want me to get the lady?" he asked.

Blair nodded.

Is it better to be a clueless bastard -- literally -- than to find out that you were a negotiation between two parents who picked and chose between you and your brother before you were born?

Yet, Jim didn't think Blair would blame Naomi. And maybe Blair didn't even blame Tim, despite Tim being a 'safe' target since he was long dead.

Jim summoned the bank employee to put the empty safety deposit box away. Then he and Blair left the bank and got into the truck.  

Jim tried to be respectful of Blair's silence as they drove down the boulevard. But he was too curious not to ask, "Are you going to talk to Naomi about this?"

Blair was looking out his side window. "Eventually. Probably."

Meaning he might not. Jim mentally shook his head. If it were him, he'd want to know every little detail about the whole situation, so he could draw his own conclusions based upon all the best possible information.

"Jim, let me out here."

There was a park on the right. They were still a good five miles from home. "What?"

"Let me out," Blair said again, looking at him desperately. "I need to be alone."

Jim understood that, but, "Wait until we get to the park closer to home."

"No. Now. Come on, Jim."

Sighing, Jim pulled over to the curb. "Do you want me to wait?"

Blair was already getting out of the truck. He turned to look at Jim. "No. I'll take the bus. Or a cab."

"Do you have enough money?" A cab would charge a ridiculous amount, even for a five-mile trip.

Blair almost grinned, as though amused at Jim's concern. "Yes." Then he patted the envelopes he'd left on the seat. "Take them home. I'll be back later."

Jim still felt bad about leaving Blair so far from the loft. "Call me on the cell if you need me to pick you up."

Blair nodded and started to turn away.  Then he turned back, stepping onto the footboard to hoist himself up. He reached forward and grabbed Jim's arm. "Don't worry, Jim. I'm okay. I just... need...," he faltered.

Jim quickly nodded, not wanting Blair to have to search for the right words. "I know. Call me if you need me."

"I will." Blair moved back and slammed the door, giving it a pat.

Jim eased the truck forward, watching in the rearview mirror as Blair started walking across the park.

He couldn't imagine what Blair's state of mind was at the moment. He just knew that it had to be pure chaos, probably fueled by a great deal of anger, even if he didn't let himself admit it.

It was tempting to call Naomi in Florida and demand to know what she'd been thinking all these years -- let alone back in 1967 when she and Tim made their agreement.

But if Blair didn't want to blame Naomi... Jim would have to learn to live with his frustration.

Who does Blair blame?

Maybe Blair was "letting it go" and determined to not blame anybody.

Jim sighed.

Blair ducked beneath the trees, finding a clearing where he didn't think other people in the park would notice him. He rolled into a sitting position, his knees up, and buried his face in his hands.

All right. Okay. The great mystery of his conception was solved.

Trevor was gone, so there was no point in wondering what it would have been like if they could have been raised as brothers. Like a real family. For that matter, if Trevor were destined to die while still a toddler... well, Blair still wouldn't have had a brother to grow up with.

The thing was, all his feelings were in the present, while all the originating events were in the past. There was absolutely nothing he could do about any of it.

Blair raised his head. Score one for facing reality. He couldn't change what had gone before. He would have to deal with his feelings, whatever they were, as best he could in the days and weeks ahead.

Blair wrapped his arms protectively around his ribs. They'd been feeling okay, but now they were starting to give off a small ache. He'd been walking around for half an hour before accepting that the activity wasn't going to make him feel better about anything. Physically, it made him feel worse.

The only thing that had made him feel better was Jim holding him.

Blair closed his eyes. What would he have done if he had gone to the bank by himself and faced all this alone?

He would have survived. That was a fact.

But there wouldn't have been anybody to turn to. Naomi was the one person he could count on -- when he could track her down -- but she was also the person who had caused all this... mess. This ache. This pain. He couldn't even begin to sort out what it was that hurt exactly. He just knew that it did.

All Jim had wanted to do was soothe. He hadn't even needed to know where the pain was coming from.

I love him so much. Blair lowered his face to his knees.

Jim had returned last night, eager to apologize. Blair hadn't expected that, or even cared who was at fault for their argument. He'd only wanted Jim to listen to him after he'd figured out where he himself was shortchanging their friendship. Jim had listened, though it had taken some insistence on Blair's part. But he had listened and... accepted. And then he'd wanted to help.

Blair squeezed his eyes shut, his heart in a vice grip that had nothing to do with Naomi or Tim or Trevor. He had promised Jim that he'd be the first to read his thesis. What would Jim think when he read the words that Blair was going to have to write? What possible defense could Blair offer for the hurt he was going to cause?

        It's a scientific paper, man. That's the way we talk in thesis-speak. What's the big deal? I've noted the fact that sometimes you don't put as much effort as you could into using your senses. That you start getting territorial when you feel that areas you've staked claim to are threatened. That you get paranoid when you're protecting your territory. That every choice you make is out of fear. Every act you make is an action of defense.
        But don't worry, Jim. None of these things I say about you change the fact that I love you, man. What's the problem? Besides, it's not like your name is in it anywhere. Anyone who's bored enough to want to read my thesis will just think that they're reading about some pre-civilized specimen of man.

Blair slowly shook his head. How could he ever feel joy, pride, or accomplishment in writing about Jim in such a way? Especially when such writing was going to be published?

This man -- this sentinel -- was the same one who had held him an hour ago.

We had an agreement, Blair protested, in his own defense.

Blair raised his head and frowned. Yeah? Well, so did Tim and Naomi.

Tim and Naomi. Naomi and Tim. Too many years ago to do anything about that now.

The other matter was something that he had the power to fix. Before he hurt the person who mattered most.

Funny how things happened in threes. There had been the car accident. Finding out about his parentage. And now....

Blair felt a calm wash over him. It was ironic how the world came into such clear focus when you knew you were going to do the right thing. He just had to get his thoughts together before he told Jim.

Jim rolled over in his bed. It was 3:10 AM and sleep was still elusive.

Blair had come home early that afternoon, looking tired and worn out. Grunting a greeting, he had gone straight to the kitchen and taken some pain pills, indicating that his ribs were bothering him. He then picked up the envelopes that Jim had left on the table and taken them to his room. Jim hadn't bothered asking how he had gotten home.

Now, there was still light shining from Blair's room. Jim knew what Blair was doing: staring at that damned picture of his biological father, as he seemed to do most of the afternoon. The stare was broken now and then by the noise of other papers being shifted.

In the middle of the night, it was the utter stillness in the loft that Jim found so disconcerting. Yet, he knew Blair's brain was going a hundred miles per hour.

Tossing and turning wasn't accomplishing anything. Jim got up and put on his robe. He descended the stairs, then turned to the kitchen. He made no attempt to be quiet as he filled the coffeemaker.

"Jim?"

Jim leaned over the island, facing Blair's room, where the doors were partially open. "Yeah?"

"Am I keeping you up?"

"It's okay," Jim said, turning back to the coffee. "It's too quiet. I'm going to try to watch some TV, then go in early for a workout. The gym opens at five, even on Sundays."

Blair didn't say anything more.

Despite drinking some coffee, Jim started to drift off while lying on the sofa and watching the repeats of Saturday's sports programs on ESPN.

He was startled awake when the TV went dead.

Blair put down the remote, then reached to turn on the lamp by the sofa. "Sorry," he said as he sat on the coffee table, facing Jim. He was dressed in sweats and wearing glasses. He looked much more alert than he had earlier in the day.

Jim rubbed at his eyes and shifted so that he was partially sitting up.

"Sorry, man," Blair said again. "But I need to talk to you. It can't wait."

Christ, he'd been home and available to Blair all day for that very reason. Why was Blair choosing the wee hours of the morning to talk things out? But Jim merely said, "Rough day, huh?"

Blair glanced away. "Yeah, but... what I want to talk about doesn't concern any of the stuff that came from the bank."

Oh. Jim blinked, wanting to be more alert because now he was all the more curious.

Blair worried his lower lip a moment. He clasped his arms around one bent leg and rested his chin on the knee. Then he put the leg down. Finally, he leaned forward with both elbows on his knees and looked Jim in the eye. "I can't write about you for my dissertation."

What? Dissertation? Where the hell had that come from all of a sudden?  "Why not?"

Blair presented a small, ironic smile. "Because... you mean too much to me."

Jim felt his mouth fall open.

Blair's swallow was loud in the silence of the night. Voice gruff, yet sure, he said, "I've lost my scientific objectivity." His gaze darted to the floor. "I lost it a long time ago." He looked back up at Jim. "It's just taken me a while to admit it."

Jim had no idea what to say. Or if this was a good thing or bad thing. "Why now?"

Blair almost snorted. "Let's just say that, lately, I've had a big lesson in the pain that can come from living a lie. Especially a lie that goes on for a long time."

Huh? "How is... the dissertation a lie?"

"I'm trying to pretend to be a scientist writing about a sentinel. Yet, all I really want to do is be Blair Sandburg, writing about how wonderful his friend Jim Ellison is, with or without the sentinel abilities. I've caught myself being too...," he searched for the right word, "sentimental. So, I've bent over backwards to be scientific. When I look back and read what the scientist says, it... upsets me."

Blair looked away a moment, then looked back. "Not that it's anything bad," he assured. "But some of the stark 'facts' about how Jim Ellison behaves as a sentinel... well," Blair pushed his hair back, "let's just say that I don't like those cold facts being stated about my friend. It's all the more upsetting to know that I'm the one who said them."

Dear God. He'd had no idea that Blair was this troubled. In fact, Jim hadn't known that Blair had had any doubts at all about the thesis. He'd always spoken so enthusiastically about it.

This was a good thing. A very, very good thing.

Blair's blue orbs gazed at him. "Why didn't you tell me?" His voice hinted at scolding.

What? "Tell you what?"

"About how much it bothered you." Blair put his knee up again and rested his chin on it. "The relief is written all over your face."

It is? What bothered him was being faced with the realization that he was so transparent. Yet, it didn't bother him nearly as much as the idea of Blair writing all about him and publishing it, so the whole world would know his secrets -- sentinel abilities and otherwise -- even if they never knew his name.

Blair was never going to write about him. Yes!

He needed to answer Blair's question. "W-We had an agreement," he floundered.

Blair studied him for a long moment. Then he said, "So did my mother and that Tim person. So did you and Carolyn when you said your wedding vows." He slowly shook his head. "I don't think there should be any shame in reneging on an agreement when it's not working any more." His head bowed, and then he said, "We can't do anything about what's happened in the past. But we can make choices in the present that can give us some control over the future."

This was too much. Like getting the best Christmas present ever -- and he hadn't even asked for it.

But at what cost? "What about your doctorate?" Don't you dare throw that away for me.

Blair sighed so heavily that his cheeks billowed. "I've got a lot of data concerning police departments and tribal cultures. I'm going to have to talk to the committee about allowing me to change my thesis topic. Assuming they approve, I'll have to apply for more grants. Basically, I'll have to start over, but most of the data is already there.  It's just a matter of shifting my focus. It'll set me back a good year, at least."

He straightened and presented a tiny smile. "But I don't really mind. It's better than beating my head against the wall every time I look at my data and notes and journals, and try to pretend that I'm not doing something unethical by thinking I can write objectively about you."

Jim didn't know how to express what this meant to him. He merely nodded, smiling. "Okay."

Blair's expression showed worry. "Jim? I'd like to keep studying you and documenting data. Strictly for my own purposes -- our own purposes. To help you. Who knows, maybe some day, long after we're both gone, it'll mean something important to somebody." There was sadness as he spoke the last. He clarified, "Only if it's okay with you."

"Are you sure you aren't going to resent me down the line? I mean," Jim gestured awkwardly, wondering if this was all too good to be true, "the sentinel stuff has always been so important to you."

"It still is. But you've become more important as my friend." Blair looked squarely at him. "I don't know how to separate the two any more.  It's a relief to know that I can stop trying." He glanced away a moment. Then, "Looking at you now, I know it's the right choice for you, as well as for me." He laughed nervously. "It's just taken me a long time to accept that you're so different from me."

Jim furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Blair ducked his head and laughed briefly. "Jim, man, if anybody on this earth had ever wanted to write about me, because they thought I was unique or special or whatever -- oh, man," His voice was suddenly unsteady. "I would have been swooning at their feet. Rolling over on my back and purring, 'Stroke me, stroke me. Stroke me some more.'" He shook his head, as though unable to fathom the absurdity of it. "It's been really hard for me to believe that you don't think it's anything special to be... so special." Heavy gulp. "But you don't, do you?"

Jim gazed back at Blair. Those big, sincere eyes reflecting the young man who had had so much thrown at him today. Who still wanted to put Jim first, even after admitting that Jim's priorities didn't make any sense to him. The young man who felt he could only observe someone 'special', because he didn't view himself as fitting that category. His parents had parceled him and his brother out like livestock, after all.

Have you, too, been abandoned all your life, Chief?

He wondered if he was seeing the real Blair for the very first time.

This was a Blair he wanted so much to take into his arms and protect, to make happy, to make things right for.  

He realized he hadn't answered Blair's question. Softly, and wanting so much to believe his own words, he said, "You might be surprised at how you'd feel at truly being different from anyone else. It's not all it's cracked up to be." In fact, didn't Blair already know that? Hadn't he stood out amongst his peers for being a nerd, being a bastard, being the one with the most fun mother, though said mother wasn't really ever around? (And when she was, gave him ulcers?)

And then, wanting to study some subject for his doctorate that most of his peers didn't think really existed?

"Being unique doesn't have to be a lonely road, Jim. You've always had me."  Blair stood and turned away.

Jim heard so clearly what hadn't been stated: I want to be as important to you as you are to me.

But, dammit, it hadn't been easy. In fact, with each passing month it seemed to get harder, as Jim was all the more aware of his finite time with Blair. Blair would get that damned paper finished, with all of Jim's secrets written down in black and white, and then Blair would be gone.

Now there wasn't going to be a paper. So there was no reason to withhold anything from Blair. No reason to not get too close. He'd welcomed Blair into his life early on because he had so greatly enjoyed Blair's enthusiasm and admiration. And his help. But that began to wane, especially after that little Borneo offer made it clear Blair would leave someday. Why give all of himself to yet someone else who was going to abandon him?

What was going to happen now?

"Chief?" Jim called as he stood.

Blair stopped near his room and turned around.

Jim went over to him. "What about..." He wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. He tried again, being more direct. "Are you planning on... you know... staying here?"

Blair gazed up at him. Then he nodded. "If you still want me here."

Jim nodded back, relieved. "Sure."

"I mean," Blair considered with a shrug, "I can still come to the station and everything, right? Simon knows I can still help you. I can't imagine that it would matter to him what my dissertation is actually about."

No, it shouldn't matter. In fact, he'll probably be as relieved as I am that there's not going to be any published work about sentinels to bring unwanted attention to the Department.

"Earth to Ellison." Blair snapped his fingers near Jim's head.

"Oh," Jim laughed, feeling bashful. "That would be great. Right, Simon won't care." He was still grinning.

"Uh, Jim?"

Jim looked at him.

"You never did answer my question. About whether it would be okay to keep studying you as a personal project."

"Sure." He might object more to tests, especially knowing that he wasn't making things academically difficult for Blair, since Blair wasn't on a deadline now.

On the other hand....

Maybe he would be more agreeable to that kind of questioning and testing and badgering, because now he'd have the security of knowing that it was all just for Blair, and not for the whole world.

"You sure?" Blair asked.

Apparently, he hadn't sounded very sincere. "Yeah," Jim said. He reached up and patted Blair's cheek, hoping that served as reinforcement.

Jim turned to the kitchen. The stove clock said that it was already after five. "I'm going to fix breakfast, before going down to the gym. Want some?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Maybe stuffing myself will put me to sleep for the rest of the day."

Good. Blair needed the rest.
 
As Blair disappeared into his room, Jim said, "I've got a lot of running around to do after I finish working out. The loft should be quiet for your beauty sleep."

As Jim made eggs, bacon, and dollar-sized pancakes, it dawned on him that he was feeling downright giddy. It was as though Blair had handed him a "Get Out of Jail Free" card -- which he never had to turn in. He would never again have to wonder if whatever he told Blair, or otherwise revealed to him, was going to be written down for the rest of society to mull over, evaluate, and judge.  

He was also aware, at the same time, of how he wanted to do anything he could to make Blair feel he was "special" -- somebody wonderful and unique, even if nobody wanted to write a book about him. There are other ways, Chief.

Actually, he wasn't sure what those ways were yet, but he hoped to discover them all, one by one. For now, he sat Blair down in a chair when breakfast was ready, squeezed his arm, and deliberately made a fuss over serving him

Blair seemed to enjoy the attention, finding the enthusiasm to throw a few teasing barbs Jim's way.

Jim eventually sat down, too, and he remembered yesterday at the bank. How he had held Blair closely, and how good it had felt to be comforting him before something had interrupted them.

How good it had felt that Blair had been willing to be comforted.

After taking a bite of his eggs, Blair glanced at Jim and teased, "Must be the new dog chow."

Jim remembered them both laughing recently at a dog food commercial about an ultra-energized pooch. "Watch it, Junior," he growled. "Don't forget who's boss around here."

Blair grinned.

Jim switched subjects. "How difficult do you think it will be for your committee to accept a change in your dissertation topic?"

"I don't think they'll give me too much of a hard time, if I'm honest. You know, that I've gotten too close to my subject and can no longer be objective. They might not be too happy about me having fallen off the ethical ladder, but at least it should speak well for me that I caught myself in time, before hitting the ground.  I think the fact that I've already spent a lot of time observing both a police department and tribal cultures will convince them that it makes sense for me to make that my topic."

"When will you talk to them?" It occurred to Jim that he hadn't been this interested in Blair's schoolwork since...well, maybe he'd never been this interested before because it had all been all too threatening.

No more. Yes, he was feeling downright giddy this morning.

"I'll have to make an appointment on Monday. It's hard to say when they'll be willing to see me. Hopefully, sometime this week."

There was a knock at the door.

He and Blair looked at each other in puzzlement. It wasn't even six o'clock yet.

Jim stood and tightened the belt to his robe.  He reached out with his senses, smelling perfume, but not able to identify the wearer.  "Who is it?" he called.

"Jim, it's Carolyn."

Fuck. Did they have this much contact when they were married and living under the same roof?

And wasn't it her phone call that had interrupted his and Blair's moment of comfort at the bank?

This couldn't be good news.

Jim turned the lock. "What do you want, Carolyn?" he asked, deliberately brusque as he opened the door.

"Jim," she smiled warmly at him. She was nicely dressed, as though ready for Sunday mass with some of her old friends. She looked past him to the breakfast table. "Oh, good, I didn't get you up. Hi, Blair."

Blair nodded at her, his eyes darting back to Jim.

"What do you want?" Jim asked again.

She looked up him, as though hurt he was being rude, but she didn't comment on that. "I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

She glanced at the breakfast table again. "In private."

Jim took her arm and gently escorted her out the door, closing it behind them. "This will do."

"I wouldn't have come back here if it wasn't important." Her voice had that pleading quality that he hated.

He had already decided that he wasn't going to back down. "With money so tight, do you really think you should be making all these trips to Cascade?" Or had she made a big score during one of her little gambling endeavors?

"It's being paid mostly with frequent flyer miles," she told him.

He touched the sleeve of her dress. "And buying such nice clothes."

"I bought it over a year ago," she said harshly.

"What do you want, Carolyn?"

She looked up at him with her mouth open, as though she couldn't believe he was speaking to her like this. Then she seemed to compose herself and her voice was soft when she said, "I don't know where else to turn."

Jim crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Let me guess. It wouldn't have anything to do with money, would it?" So, she obviously hadn't made a big score.

She closed her eyes. "How can you talk like that when you know how desperate I am?  Do you think this is easy for me?" she pleaded.

"No," he replied honestly. "I don't think it's easy for you. I think it's very hard. But I think you're so in over your head that you're driven to desperate measures."

"I'm getting help, Jim."

"Funny, my wallet couldn't tell."

Her voice changed to one of desperation. "You're all I've got. It's just me and Wendy and she has nothing since the accident and all the bills."

"Wrong. I was all you had. But you divorced me." It felt so good to remind her of that. "Don't come back, Caro. You've made your bed. You sleep in it." He made himself turn away from her little girl's stricken look and open the door to the loft. He closed it behind him and set the locks, feeling a satisfying sense of finality.

Blair was clearing the table. "Are you all right?"

Jim nodded. "Maybe I'm a bastard for saying it, but that felt good."

"She wanted more money?"

"I think so. The conversation didn't really get that far."

"Man, she has a hard time letting go, doesn't she?"

Jim's glass of orange juice was still on the table. He picked it up and finished it off. "She's desperate, Chief. I gave her ten grand the first time, and all it did was give her hope that there was more where that came from."

"Man, I feel so sorry for her sister. If Carolyn is all she has...."

"Yeah," Jim sighed. "But it's not my problem." He turned to Blair and playfully put his arm around him. "I've got my own problems right here."

Blair paused in mid-stride. "What problems?"

Jim mock-growled, "I seem to have a roommate who has had a very trying couple of days on top of recovering from a car accident, and he can't seem to simply lie down and rest." He guided Blair to his room.

"I was just cleaning up," Blair protested, but he was grinning.

Jim gave him a gentle shove that put Blair at the edge of his bed. "Lie down, Junior." The envelopes from the bank and their contents were scattered on the floor near the end of the bed. Jim let them be while reaching to remove Blair's wool socks.

Even as he lay back, Blair said, "I'm going to be thirty next spring. I don't think that 'junior' comment is appropriate anymore."

Jim rose to his full height, looking down at Blair with his hands on his hips. "I'll always be older than you, stronger than you, and wiser than you."

Blair chuckled. "Wait until you're forty-five and I'm thirty-five." He was thoughtful. "Well... maybe when I'm forty and you're fifty." He paused again. "No," he said toughly, pointing his finger, "wait until I'm fifty and you're sixty. Then I'll show you."

Jim shook his head, hiding that he was flattered that Blair really didn't expect to out-do him in any arena until Jim was practically a senior citizen. How can he still think so much of me? He doesn't even need me for his doctorate anymore.

Will he still be here twenty years from now?

He hoped so. Even though the idea seemed kind of weird.

The phone rang.

Jim rolled his eyes. "That's got to be Caro." Damn her. She was worse than the proverbial ball-and-chain.

Blair regarded him worriedly.

Once the machine beeped, a female voice said, "Blair, honey? I know it's early, but I was hoping to catch you before you went out."

Jim started toward the living room to pick up the phone, but Blair grabbed his arm. "I'll call her right back on my cell," he said.

"I just wondered how you're doing," Naomi went on in a subdued voice. "I hope... I hope you got the envelope I sent. I hope you don't hate me. Please, call me as soon as you can. I'm worried." A click sounded.

Blair carefully straightened and reached for his cell phone. "I'll call her now." He nodded toward his desk. "Can you get my appointment book? It has her number."

Jim took the book from the desk and handed it to Blair. He decided this was his cue to leave. "I'm going to the gym." He turned, then noticed all the papers still on the floor by the bed. He knelt down. "Want me to get these for you?"

"I guess."

As Jim gathered them up, Blair said, "I really wasn't planning on talking to her about them specifically." While Jim straightened, he added, "I was just going to call her to let her know I'm okay about everything."

Jim gazed down at him, feeling once again the protectiveness that had been so prevalent lately.

Blair presented a tiny smile. "I am okay, Jim." His eyes lowered to the papers in Jim's hand. "If you ever want to look at any of that stuff, it's all right with me."

Jim nodded, and carefully laid the papers down on top of the covers. He felt he'd heard what went unspoken: I would like you to know all about me. Where I came from.

The kicker was that it wasn't even reciprocation on Blair's part. He knew Blair wasn't offering this as a payback for all he'd badgered Jim about his past. Blair was offering because he was willing to be open and vulnerable to Jim.

Even wanted to be.

Jim turned and left the room. Carolyn and I never had anything like that.

Nobody and I have ever had anything like that.

He hoped that Blair was for keeps.

END

Go to slash sequel: Cup Runneth Over

Comments to regmoore@earthlink.net