Fluterbev's Fanfiction

The Frost is All Over (Slash 1/1)

2008-12-28T13:10:32Z

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Summary: It's the Christmas season again, with anniversaries both bitter and sweet. A trip to Dublin doesn't quite work out as planned...

Author's Note: This is part of the Irish Saga. Like many of the stories in this series, the title is taken from the name of a traditional tune.

Rating: Teen rated

Acknowledgments: Thanks to Luicat, who patiently corrected my typos!

The Frost is All Over

By Fluterbev
December 2008

Blair’s new life has long since become his old life. He’s been so busy keeping all the balls he’s juggling in the air that the old flying trapeze back in Cascade, upon which he and Jim once performed acts of derring-do to the appreciative cries of the law-abiding public, have become little more than a distant dream.

Life is still a three-ringed circus much of the time, nevertheless, even though he’s swapped the big top for something more like a sideshow - the pressure to perform and pull results out of a hat didn’t disappear once Blair moved to Ireland to start out afresh as an archaeologist. During his first year he fast-tracked through his Masters degree, completing it in half the usual time by dint of taking twice the usual number of modules despite having teaching responsibilities and digs to work on at the same time. Keeping busy had been one way of keeping his mind occupied and away from topics upon which he really didn’t want to dwell.

Now, six years later and with a PhD in his new specialism under his belt, such musings no longer cause him pain.

One such topic – the big, all-consuming topic of his life – is at this moment wryly staring into a brightly-lit storefront window, which is full of elaborately dressed, eerily pale manikins resplendent amongst top-of-the-range tinsel and glitter. “Well,” Jim says, raising his voice over the loud Christmas music emitting from the store. “It’s different, I guess!”

Blair can feel his inner tour guide asserting itself, so he lets the urge have its head, mostly to see if he can make Jim roll his eyes as usual. “The Christmas display in the window of Brown Thomas is an ancient and venerated institution, man. Whole families come to Dublin from miles around just to see it. It goes back to the days when this store was owned by the Switzer family. No Christmas was complete until you brought your kids up to Grafton Street to see the window display and sit on Santa’s knee!”

Bingo! It worked, just as Blair had known it would. “Whatever you say, Chief.” Jim regards the window he’s nearest to with puzzlement. “What the hell is it supposed to be about?”

Blair squints along the brightly-lit vista too. “In previous Christmases it often depicted scenes from fantasy and mythology,” he said. “You know, Santa’s elves meet the Children of Lír; that kind of thing. Kids used to love it. But this?” Blair studies the manikins in their designer clothes some more. “I think it’s a blatant celebration of consumerism this year,” He concludes. He points at the one window which boasts a brightly decorated carriage, complete with prince and princess. “With a token nod to fantasy thrown in, just to deter old cynics like me from coming along and giving it the slagging it deserves!”

Jim rolls his eyes once more, laughing at Blair’s mock-seriousness. “Okay, Ebenezer. How about we go off and eat, huh? I’m starving.” Jim touches Blair on the back as he steers him away – a subtle gesture, one that could be interpreted as nothing more than a friendly pat, but it makes Blair tingle down to his shoes with the familiar intimacy.

They go for dinner in The Porterhouse, which serves up steaks big enough to satisfy even Jim’s appetite for red meat. It’s a microbrewery too, and Blair happily sips a pint of stout which has been brewed on the premises. He briefly regrets that they didn’t get a dish of Carlingford oysters as a starter, just so he could tease Jim about their supposed aphrodisiac effects.

They plan to head back to their hotel after that, to drop off the bags they’ve accumulated during their shopping expedition. They’re staying here tonight rather than driving back to Ravensdale, which is Blair’s idea because, no matter how much his partner protests that he’s fine, he knows that Jim is feeling his dad’s loss. Tomorrow is the anniversary of William Ellison’s death, and Blair wants desperately to distract him, just for a little while, from the sad memories.

They’ve had a great time so far. It’s been one of those crisp, frosty, winter days that Blair loves, their breaths condensing in the cold air and the sunlight bathing the frost-limned tops of buildings in warm, rosy light. They’ve visited Blair’s favourite haunts -the National Museum on Nassau Street, the Book of Kells at Trinity College - and mooched around in St Stephen’s Green before hitting the shops around Grafton Street. They even headed up to Walton’s at the top end of O’Connell Street earlier, so that Blair could look longingly at the bodhráns. He’s thinking about getting one, so he may go back there tomorrow, although he wants to check out a little music shop he’s heard about on Capel Street first before he takes the plunge.

The one downside to it all is the thing that gets to Blair every time he’s in Dublin. On just about every street corner there’s someone begging; homeless people flushed with cold holding out paper cups in the hope of getting a few bits of loose change. They’re found in every big city, Blair knows, although it’s seemed worse in Dublin the past few years. And something about the juxtaposition of Christmas cheer and extreme poverty is really getting to him today.

After the third time he’s handed out a handful of Euros, Jim stops him. “Chief, come on,” he says. “You can’t singlehandedly fund every transient on the street.”

Blair shrugs helplessly. “I can’t just walk on by, man,” he says. “Some of these people, they’re just kids!”

Jim shakes his head. “It’s your dollar,” he says. “But you know as well as me that in a lot of cases you’re funding someone’s drug habit here. Best to save your money, and give it to some genuine charity that helps the people who’re really in need.”

Blair sighs. “I guess you’re right,” he concedes reluctantly. “It’s just... I want to do something, you know? It doesn’t seem right that we’re shopping for frivolous stuff, when there are people who don’t even know where their next meal is coming from.”

Jim smiles at him gently. “Yeah, I know,” he says. And the fond approval in his gaze warms Blair right through.

Back at the hotel they take showers and can’t help from fooling around a little, even though they’re in a hurry. Eventually, flushed and breathless but presentable nevertheless, they head out again.

The hotel they are staying at is a couple of miles west of the city centre, on the north bank of the Liffey, but the Luas tramway conveniently runs right outside the door so it’s easy to get in and out of town. They ride the tram for a couple of stops and get off at the Four Courts. It’s a short walk from there to their destination - a bar a little off the beaten track, that Blair’s musician friends have told him hosts great traditional music sessions.

Despite setting off a little later than Blair had planned, thanks to their mutual friskiness, it turns out that they are early after all. There are just a couple of musicians sitting in the seats reserved for that purpose, but they haven’t even gotten their instruments out yet. As Blair makes his way towards the bar a couple more people carrying fiddle cases come in and make their way over. Blair and Jim take seats up at the bar near to the musicians, wanting to get a good view.

The barman pours drinks for them, and Blair’s attention is drawn to the half-filled pints of Guinness as they settle atop the bar, the swaying waves of dark liquid strangely hypnotic. Beside him Jim’s presence is like a big, warm bulwark at his side, and Blair feels a rush of happiness at how perfect it all is. He wishes desperately that he could reach out and hold Jim’s hand, and this need must somehow have communicated itself to Jim, as the next moment a comforting touch lands at the small of his back. “Hey,” Jim says softly. “You okay, Chief?”

Blair feels overwhelmed by love and gratitude, and turns the full force of his smile on Jim. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Never better, man!”

The night progresses, the music in this bar every bit as good as he’d been led to believe. Blair recognises one of the fiddlers and the concertina player from the cover of a CD he has at home, and tells Jim so. “Isn’t it great, man?” he says. “These guys, they’re the best of the best, but they come down here and play just for the fun of it, for nothing more than a the satisfaction of doing what they love to do, and as listeners we get to be the lucky beneficiaries. It’s like the ultimate in free expression, existing alongside but separate from the mainstream status quo, where high quality services are exchanged primarily for profit. It’s kinda neat, man. ”

Jim smiles at him indulgently. “I hate to burst your bubble, Chairman Mao, but that last tray of drinks the barman took over? The musicians didn’t pay for that, so I’m guessing your vision of a society built purely on altruistic principles just got blown out of the water. They might not be getting paid with money, but they’re sure getting something out of it apart from love!” As Jim speaks the barman comes past again, carrying a tray laden with sandwiches which he deposits on the musicians’ table.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Blair concedes, as he turns back to the music. “It’s still great though, isn’t it?” His foot is tapping in time, and he’s really getting into it. He can’t wait to finally get his own bodhrán, so he can play in sessions himself.

It’s way after midnight by the time the session ends. They’ve missed the last tram back so Jim and Blair set off walking back to the hotel along the north quay of the Liffey. It’s a cold, clear night, the river frozen along much of its width, the streetlights reflecting shimmeringly across its flat surface. He and Jim jostle each other as they walk, pushing and teasing, both of them relaxed and happy after the pleasant evening they’ve spent and the Guinness they’ve imbibed.

Suddenly Jim pauses, cocking his head in a listening gesture, and Blair instinctively puts a hand on his arm, waiting expectantly for Jim to share what he’s heard – even this far down the line, old habits die hard. It only takes a second. “Oh no,” Jim says. “Come on, Chief.” Then he’s off at a run, Blair following, heart pounding with sudden adrenaline, on his heels.

Jim ducks down a side street and weaves through another. Then he stops and shouts, “Hey! Hey, get away from there!”

Blair comes up close behind and, at last, he can see what’s going on. Two men are looming over a figure bundled up in a sleeping bag, who is slumped in a doorway unmoving under the brutal kicks they are aiming at him. At Jim’s shout the attackers have raised their heads to look. “What the fuck has it got to do with you?” one says, and follows with a string of expletives.

Ever the peacemaker, Blair steps in front of Jim, hands outstretched. “Hey man,” he says. “”We don’t want any trouble here, okay? Just leave the guy alone.”

“Fuck off,” he gets in response. Too late he sees the flash of a knife as the second guy lurches toward him and, as Jim is jerking him backwards, he feels a line of fire open up across his right palm and down his wrist.

Things get a little odd after that, with the sound of angry shouts and flesh impacting upon flesh coming as if from a long way off. The next thing he’s aware of is Jim bending over him, his face white and tense. “Keep still, Blair,” Jim says, and Blair is conscious of immense pressure around his forearm. “Easy.”

Blair is aware enough to realise that he’s been cut, and that he must have passed out which, considering the situations he and Jim used to handle every day, is a little embarrassing. “Sorry,” he says. “Guess I’ve gotten soft, man.”

“Guess you have,” Jim says, smiling at him, but he looks more than a little stressed all the same. “Just keep still,” he says again, as Blair shifts a little, cold seeping through his bones. “An ambulance is on its way. Cops, too.”

Turning his head, Blair sees the two guys laid out on the frosty pavement beside him, unmoving.

He greys out a little then, and the next thing he knows he’s in an ambulance, his hand and arm throbbing in time with his pulse, the sensation of pressure intensely painful. Jim’s not there so he asks after him, but the paramedics either can’t or won’t tell him anything. Time after that goes by in a nightmarish blur, until at last Blair feels a mask being lowered over his face, the bright lights of an operating room rendering the medical personal around him into faceless silhouettes. He’s just got the presence of mind to desperately rasp out, “Jim,” before darkness descends.

He wakes after surgery, unbearably thirsty and with his arm immobilised and tightly bandaged. To his intense relief, Jim is sitting by his side. “Welcome back, Chief,” He says. “How’re you doing?”

“What the hell happened?” Blair remembers the attack – two guys kicking a homeless guy in a doorway, then one of them coming after him with a knife, but it’s all a bit hazy after that.

Jim updates him. The knife severed an artery in Blair’s wrist, and a combination of shock and the sudden and rather dramatic blood-loss was what made him pass out. The injury’s been surgically repaired and he’s been given a tetanus jab. He’ll be on antibiotics and painkillers for a while, and his hand is going to be out of action until it’s healed. Jim reassures him, though, that there probably won’t be any lasting damage, as miraculously the knife missed his tendons.

“Are you okay?” Blair asks, looking at Jim’s pinched, white face. “No one could tell me where you were.”

Jim nods. “I was brought in for questioning,” he says. “I guess I forgot , when I took those scumbags down, that I’m not actually a cop anymore .”

Blair’s heart races, remembering the two men laid out on the ground. “They’re still breathing, right?” he asks.

Jim nods and smiles. “Yeah, they’ll live.” He sobers. “Unlike the poor guy they attacked - he didn’t make it. They really did a number on him. “

Blair feels inexpressively sad, at that. “Oh man. What was it all about?” Blair asks. “He seemed pretty defenceless.”

Jim shakes his head. “I don’t know, Chief. It looked like he was just sleeping in a doorway. Maybe they were trying to rob him, or they had some grudge. Who’s to say why they did it?”

Two Gardai come to talk to Blair later that morning to get his statement. They seem satisfied that neither Jim nor Blair had anything to do with the homeless man’s death, and they tell Jim – who has only briefly left Blair’s side to pick up their belongings and check out of the hotel - that they are not going to press charges for his assault on the man’s killers. “I shouldn’t say this,” Garda Quinn says, “but we’re all impressed by how you managed to apprehend them. Both of them are well known to us - they have previous convictions for drug offenses and violent assault, and the poor old fella they killed didn’t stand a chance. Jesus,” he says sadly. “The poor man had nothing on him worth stealing, but those two are the type who’d kick their own mothers to death if it meant they’d get a couple of quid out of it.” Then the man laughs. “I suppose you American cops know a few tricks. They’re neither of them the worse for wear, and thanks to you they’re away where they can’t do any more harm.”

There’s a bit more talk, and the Garda tells them that they’ll most likely be called as witnesses when the trial comes round, which both of them are more than willing to do. Blair’s really bothered by the senselessness of it all, and he wants to do his bit to ensure that they won’t hurt anyone like that again.

This is not exactly how Blair planned to spend Christmas, so he manages to persuade the hospital to release him - he knows, in any case, that Jim will take good care of him. By late afternoon of Christmas Eve, therefore, they’re back at the cottage. By early evening they’re both in bed, Blair exhausted and half-asleep after taking his pain meds. A fitful night follows during which they lie comfortingly close to each other, both of them waking intermittently through the night as Blair tries to find a sleeping position that won’t jar his arm too much.

It’s not until Blair has used the bathroom the next morning and ingested his next lot of pain meds along with a large mug of coffee that he remembers what day it is. “Oh, man!” He says. “Happy Christmas, Jim!”

Jim’s smiling like the cat that got the cream. He disappears into the spare bedroom and emerges with an enormous parcel. “Happy Christmas Blair,” he says. He helps Blair unwrap it, and lifts the object inside carefully from its box.

Blair is absolutely awestruck. “It’s a bodhrán,” he says.

Jim grins. “You’ve not lost your powers of observation, I see,” he says.

“But how... I mean, oh man, when did you get this?”

Jim hands the drum over into Blair’s good hand and steadies it for him. “You’ve been going on about getting one since that ceili earlier in the year,” he says. “I asked Siobhán to help me pick one out.” He grimaced. “She did so on one condition – I’ve apparently got to make you promise to learn to play it before you take it within a million miles of her.” As Blair looks at him sharply, Jim shrugs. “Her words, Chief. Don’t blame the messenger!”

Blair shakes his head ruefully. Ever since he expressed an interest in this instrument he’s been subjected to a never-ending stream of jokes by the musicians he’s friendly with - apparently bodhrán players are the low man on the traditional music totem pole.

Blair studies the instrument some more, turning it this way and that and hefting the drum stick – the beater - in his left hand. He’s frustrated that he can’t do anything more than look - his right wrist is currently immobilised in a brace, and it’s going to be some time before he’ll be able to even think about playing it.

After a few moments of avid study of his new toy, Blair remembers that gift-giving is a two-way street. “I didn’t get time to wrap your presents,” he tells Jim regretfully. “They’re hidden in the box on top of the wardrobe in the spare room.”

Jim dutifully goes to get the box down, and he smiles as he opens it and looks inside. Blair couldn’t think of any one big thing to get Jim this year, so he’s bought a bunch of smaller stuff. There are a few books in the box he knows Jim will like, ranging from classic American fiction to several on various aspects of woodworking, which is Jim’s current big passion. There are also a couple of DVDs he’s expressed an interest in, as well as various items of clothing Blair had intended as stocking fillers – socks, underwear and tee-shirts.

Jim smiles happily as he gets each item out. “Wow, thanks Chief!” he says. “This is great!”

Blair is a little embarrassed – it all seems so commonplace after the gift Jim has bought for him. But Jim seems genuinely happy with his hoard, if the big, sloppy kiss of gratitude he bestows upon Blair is anything to go by.

***

Blair goes to see his GP the day after Christmas, to get his dressing changed and to check that he’s healing as he should. She lives in Ravensdale, and sees Blair at her house rather than have him go into the surgery in Dundalk.

Afterwards Jim drives them over to Omeath for lunch in the pub, which gradually fills up with walkers who’ve done the annual St. Stephen’s Day trek over the mountain. Blair is pleased to see Siobhán, Joe and some of his other musical friends there – they’ve walked over the mountain as well, and they’ve brought their instruments along for a bit of post-walk craic.

Blair can’t wait to tell them about his bodhrán, which he describes with great enthusiasm. “Oh, and hey, Siobhán?” he says. “Thanks for advising Jim about the right one to get. I really appreciate it!”

The others all start ribbing Siobhán then, for siding with the enemy. She shrugs. “It’s like when your kids want to smoke a fag. Best deterrent is to give ‘em the whole packet, in the hopes that it’ll make ‘em sick.” She looks at Blair. “You’ll thank me for this some day,” she says enigmatically.

There’s a bit of a fuss made about Blair’s injury. It seems that Jim’s apprehending of the two thugs made the news on RTE and, as is usually the case, everyone in the pub knows about it already – it’s hard to keep anything quiet in rural Ireland. Both Blair and Jim find themselves turning down several insistent offers to buy them drinks – Jim is driving, Blair is on medication, and both of them can only handle a finite amount of Ballygowan, red lemonade or cola.

The music starts and the atmosphere in the pub is festive and fun. Blair’s pretty tired, though – his pain meds tend to make him sleepy so, after a pleasant hour or two, they decide to head home, although not before Blair has managed to invite several people, including the musicians, over to their cottage for a celebratory drink on New Year’s Eve.

Back home Blair goes for a lie down and, to his delight, Jim comes to join him. Jim is treating him with kid gloves though, keeping his distance in the bed in an effort not to accidentally jar Blair’s hand. This is not entirely satisfactory so Blair points out the beneficial effect that increased endorphin production allegedly has on pain. Jim gets with the programme quickly after that, and a few moments later Blair is gasping and sighing happily as Jim proves the theory correct.

***

As the end of year approaches, both Jim and Blair are in festive mood. This whole season is poignant for them, but New Year’s Eve in particular – or more accurately the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve – is their anniversary. It was one year ago today that they finally stopped dancing around each other, and made a commitment to stay together for good.

The big day dawns bright and frosty, the lawn and hedges covered in a layer of ice crystals and making the setting of their home look even more like something out of a fairy-tale than ever. While it’s still early Blair and Jim head out to walk to the nearby dolmen. There, standing together under the massive capstone, they kiss and thank the gods of the ancient monument for granting the dearest wishes of their hearts.

Temporarily crippled as he is, Blair’s not been able to help much with the preparations for their party, but they’ve bought in food and drink nevertheless and, as day turns into night, a steady stream of neighbours and friends call in to visit, some of them staying briefly and others remaining longer to chat and have the craic.

To Blair’s delight, as the evening progresses, Siobhán and the other musicians arrive and set up shop around the kitchen table. He’s aching to join in, and brings out his bodhrán to show them.

Siobhán, as usual, takes no prisoners. She hefts the bodhrán in her hand and brandishes the beater. “Hey Blair?” She says. “You know what the best thing is for playing one of these old yokes?”

Blair is all ears – he really wants to learn all he can. “No, what?”

Siobhán grins. “A penknife,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah.” Blair is not impressed. “Don’t quit your day job, all right?” he tells her. But then he watches avidly as she hefts the beater and does an incredible job of playing it herself. For someone who professes an intense hatred of the things, she’s certainly no slouch at making it sound fantastic. Blair decides that he’ll ask her to give him some lessons, just to watch her reaction.

Hours pass, the cottage filled with music and conversation and laughter. The party is everything Blair could have hoped but, as midnight approaches, an imperative desire to be alone with Jim begins to needle him. He catches Jim’s eye only to see a similar hunger reflected there. So a couple of minutes before midnight he nods over to Jim and, as one, they head outside into the garden.

It’s pitch black out here, the clear night sky dotted with stars. The grass of the lawn crunches underfoot, frozen solid, but neither of them are cold as they embrace and kiss hungrily. As the fireworks start to go off explosively all around them on the horizon, Blair looks up into Jim’s shadowed face. “I love you,” he breathes.

Ever a man who speaks best in gestures, Jim crushes Blair to him in a hug and gives him a kiss which takes his breath away.

Behind them, they hear the other revellers come out of the cottage to watch the fireworks as the year turns. There are hugs and kisses all round then, as well as a few manly handshakes. No one comments on the fact that Jim and Blair were, just a moment ago, in a clinch, but Siobhán catches Blair’s eye and grins knowingly.

They are all about to head off back inside when Jim cocks his head. “I know this sounds ridiculous, Chief,” he says. “But I swear I can hear bagpipes.”

After a second, Blair can hear them too. “What in the world?” he asks. The sound is eerie, ethereal, and unmistakeably getting closer.

Siobhán and the others start to chuckle. “I wondered if he’d turn up,” she says. “It’s Frank doing the rounds. I told him there’d be a few tunes here tonight.” At their questioning looks, Siobhán tells them, “He’s an old fella who lives up towards Anaverna. He plays at all the local weddings and funerals. He’s no great shakes on the pipes, to be honest. But he’s great craic.”

Blair blinks. “I thought you had to sit down to play the Irish pipes,” he says. Which, clearly, their visitor is not doing since, right at this moment, he’s walking up the lane.

“You’re thinking of uilleann pipes, with the bellows,” Siobhán tells him. “Frank’s playing the war pipes. Mouth blown, same as Scottish bagpipes - we invented the fecking things, you know!”

Blair senses that there is a whole etymological and historical debate to be had there about the origins of various bagpipes, but wisely keeps silent. In any case, there is no time for further discussion as Frank is now walking up the path, blowing for all he’s worth. He continues playing until he reaches the waiting throng, then stops. “Happy new year!” he intones in a booming voice, his pipes groaning dramatically as the bag deflates.

Jim and Blair smile at each other, shaking their heads in amusement at it all. Then they usher everyone inside where a bottle of Connemara malt whiskey – brewed right here at the distillery in Cooley - awaits, ready for they and their visitors to drink a health to the forthcoming year.

Sláinte!

~ End ~

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Fanfic Sex Therapist 1/1 (Slash)

2008-11-14T22:25:01Z

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Summary: Now that Jim has succumbed to Sudden Onset Gayness, he goes to get some advice.

Author's Note: Inspired by the same kind of mental disorder that produced Fanfic Hospital, which was written by myself, gillyp and fingers in the mad fangirl aftermath of GMOH 2008. Originally posted to sentinel_thurs for challenge #266: Time to Celebrate.

Rating: R

Fanfic Sex Therapist

By Fluterbev

November 2008

If Jim had felt self-conscious going for his an annual medical, it paled in comparison next to this. Shifting uncomfortably in the waiting room chair, Jim wished he was absolutely anywhere else but here. How Blair had managed to talk him into this, he had no idea.

Of course, Blair had tried to reassure him beforehand. “This’ll just be a regular appointment for your therapist,” he’d said. “In fact, she’ll probably have heard far more extreme stuff.” Blair grinned, getting into his usual spiel. “There was this guy I used to know, Mulder he was called. Anyway, he once got this huge thing stuck right up his-”

“Stop right there, Chief!” Jim had ordered. And, to his relief, his partner let the matter drop.

Drawn out of his reverie by the receptionist calling his name, Jim straightened his shoulders and girded his loins. He’d single-handedly led the Chopec into battle, taken down serial killers and eaten Blair’s experimental cooking. He could go get advice from a sex therapist, for christ’s sake!

Once Jim got into the therapist’s office and sat down, he frowned. “Have we met before?” he asked.

The familiar looking woman tossed back her long, red hair, crossed her long, slim legs and smiled. “I don’t recall,” she said. “You may have met my twin sister, though. She’s a doctor at Cascade General. People often get us confused.” She looked at Jim earnestly. “How can I help?”

Jim decided to cut any further small talk off at the pass, and get straight to the point before he lost his nerve. “I’m here because my partner and I,” he blushed. “I… we… I mean he…”

The therapist smiled sagely. “You and your male partner wish to embark upon a sexual relationship. Am I right?”

“Um, yes, that’s right,” Jim agreed. “That is, we kind of already have. How did you know?”

She smiled. “I see situations like this every single day, Detective Ellison. There’s really nothing to be embarrassed about. Please, do go on.”

“Okay.” Jim took a deep breath. “It’s just, you know… we haven’t actually… um...”

The therapist rescued Jim once again. “Ah, you haven’t achieved penetration yet. I see.”

“So,” Jim said pleadingly, “what should we do?”

The therapist looked Jim up and down appraisingly. “You’re the larger of the two of you, I’m guessing? He’s smaller, and of a slighter build?”

Jim nodded, amazed at the therapist’s uncanny insight. “Um, yeah, yeah I am. Older too. Not much older,” he added hastily. After all, there was life in this old dog yet!

The therapist was nodding again. “I see,” she said. “I’m guessing he’s pretty much in touch with his feminine side too, am I right? Maybe he’s got long hair, and works in a less, shall we say physical profession?”

“Wow!” Jim was amazed – it was as if she’d actually met Blair! “That’s totally on the money, Doc!”

“Then that can mean only one thing,” the therapist told Jim gravely. “No question about it, I’m afraid. You’ll have to top, and he’ll have to bottom.”

Jim was aghast. “But I kinda hoped…” he admitted weakly, “that we might be able to try it the other way around!”

“A minority of my peers would advocate that approach,” the therapist said. “And some,” she continued, a disapproving sneer flickering across her otherwise pristine features, “might even suggest that you take turns.” She shuddered, as though the thought pained her. Then she fixed her earnest gaze on Jim. “But I strongly suggest you take my advice, Detective Ellison. I prefer… um I mean I would highly recommend that, as the larger partner, you should take the more dominant position. Anything else is just, well, unnatural.”

Jim thought the woman looked a little flushed after her impassioned speech, but he could definitely see her point. “Right, Doc,” he conceded, “I get that. But what I want to know is the, um, technical stuff. I mean, I want us to do it right, you know?”

“The best way to explain,” the therapist said, “is to use a visual aid.” She held up a clenched fist, and before Jim had a chance to get really nervous extended just her index finger. “First of all,” she said, “make sure you have plenty of lube to hand. This should be kept in the drawer of your nightstand.”

“What if you don’t have a nightstand?” Jim asked.

The therapist shook her head. “I guarantee, once you begin this phase of your relationship there will always be a nightstand, and it will always contain lube.”

Jim still felt dubious. “What if we run out of lube?” he asked.

“It is probable that you will discover tubes of it places in strategic places around your home, such as under cushions on the couch, in the kitchen drawer, and so on,” she insisted. “And if all else fails butter is rather a hot, um, I mean suitable substitute. Especially when the kitchen table comes into play.” She fanned herself as she finished speaking, and Jim thought that she was looking more and more flushed by the minute.

The images conjured up by the kitchen table scenario did, in fact, rather tickle Jim’s fancy, and he was feeling a little flushed himself. Nevertheless, there was still a lot for him to learn. “And so I what, just lube him up and stick my, um…” Jim faltered – all the words that came to mind sounded either too clinical or too goddamn embarrassing. Finally, out of desperation, he gestured vaguely down below. “I just stick it in?”

“Oh, no!” The therapist wiggled her index finger, which was still pointing straight up in the air. “You must follow this procedure first. Watch me, now.” She wiggled it some more, then added more fingers, continuing to wiggle as she went. “One finger, then two, then three.”

“One, two, three?” Jim queried dubiously.

“Yes, exactly that. No more, no less. Although let’s back up a little,” she said. “When you’re still at two fingers, there’s a nifty little technique you will need to master.” She opened and closed her index and middle finger rapidly in an intimidating way. “We experts call this scissoring,” she said.

Jim winced in reaction, his butt cheeks clenching in horror. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Oh, yes,” the therapist agreed. “It’s extremely painful.”

“But does it help, you know, ease the passage, so to speak?” Jim asked, squirming in vividly imagined discomfort.

The therapist shook her head. “Not at all. But fanfic sex therapists like myself generally recommend it.”

Dreading Blair’s reaction to that news, Jim decided that he should probably raise his other little problem - or rather, enormous problem. “I’m, um, rather large. You know, in the pants department,” he confessed. “Will that make things more difficult?”

“My clients usually are rather well-endowed,” the therapist told him. “It’s not caused any difficulties before – usually they manage to have perfect sex every single time.” She laughed suddenly. “Except for that one client of mine who had two penises. Compared to him, you’re lucky!”

Jim silently thanked his lucky stars for that – definitely something to celebrate! “Just one last thing, Doc,” he asked as he prepared to leave. “I’m concerned about safe sex, of course, but this worries me a lot more. What about a plot?”

“Oh, you won’t need one of those,” the therapist reassured him. “And if you find that one creeps in anyway, just stick in some gratuitous sex right at the end. That should do the trick!”

“Thanks a lot, Doc,” Jim said. “You’ve been a big help.”

On the way home he bought extra lube, just in case.

The End or is it mwahahahahahaha...

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Fanfic Hospital 1/1 (Pre-slash)

2008-10-23T12:58:14Z

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Summary: Jim has flu, and only Blair can heal him.

Author's Note: Written as a collaborative effort in the aftermath of GMOH 2008, for Sentinel Thursday challenge #262 - Tender Loving Care

Rating: PG

Fanfic Hospital

By Fluterbev, Panik and Fingers

October 2008

The doctor, an attractive redhead with legs as long as Blair was tall, was waiting to talk to him out in the corridor. Blair wasted no time in getting down to business. “How’s Jim, Doc?”

The doctor frowned. “Your friend is very sick. I am afraid he has fanfic flu.”

“Fanfic flu, what’s that?” asked Blair worriedly, glancing back toward the room in which Jim was sitting, gratuitously stripped to the waist. “Will he be okay?”

The doctor steepled her fingers thoughtfully. “Fanfic flu is very serious,” she intoned gravely. “It is far worse than regular flu, although there is some good news. His suffering will be great and prolonged, but I promise he will recover completely in time to have wild, monkey sex with you.” The doctor looked at her watch. “I estimate by around page twenty-two.”

Blair sighed in relief. “Well that’s something, anyway. Is there anything I can do to help alleviate his symptoms?”

“I recommend that you remove his clothing and carry him to bed, as he will have entirely lost the ability to do these things for himself. After that, you will need to sponge his muscular, sweaty torso regularly and thoroughly,” she added, dabbing at her face, which had become slightly flushed. “Use protracted and extreme tenderness, while speaking soft endearments in his ear.”

“Will that help?” asked Blair.

“Probably not. But this is what we fanfic doctors usually recommend.”

“There’s just one thing I’m wondering about, Doc,” Blair said. “You said we’d be having wild, monkey sex by page twenty-two. But,” he glanced back through the examining room window, where Jim’s muscular body seemed to have magically gotten coated in a light sheen of glistening oil, “I’m not gay, and neither is Jim!”

The doctor sighed, shaking her head sadly. “I’m afraid Sudden Onset Gayness is an inevitable side effect of fanfic flu. But don’t worry – Total Gayness is usually contraindicated in these circumstances. You will,” she clarified, “remain gay just for each other.”

“Oh wow,” Blair said, unable to tear his gaze away from the tanned, masculine Adonis attractively exuding manly sweat on the other side of the glass, and beginning to sweat a little himself. “So, should Jim stay home from work?”

“Absolutely,” said the doctor firmly. “He must stay isolated in bed – with you – for at least a week. Sudden Onset Gayness is a highly contagious condition, and if your partner were to expose others to it…” she tailed off meaningfully.

“Oh, man!” Blair exclaimed, making the connection. “You mean… the whole of Major Crime, or perhaps even the entire Cascade PD, could become suddenly gay for each other? Even though they are all as straight as me?”

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor confirmed. “And in the worst case scenario an epidemic of severe sexual conjugations, involving multipartner and even kink, could lead to Sudden Plot Death. Or SPD, as we experts like to call it.”

“Oh man,” Blair said. “I’d better get Jim home and into bed right away.”

Blair wasted no time in doing just that. However, just before the elevator doors closed, Jim’s breath hot on Blair’s throat, Blair caught a glimpse of the doctor, a pretty candy striper in her arms as they kissed passionately.

“Oh shit,” Blair said. “It looks like this plot is already doomed!”

The End

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Torture (1/1, slash)

2008-09-17T19:12:34Z

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Summary: Blair's got a secret kink. Oddly enough so has Jim...

Warning: BDSM.

Author's Note: This was my submission to the Guppygasm Anthology, for Moonridge 2008.

Acknowledgments: Thank you to the wonderful and talented carodee for putting together such a fabulous and extremely hot anthology. Thanks also to all the other other authors and artists who contributed - I was honoured to be amongst such excellent company :-).

Rating: NC-17

Torture

By Fluterbev

July 2008

Blair shifted a little on the bed, testing the limits of his confinement. Wrists bound with silk ties to the head of the bed – not too tight, not too slack, his comfort ensured with near-mathematical precision – discovered the limited parameters of movement, and ankles bound likewise to the foot of the bed did the same.

The conclusion was inescapable. Restrained, secured, bound; helplessly spread out like a tethered sacrifice before a hungry beast. Blair swallowed nervously, feeling his helplessness as a shuddering thrill of almost unbearable arousal and fear. The predatory look on Jim’s face, as he stood beside the bed and surveyed his victim, only added to Blair’s delicious trepidation.

Jim must have sensed something of Blair’s conflicting emotions, however, because his face softened imperceptibly. "You sure you want me to do this, Chief?" he asked, in that sexy voice which never failed to turn Blair’s spine to butter.

"Oh god, yeah!" Blair nodded emphatically, the anticipation of what was to come adding perhaps a semitone of increased pitch to his voice. "Fuck, yeah! Just do it, man!"

Jim watched him for a few moments longer, scrutinizing him thoroughly for any sign of discomfort or reluctance, and all the time a mantra was running through Blair’s mind: touch me, touch me, touchmetouchmetouchmetouchme! After an endless interval, Jim’s expression morphed from concern to something altogether wilder; and Blair’s inner voice, which had been desperately urging his partner onwards to this moment, morphed along with it: halleluiah!

When they’d first mapped out this fantasy, Jim had opted to remain dressed. At the time Blair had not liked that idea – Jim Ellison naked was, after all, a sight to behold, but Jim had insisted. "This is not about me, Blair – this is your kink we’re exploring here," he’d said. "If I’m in the buff as well, the temptation for me will be to forget the object of the game, and it’ll end too soon for both of us. Plus," and here he’d smiled dangerously. "I think it’ll add to the thrill. Me fully dressed and in control. You naked and bound and at my mercy." And of course, put like that, Blair could do nothing else but agree.

So here Jim was, jeans molded to his sculpted butt, tight grey tee-shirt clinging to his muscular chest, his taut little nipples forming pert little peaks through the cotton fabric.

As Jim moved onto the bed, hoisting one leg across and over to straddle him, Blair found that he couldn’t take his eyes off those tantalizing little nubs. He longed for Jim to lean forward so that he could mouth them through the cotton; lick them, bite them, make them even more pert, with Jim panting and straining towards him the whole time.

But Jim was calling the shots here, and that would not be permitted.

Jim did, however, make one concession, although apparently it was for his own comfort rather than for Blair’s voyeuristic pleasure. Reaching down he unzipped himself, allowing his erect cock to peep up over the top of his boxers, and he adjusted the rest of his package within the confines of his jeans with a relieved sigh. "It’s getting a little too tight in there," he confessed. Then, with what must have an immense effort of will – it would have been for Blair, at any rate – he moved his hands away, and focused his entire attention on Blair.

Blair froze like a deer in the headlights as Jim stared down intently at him, something disconcertingly merciless in his eyes. And he found his breath coming faster at the sight, his arousal, which had been simmering constantly since they decided to play this game, suddenly increased tenfold.

"Blair." Jim’s single, imperative word, brought him momentarily back to earth. "If you want me stop at any point, remember to use the word we agreed. I won’t stop unless you say it."

This was something they’d arranged beforehand; something Blair had insisted upon, because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to prevent himself from pleading, and he wanted Jim to carry on to the bitter end regardless. "Cascade," he said, his voice husky, realizing that this was really happening, and it was about to happen now. "I’ll say ‘Cascade’." He grinned, his excitement making him bold. "But I’m not gonna say it, man. Not until you make me come."

Jim cocked his head at that, a wry grin flickering across his features. "We’ll see," he said enigmatically. Then, his hands moving to hover right there, right where Blair wanted them, he ordered, "Lie back and enjoy the ride, Chief."

They’d agreed to do this a few nights ago, when they’d been confessing sexual fantasies to each other late at night, as lovers often do. Blair’s nipples had always been a deeply erogenous zone for him, and he’d admitted so to Jim. "I’ve thought about what it would be like. You know, to have someone play with them, but not touch me anywhere else. To see if I can come just from that."

Jim had liked the idea. "I’ll do that for you, if you want," he’d murmured, pulling and twisting graphically to illustrate his words.

The fire had been banked at that moment after their earlier lovemaking, the two of them cuddled up together in the afterglow, but even the suggestion had made Blair – utterly sated until then – hard once more. "I don’t know if I could handle it all the way through," he admitted, panting as Jim’s clever fingers graphically delineated the fantasy. "It would get to the point where I’d just touch myself to finish it off, or hump your leg or something."

Jim had leaned in close at that moment, his voice deep and full of promise. "I could tie you down," he’d suggested. "Make you helpless." And Blair had understood then exactly how well his own fantasy intersected with Jim’s.

And so here he was, helpless under Jim’s hands. Jim’s jeans-clad thighs were the only thing actually touching him right now, the length of them holding Blair’s torso in place between their spread width. Jim’s hands were brushing the air just over Blair’s chest, stirring the fine hairs there. With every inhale Blair could feel them almost make contact. Almost. And down below his hard cock was neglected, untouched and unloved, with no relief in sight.

"This is torture, man," Blair complained, wanting more already.

Jim chuckled, his expression calculating, and his hands still maddeningly distant. "No it’s not," he said decisively. "But it soon will be. Lie still, Chief, and just feel it."

Blair’s eyes widened at that, and he subsided.

Remaining still wasn’t easy, however. Blair desperately wanted to thrust his chest up to make contact (and some contact for his dick would be nice too) but instead he strove to follow Jim’s guidance. Just feel it, his tormenter had said, so he concentrated hard, striving to do just that.

"That’s it, Chief," Jim told him approvingly, as Blair finally began to relax. He worked on controlling his breathing, basking in the sensations of Jim’s proximity, the exquisite anticipation and the imperative throb of his cock. "Yeah, there you go," Jim praised once more as Blair gradually got it all together, his deep voice and loving encouragement adding yet another layer to the escalating arousal. "That’s it."

It was like meditation, almost, as the minutes ticked on; breathing, relaxing, allowing it to happen in its own good time. And either Blair was becoming sensitized to this almost-touch or Jim was getting closer because – god! – he could feel it now; feel his nipples tingle and get harder and tighter, and his dick pulse with increasing need. He fell into a rhythm – breathe in and – there it was, a brief caress! – breathe out. Breathe in, and – eureka! – breathe out. He relaxed more fully into it and he was rewarded with another touch, more lingering this time, not losing contact now as he exhaled; the merest brush, light, tantalizing, relentless.

Sounds were beginning to come out of Blair now. Sighs and moans he couldn’t stop himself from making, because Jim had told him to relax and feel it, and that was exactly what he was doing, damn it; doing right now. And Jim was barely touching him but already he was losing it; wanting more, wanting something to rub his dick against because god, he was so hard, so fucking turned on, and he wanted to come, goddamn it.

But it was much too soon for that, of course. Blair wasn’t far gone enough to be totally desperate, so he managed – by sheer force of will - not to beg. Instead he released some of the tension by straining at his bonds, pulling and twisting them. Jim’s hands carried on without pause, however; the bastard knowing, no doubt, exactly how helpless Blair was, secure in the smug knowledge that his captive could not get free or touch himself no matter how much he squirmed.

It went on for what felt like an eternity; but eventually Jim must have decided it was time to up the stakes. Fingertips engaged fully to move in tight circles over the ends of Blair’s nipples; repeatedly, relentlessly. Blair cried out as it went on, and at last words fell involuntarily from his lips. "Oh, Jim, Please. Please." He wanted to ask Jim to touch him, to jack him off, but he knew it would avail him nothing. "Oh, please… oh god…" This was more maddening than the almost-touch, even, because it was almost too much yet still not quite enough. "Jim… ahhhh!"

Jim didn’t respond, of course. He simply continued his torture without pause, his face intent with concentration as he worked, and Blair found that rather intimidating sight to be devastatingly erotic in itself. His hips jerked uncontrollably as he squirmed under Jim’s merciless hands, desperately wanting more, needing more, yet the thin air provided absolutely no relief.

After an endless time, Jim altered his touch again. Blair felt his hypersensitized nipples seized between strong fingers, pinched, held, then released; pinched, held, then released. The pressure was bearable at first but gradually, slowly, inexorably it increased, his nipples pulled out further and further, the pinches tighter and tighter, and before long he found himself crying out desperately, on the edge of… something. Discomfort? Pain? Sheer ecstasy? It was almost, but not quite, more than he could bear, the sensation radiating out from his chest and transferring down his spine to his cock, which remained so sadly neglected. "Jim! Oh man, oh please, please." He needed… he needed…. "Please, touch me. Oh god, I can’t stand it. Please… please, Jim!"

In answer Jim shifted, lifting himself away from his position straddling Blair, and for an ecstatic moment Blair thought Jim was actually going to do what he’d begged and finish him off. But instead Jim moved to kneel beside him. While one hand continued its torturous pinch-and-release, the other nipple was relinquished altogether.

But that respite lasted for a mere couple of seconds, until Jim’s mouth descended upon the neglected nub and sucked it in hard.

Blair almost bucked off the bed at that, his wrists and ankles twisting in their bonds and an undulating cry wrung from some primal place deep inside. The sucking was relentless, however, and Jim’s hand maintained its simultaneous pulsating torment of the other nipple without pause. Blair babbled helplessly now, his hips jerking desperately, longing for just one, single touch down there, knowing that if he got it he’d come. "Please! Oh god, Jim, please don’t… please I can’t take any more, man. Please, touch me. Let me come! Anything, I’ll do anything!" He didn’t know for certain, however, whether he was truly begging for Jim to stop or to carry on. He was lost in contradictory sensation, loving it yet hating it, desperate for relief, so close…. so close…

Blair was only aware that Jim had moved when the almost painful sucking paused briefly, then resumed on the other side. His other nipple, still wet and sensitized from Jim’s mouth, was seized in a fierce grip between strong fingers, and Blair thought he’d die from the dual sensations. Too much, not enough, almost… almost….

Then he screamed when he felt the white-hot agony of teeth sinking into the tender aureole, fingernails biting simultaneously into the other side in a brutal pinch, sending a bolt of sizzling current right down to his cock, the world falling asunder as he came…. and came…. and came….

Blair was barely conscious when he felt the bed tip with Jim’s shifting weight, and heard him order, "Open up." Obeying without thought, still bound, spread-eagled and utterly dazed in the aftermath of the most incredible orgasm he’d ever experienced, he accepted Jim’s hot thrusts into his mouth readily, swallowing what he could and savoring the taste when, after only two or three strokes, his lover came as well.

Jim lay close down beside him after that, his arms reaching around to enclose Blair within their protective circle, and Blair finally drifted into exhausted, satiated sleep.

When Blair woke later, with his lover asleep beside him, he found that Jim had unbound him as he slept. Curious, he sat up and pulled the comforter down to look at his nipples. They were a little distended, a little red and sensitive to the touch, but apart from that they seemed fine. There was a very faint indentation of teeth marks around the right one, although the skin had not been broken at all. Jim, just as he knew would be the case, had been careful.

"Hey." Jim’s quiet voice interrupted his reverie. He was looking up at Blair with some concern. "You okay?"

Blair was. He really was. "I feel great, man," he said. He leaned down to join Jim in a tender kiss, then snuggled back down with him under the comforter, their arms going around each other in a loving embrace.

After a moment, Blair heard Jim murmur, "I was worried that it’d be, you know, too much."

Blair chuckled. "It was intense, man. Absolutely incredible. As for it being too much," he squeezed Jim tight reassuringly. "Well, yeah, of course it was! That was the whole point, Jim. That was what I wanted!"

"Chief?" Jim asked, after a moment, a little tentatively. "Can I ask you something?"

Blair nodded. "Sure you can."

"I was wondering…" Jim paused. "What if I were to want you to do that to me? You know, just to try it out."

Blair grinned happily, his comatose libido waking up and doing the samba. He sat up and ran a hand over Jim’s chest, enjoying how Jim’s eyes widened as he skimmed close to - but totally avoided – his pert little nipples. Payback was a bitch, after all. "Hey man," he said enthusiastically. "Where did you put those silk ties?"

The End

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Vampire 1/1 (gen)

2008-08-16T06:27:28Z

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Summary: Jim launches into protective mode when Blair gets a new girlfriend.

Author's Note: This snippet was written to a prompt - 'vampire' - given to me by snailbones, and to my surprise grew beyond the planned drabble into something longer containing an actual plot. It is dedicated to Snail, with much love and appreciation.

Although it is gen, slashers are free to interpret Jim's motives however they may wish :-).

Rating: G

Vampire

By Fluterbev

August 2008

“You going out again with Morticia tonight, Chief?” The question was casually put, but there was an odd undertone in Jim’s voice which Blair couldn’t quite interpret.

“It’s Melissa, man,” Blair corrected automatically. “And yeah, we’re going out tonight. Why?” he challenged.

Jim shrugged. “No reason. Hey,” he changed the subject, “I’ll make my special pasta sauce for dinner. You’ll have time to eat before you go, right?”

Blair nodded. “Yeah, I’ll have time.” Later, he could have sworn that Jim grinned smugly as he went over to the kitchen, and got the garlic out of the fridge.

***

It was after midnight by the time Blair walked his date home, and set off on foot back toward Prospect. He was surprised when, as he turned away from Melissa’s house, he saw Jim’s truck parked nearby, his partner sitting in it as large as life.

Jim wound the window down as he approached. “Hey man,” Blair asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been on a stakeout,” Jim said, waving his hand vaguely toward a darkened building across the street. “I was just about to head home, though. You want a lift?”

“May as well,” Blair agreed. He got in, absently shifting across the sharpened piece of wood and mallet which had been lying on the seat as he did so. Man, Jim was getting sloppy – he didn’t usually leave his tools lying around in the truck like that.

As they set off, Jim asked innocently, “Did your date go well?”

“Oh, man!” Blair ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I was hoping to get lucky tonight, you know? But she wouldn’t even let me kiss her goodnight. It seems she hates the smell of garlic. How much did you put in the dinner, anyway?”

“No more than usual, Chief,” Jim said. The interior of the truck was dark, but Blair could have sworn that Jim was smiling in satisfaction.

***

Jim had promised to go out tonight so that Blair could cook a romantic dinner in the loft – sans garlic – for Melissa.

As Blair got inside, a bag of groceries in one arm and his key on the other, he snapped on the light and was nearly dazzled. “What the…” he exclaimed, blinking in surprise.

The entire loft was filled with mirrors. Big ones, small ones, plain ones, ornate ones. On the walls, propped up against the furniture, lying on the kitchen counter; a hundred startled faces looked back in concert at Blair.

Blair heard a noise upstairs, and he and his myriad reflections snapped their gaze upwards. “Jim!” he bellowed. “What the hell is going on, man?”

Jim appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hey Chief,” he said, as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. “Just give me a minute or two, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Speechless, Blair stood there openmouthed, until he caught sight of how dumb that made him look in the mirrors surrounding him. “I don’t know what you’re staring at,” he muttered grouchily to his nearest twin, who glared just as grouchily back.

Jim came down the stairs then, and Blair pounced. “Melissa will be here in less than an hour, Jim! These mirrors had better be gone by then.” Blair pointed at the kitchen counter, the surface of which was completely obscured, and glanced at the couch, which was buried under even more of the things. “How am I supposed to even cook? Where are we supposed to sit?”

Jim shook his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Chief,” he said. “A guy I know, an antique dealer pal of mine, had a flood at his premises. I promised him I’d look after some of his stock for a couple of days, just until he gets things sorted out.”

Blair tugged at his hair in frustration. “Can’t we just stack them up, or something? I mean, they don’t have to be spread all over the loft, do they?”

“Actually, they do,” Jim said. “Some of them are worth hundreds of dollars, and they’re fragile. Unless they’re laid out like this, they could get damaged.”

“Right, right.” Blair shook his head. “I guess I could take Melissa out instead,” he conceded. “But I’m strapped for cash right now.” He turned pleading eyes on Jim. “I don’t suppose…” he began.

But there was no help to be had from that quarter. “Sorry, Sandburg. I left my wallet at work,” Jim said. And with that, he headed out, leaving Blair to do the best he could.

It was perhaps a blessing that, once Melissa arrived, she didn’t set foot in the door. Instead she pleaded a migraine, brought on by the reflection of the hall light in several of the mirrors facing the door, and headed straight home without another word. She wouldn’t even let Blair take her home.

***

“You seen Morticia lately, Chief?” Jim asked, a couple of weeks later, as they drove through town on their way to get lunch.

“It’s Melissa,” Blair corrected absently. “And no, man, she’s not returned any of my calls.” He laughed shortly. “Anyone would think she had a problem with mirrors, right?” he said.

“Right,” Jim grinned. “And garlic. Don’t forget garlic.”

“Yeah that too,” Blair agreed. “Anyway, I thought I’d try one last time, you know? I’m gonna see if she wants to come to the Social Science picnic next week with me. I could introduce her to Jasmine and Paul. You remember, you met them? The Sociology TAs who are into the Goth scene. I think they’d have a lot in common.”

“Yeah, Chief,” Jim agreed. “I’m sure they would.” He grinned. “Good luck with getting her out in daylight,” he quipped.

“Yeah, yeah,” Blair said, his mind already on other things. “Whatever, man. Hey, pull in here. This place does great sushi. You’ll love it.”

***

It was clear that Blair hadn’t, as Jim hoped, given up on Melissa, so he decided to take matters into his own hands - it was time to end this once and for all.

She was apparently expecting him. “Come in,” she beckoned before he even had a chance to knock, her bloodless lips painted artificially red in a parody of life. She eyed the impressively large crucifix around his neck, and laughed as he followed her into her lair. “You really think that’d bother me?”

Jim shrugged. “Garlic and mirrors seemed to do the trick. I figured this might too.”

She shook her head. “Garlic just stinks – I hate the smell. And mirrors reflect light, and it hurts my eyes.”

“Whatever,” Jim said. “They served their purpose. And now I’m here to tell you straight. Stay away from my partner.” He brandished the sharpened stake and mallet in his hands threateningly. “You so much as speak to him again, and I’ll put this through your heart.”

“So assertive,” Melissa said seductively. Her hand snaked out, her long, black-painted nails ghosting over Jim’s arm. “So strong. Maybe I should take you instead of him.” She looked at him unblinkingly. “Not many people see me for what I am. You have incredible vision, James Ellison. You’d be a great addition to our kind.”

Jim pulled away from her touch. “It’s not just vision, lady,” he told her angrily. “You smell like a ten-day old corpse. You have no heartbeat, and you make my flesh crawl. You touch me again, and I’ll see you in the ground where you belong.”

“I’m a much, much older corpse than ten days,” Melissa pouted. “And there’s no need to be rude about it. Come here,” she said, moving towards the open door of her sitting room. “I want to show you something.” She pointed through the doorway, where boxes and packing cases could be seen. “I’ve already decided to leave Cascade,” she said. “I knew, as soon as it became clear that Blair’s protector knew what I was, that it would be too dangerous to stay. I’m leaving tonight on a ship to Africa, and neither you nor he will see me again.”

“You’d better be telling me the truth,” Jim growled. “Or I’ll end this right now.”

She fixed her piercing gaze back on him. “You’re an uncommon man,” she said. “I’d have thought you’d be more understanding of those of us who walk in a different world; eternally on the outside, eternally alone.” She smiled then. “But you’re not alone, are you? You have him, and for that I envy you.” Her smile died, and suddenly she looked old and tired way beyond her young façade. “I give you my word, James Ellison. Neither you nor Blair will see me again.”

Out of his need to be certain that she meant it, Jim stayed with her until the van arrived to take her and her belongings to the port to meet her ship. He tailed them in his truck, and stood on the dock as her cases and boxes were loaded. He watched as she disappeared up the gangplank, meeting her eyes in a long, pensive look of farewell. And he kept watching as the ship pulled away from the dock and sailed out into Puget Sound on the early morning tide.

He told himself it was distrust that made him stay to watch her leave, and not pity.

The End

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Fall, 1/1 (Gen)

2008-08-16T06:20:12Z

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Summary: Blair falls. H/C with extra added rescue.

Author's Note: This is a snippet of exactly 450 words. It was written to a prompt - 'fall' - given to me by redgirl72928, and is dedicated to her, with much love and appreciation.

Rating: G

Fall

By Fluterbev

August 2008

The canopy of leaves above him, red and gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, took Blair’s breath away. As he watched, entranced, one more of them detached from its mooring, fluttering gently down to fill his vision; like a butterfly making a graceful descent, it’s filigreed skin delicate with veins as it swept past his face to join its fellows on the cold, hard ground.

“Sandburg!” A familiar cry rent the air, and Blair wept to hear it, alone, hurt and frightened as he’d been for so long. “Blair, hold on! I’m coming!”

Another sound intruded and, above the canopy of leaves which whipped to-and-fro in the downdraft, Blair could see the helicopter which had been flying over constantly all the time he’d lain here, unable to move or attract its attention in any way.

The sound of crunching footfalls on dried leaves heralded the arrival of Blair’s deepest desire. A moment later, gentle hands framed his face. “Easy,” Jim murmured, his eyes full of care and terror as he knelt beside Blair. “It’s gonna be all right.”

“Jim,” Blair groaned out loud, more relieved than he’d ever been in his life. “Oh, Jim. I fell, man.”

“I know.” Jim kept one hand on Blair, and with the other pulled a radio out of his pocket and spoke into it. “I’ve found him,” he said, as it crackled into life.

Blair must have drifted away for a while after that, because the next thing he was aware of he was surrounded by people. He wasn’t on the ground anymore but, instead, was strapped into a metal cradle, his neck immobilized in a stiff collar. A cable extended upwards above his head, attached to the hovering helicopter above him.

Blair must have made a sound, or perhaps it was just that the sentinel was paying close attention, because the next second Jim was at his side. “Easy,” Jim said. “It’s all right, Chief.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Blair said, panicked. “Please, Jim. I can’t!”

Jim stepped in close. He was wearing a hard hat and a harness, and as he spoke he fastened the other end of a rope extending from his waist to the chopper cable. “I’m coming up with you,” he said soothingly. “Just relax, Blair.” He smiled gently, reaching out to touch Blair’s face again. Then he looked up and raised his thumb in indication of readiness, and the cradle swayed as it rose through the red leaves and up into the sky.

Blair didn’t cry out again, even though his heart stuttered in terror as they gained height. Instead he fixed his eyes on Jim’s face, trusting his friend not to let him fall again.

The End

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Lick 1/1 (Slash)

2008-08-16T06:14:02Z

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Summary: Some sensations can be a bit too much, until you're guided to pleasure.

Author's Note: This is a drabble of exactly 100 words. It was written to a prompt - 'lick' - given to me by andeincascade, and is dedicated to her, with much love.

Rating: NC-17

Lick

By Fluterbev

August 2008

“Sandburg, quit it!” Jim growled.

Blair looked up. “What’s the matter?”

Jim sighed, twitching uncomfortably. “It’s like being slimed. Like a slug crawling all over me.”

Blair was unfazed. “Dial it down, man!” he ordered. “You need to bring it down to a level where this feels good.” He deepened his tone with intent. “I promise you, Jim. I can make you feel good.”

Blair got back to work and, to his delight, Jim gradually relaxed and stopped fighting. Very soon, his breathy moans of ecstasy were music to Blair’s ears.

Which proved Blair’s theory that tongue was definitely good.

The End

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Birthday 1/1 (Slash)

2008-08-16T06:06:00Z

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Summary: A drabble of exactly 100 words. Jim's looking good at 50.

Author's Note: This was written to a prompt - 'birthday' - given to me by ainm. This drabble is dedicated to her, with love and topical birthday wishes!

Rating: G

Birthday

By Fluterbev

August 2008

Blair couldn’t believe how fast the years had flown by but, looking in the mirror, the evidence was there. Sparse gray hairs threaded through brown curls; lines developing around eyes that had seen more in the past twelve years than most people saw in a lifetime, not all of them due to laughter.

“You ready, Chief?” Jim’s reflection appeared behind him, his immaculate suit and tie only enhancing the masculine beauty that, at fifty years old, he still bore in spades; matured like fine wine. “We don’t want to miss our reservation.”

“Just coming, man.” Blair turned. “Happy birthday, Jim!”

The End

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Moving 1/1 (Slash)

2008-08-12T06:11:01Z

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Summary: Epilogue for TSbyBS. Blair contemplates leaving, having decided not to become a cop. Jim persuades him otherwise.

Author's Note: This was written to a prompt - 'moving' - given to me by sara_merry99. This snippet is dedicated to her, with love.

Rating: NC-17

Moving

By Fluterbev

August 2008

Naomi’s eternal wanderlust dominated Blair’s childhood. She was never interested in staying in one place – and why should she be? “The world is full of new experiences, new ideas, different ways of life, Blair,” she always told him. “So much richness of experience to be found. You just have to go out there and discover it!”

By the time Blair went to Rainier at the age of sixteen he’d experienced, thanks to his mom, more diversity than most people twice his age, and he didn’t stop moving even then. His anthropological studies saw him travel to South America, Papua New Guinea and Africa over the next ten years – in fact, he’s lost count now of all the places he’s been.

Then came the biggest surprise of all; the most outlandish and surreal experience of his entire life. At the age of twenty-six, Blair stopped moving, and stayed put.

Suddenly, Blair was studying a phenomenon right here in Cascade – no more trips overseas were necessary unless, of course, Jim came too. He even moved into Jim’s home and stayed there for four years - the longest he’s ever lived in one place during his entire life.

Jim kicked Blair out of the loft once, and at the time, to his very great shock, he found that it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him - and that's saying something, considering some of the stuff he's been through. And now, four years after he discovered that standing still can be even more enriching than moving on, he’s terrified. It’s as though he’s been struck by lightning, his roots seared and severed. He’s just been waiting for the next big gust of wind to come along and blow him over.

The hurricane arrived, of course, in the form of a detective’s badge. And the morning after that lifeline was tossed to him, now that he’s slept on the matter, he can come up with a million and one different reasons why he can’t take it.

This morning, he’s more scared than he’s ever been in his life, because when he turns down the offer of an official place at Jim’s side it means he’ll have to move on. He lies now in his room, tense and desperate, frozen with terror that today he’ll have to leave all this behind. He wishes he could hold back time with his hands, because the moment he steps out of that door and tells Jim his decision, there will be nothing left here in Cascade, or in Jim’s life, for him.

After a while, Jim comes in, no doubt sensing Blair’s unnatural stillness, and guessing that the matter has come to a head. Blair’s afraid to meet his eyes, but he makes himself do so anyway. He sits up in bed, and looks over at Jim. “I’m sorry,” is all he says, his voice choked with regret and sorrow. He fights hard to keep it together. "I can't do it, man. I can't be a cop."

He expects anger; certainly disappointment. Jim doesn’t deal with rejection well, and he and Simon went out on a limb to give Blair this chance. What he doesn’t expect, however, is what he gets. Jim’s looking sad – understandable, right? But there’s something else there. Sympathy, maybe. Even affection.

It’s almost more than Blair can stand, that evidence of Jim’s compassion. He’s had to hold it all together by himself during the case, the shootings at the station and throughout his own personal crisis. He’s done a pretty good job of it so far, but everyone has a limit and it seems he’s reached his. Before he knows it, he’s breathing like he’s run a marathon, feeling pain so great he wants to die from it.

Jim’s there in a flash, holding him. Normally Blair would fight him off but he feels suddenly as though he just doesn’t have the strength to go this one alone. And not only that; Jim Ellison hugs like you’re his whole world, like you belong in his arms. And Blair desperately wants to feel, for just a little while longer, like he belongs.

So Blair hugs back, clinging on like a child as he weeps. And Jim holds him, and soothes him, and it’s the best freaking thing in the world, the most precious, most perfect thing that’s ever happened to Blair, which is pretty ironic really when you consider that it’s happening right in the middle of the worst thing that’s ever happened to Blair, and when it ends, his world will end right along with it.

It goes on and on, and Blair keeps expecting Jim to get sick of dealing with his emotional breakdown and tell him to suck it up. But then Jim’s shifting on the bed, and Blair thinks for one agonizing second that it’s all over. But actually Jim’s just lying back, getting comfortable. He pulls Blair down with him, tucking him right in the crook of his arm. He’s holding tight, stroking Blair’s back, telling him it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay Chief.

Blair clings on, helpless in the face of such tenderness. He loves Jim so freaking much; this man is everything to him. He’s making Jim’s shirt wet, and he tells him so, but Jim just laughs; a little, gentle laugh. “It’s okay, Chief,” he says in a voice that makes Blair’s insides melt with love. “You just do what you need to do, buddy, I’m right here.”

The storm passes finally, but Blair feels boneless and exhausted. He’s kinda comfortable right where he is – the wet patch on Jim’s shirt notwithstanding. And Jim doesn’t seem to mind, which is amazing in itself, considering what a tough guy he is. But he’s always had a softer side, and Blair’s seen it before. His big ol’ heart is one of the things about Jim that make him so amazing to Blair, so precious.

The surge of love which wells up inside him makes Blair impulsively squeeze Jim tight. Jim lets out a little oof sound as he does so, which makes Blair chuckle a little bit; but it’s a sad sort of sound. Then Jim astonishes him some more, because he’s squeezing Blair right back, and he plants a kiss right on Blair’s temple. Then he does it again, more tenderly, his lips lingering.

It starts off a bit of a chain reaction, which embarrasses Blair because Jim’s a sentinel, and he will be able to tell. He shifts a bit uncomfortably, worried about his friend’s reaction to the pheromones, but Jim just pulls him close. “It’s okay,” he whispers into Blair’s hair, stroking the back of his head tenderly. “It’s okay, Chief. Me too. Me too.”

For a minute Blair’s afraid that he’s misunderstood; then he gets it. “Jim,” he croaks. He looks up into Jim’s eyes, and what he sees there takes his breath away.

Jim cocks his head, a little smile playing around his lips. He glances meaningfully at Blair’s mouth, then back up. “Do you mind?” he asks.

Blair can’t speak, but Jim seems to know the answer anyway. He lowers his lips to Blair’s, and Blair can’t look away. Then he’s being kissed like he’s never been kissed before; drawn in, absorbed. It’s as though everything else up to this moment was just a rehearsal. This it, man, eureka. Bang, holy grail time!

Blair’s lost in sensation, more turned-on than he can ever remember. Jim’s on top of him now, still kissing him like crazy, pressing down his sweatpant-covered erection onto Blair, who’s still wearing the tee-shirt and boxers he slept in. They’re not even freaking naked, but this is it, the ultimate, the best sex Blair has ever had in his life. They’re moving around on each other, sliding and pressing together, gripping each other tight, moaning into each other’s mouths, and Blair can already feel the tingle in his toes and the start of the rush.

And when, in the next moment, Jim Ellison throws back his head in ecstasy and shouts out Blair’s name as he comes in his pants, Blair loses it altogether.

***

They doze for a while afterwards, holding each other tenderly. Blair feels warm and loved, but gradually the feeling of cozy lassitude dissipates as reality creeps back in. He stirs a little in Jim’s arms, and knows that Jim’s awake too, waiting for him to say something.

At least, now, Blair doesn’t have to climb this mountain alone. He’s finally sure of that.

“I don’t know what to do,” he tells Jim. “If I’m not a cop, I mean.”

Jim’s voice is deep and rumbling under Blair’s ear. It makes him feel safe. “You’re a smart guy, Sandburg,” Jim says. “You need to take some time; get your head together, do some thinking about it.” He squeezes Blair tight for a moment. “I’m not going to leave you high and dry, you know. I know what you did for me. I’m gonna help you put it right.”

Blair feels pain well up, at that. “Tell me this wasn’t pity or fucking gratitude, man. Because I can’t handle that.”

“Don’t be stupid, Blair.” Jim sounds angry now, and Blair regrets that he said it already. “You know me better than that.”

Blair doesn’t speak for a moment, and when he does the tears are back. “I know, Jim. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m kinda… I’m not at my best here, you know? I say stupid shit sometimes.”

“Hey, hey!” Jim holds him tight again. “That’s something you and I have in common, right? I mean, I said stuff to you, Chief, stuff I know I should never have said. I hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. I can’t even promise not to do it again, because that’s who I am. But you’ve gotta know… Jesus. Blair. I love you. I love you so much.”

There’s more kissing then; gentle, after-the-storm kisses, which go a long way toward reassuring both of them of what exactly this is all about.

Pity and gratitude, Blair learns, are not part of the equation. Not at all.

They get up finally, get dressed, eat breakfast. They talk some more, make out a lot. In the afternoon, they end up in Jim’s bed, and this time they take it slow, do it naked, learn each other’s bodies.

Jim is a beautiful man; the most beautiful man Blair’s ever seen. Jim says the same about him, which makes Blair pretty speechless. He’s even more speechless after what Jim does to him next.

By the end of the day Blair knows, absolutely for sure, that he’s not moving anywhere, least of all away from Cascade. In fact if he even moves out of Jim's bed again, it will be a miracle.

The End

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Round the House and Mind the Dresser (Slash, 1/1)

2008-05-18T17:03:39Z

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Summary: Jim is not going to go set dancing with Blair. No way, no how, over his dead body. Until he does, of course.

Author's Note: This is part of the Irish Saga. It was written in response to a discussion on Prospect-L, which touched upon the likelihood that Jim might ever dance a jig. Consequently, the plot bunny of doom was activated! Strictly speaking, he doesn't dance a jig in this, but Ireland has more dance rhythms than just 6/8 time...

Rating: NC-17

Acknowledgments: Thanks to Cheri, Magician and MissFae, who gave me the idea to write this story.

Nominee: Day in the Life (Slash)

Round the House and Mind the Dresser

By Fluterbev

May 2008

Since Jim had emigrated to Ireland – making the journey in the opposite direction to the thousands upon thousands of Irish people who had gone the other way – he’d come gradually to a realisation. He had the distinct feeling that, just like the fabled bull of Cooley (which had been contested by the forces of Ulster and Connaught just down the road from where they lived), Blair was leading him around by the nose.

Of course, he understood that Blair was already far more immersed in local culture than him. Jim might be the one with the Irish roots, but he was truly Irish in name only – his grandmother’s legacy had certainly not lived on in any tangible way in his family that he’d ever been aware of. But Blair? He’d lived here now for more than half a decade, burrowing in and making himself at home in that way that Jim knew so well. And he seemed determined to put Jim straight on the fast track to assimilation as well.

But… Jim had his pride. On this matter, he intended to stand firm. “No,” he insisted for at least the hundredth time. “No way, Sandburg. Forget it.”

“Aw Jim, come on!” Blair wheedled. “It’ll be fun!”

“I said,” Jim enunciated decisively, “no way.” He held his hands up to forestall yet another round of pleading from Blair. “I mean, come on, Sandburg!” he said. “Can you really see me dancing a jig, for Christ’s sake? I’d look like an idiot!”

Blair pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, “it wouldn’t just be jigs. There’s reels as well, and they said there’d be polkas to start with. In fact, that’s the rhythm for the first dance they’re teaching.” Blair brandished the small, blue booklet he was holding. “The Kerry Set, it’s called, according to this. I got a copy of one of the books the teacher uses, so we can practise a few moves before our first class.”

Jim had the distinct feeling that Blair was not taking him seriously. “Blair, you know I can’t dance. That one time, back in Cascade, when we went out to that club you dragged me along to, I made a total fool of myself.”

“You got lucky though, as I recall!” Blair countered. “What was her name, again? Georgie? Jenny? Something like that, wasn’t it? You totally impressed her with your moves, man!”

Jim didn’t see the point of correcting Blair about the name of an old – and extremely shortlived - girlfriend from his past; he’d just as soon forget there had ever been a time when he’d been too chickenshit to make a move on the one person who really mattered to him. So instead, he brought the discussion back to the matter at hand. “Blair, the point is, I don’t want to do it. End of story. If you want to go out and do your Riverdance impression, feel free. But keep me out of it, okay?”

“Okay,” Blair conceded sadly. “I hear you, Jim. I do. But,” Blair launched into his patent do-or-die spiel, “it’s just, this would be a great way for us both to meet people, you know? And Siobhán told me that there’s a ceili in a few weeks in that big hotel at the other side of Dundalk, where we’d get a chance to go out and do the dances we’ve learned. It’s a really big event – they hold it once a year, and the band they’ve booked for it this time is a really good one, triple-All Ireland champions, really exceptional. And so I thought, why not learn a few dances, just so we can join in at the ceili? Especially as there’s the local dance class right here in the village - it’s not as if we even have to drive miles to get to it, man! And things are usually a lot more fun if you can participate, right? Plus, the guys who play at the session in McManus’ will all be there, and they’re all great dancers, Jim. You should see Joe when he plays the fiddle and dances at the same time-”

Jim sighed. “Look,” he said, halting Blair’s continuous flow of words. “I’ll go to the ceili with you, all right? But I’m really not sure about this dancing crap. I just don’t think it’s for me.” Jim reached out and took Blair’s hand in his. “Go to the class and strut your stuff without me, Fred Astaire. Have fun, okay?”

Blair, it seems, had finally accepted defeat. “Yeah, well, I guess you’re no Ginger Rogers, man.” Blair’s gaze roved over Jim’s lower body appreciatively. “Though you’re pretty equivalent in the sexy legs department!”

***

Blair attended the dance class two nights later, and came home sweaty, tired and bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’d love it, Jim!” he insisted, as he commandeered an ice-cold can of Caffreys from the fridge, popping the tab and pouring it into the waiting pint glass that Jim had put out for him. He took several huge swigs – it seemed that dancing was thirsty work. “It’s like an intense aerobic workout,” he went on. “But it’s done to these really primitive rhythms – polkas, slides and hornpipes. You dance with a partner – tonight mine was this really nice lady called Dolores – and you form a circle with three other couples. Kinda like a square dance.”

As Blair took a further huge draft of his drink, Jim asked, “So, did you do-si-do and swing your partner, huh, Tex?”

Blair grinned, foam from the creamy head of his pint adorning his top lip. “There was swinging, yes, but there the comparison with square dancing ends, my friend. Set dancing is complicated. I mean, you have to learn this really difficult step, then do it at speed as you move around. And the movements need to be really precise. You get where you’re supposed to be one second too late, and you get trampled on, or you collide with somebody else.”

Jim had noticed a moment ago that Blair was favouring one foot as though it hurt him. “I guess you misjudged it once or twice, huh?”

“Well, it was my first time,” Blair said defensively. “I’m sure I’ll get better with practice.” Then, predictably, he changed tack. “Why don’t you come along to the next class, man? Give it a try?”

Jim snorted. “Not a chance, Sandburg. The only jig-a-jig I want to do with you is in the sack.”

Blair’s downtrodden expression at Jim’s rebuttal brightened considerably at that suggestion. “I’ll just grab a shower,” he said enthusiastically, finishing his beer. “I feel like an early night, suddenly!”

***

The day after Blair’s second class, Jim spent the afternoon doing a few odd jobs for Mary, their nearest neighbour. He’d been doing an increasing amount of work of that kind recently in the locality; painting and decorating, odd bits of woodworking, tiling, yard work and other miscellaneous tasks. He’d been thinking lately that he might even manage to make a proper business of it, although right now, all of his work was coming through the local grapevine rather from any kind of advertising - his satisfied customers, it seemed, were not shy of recommending him to their friends.

He supposed that, if he was to do it in a more formal way, he ought to start charging properly for labour costs. He’d not been able to bring himself to ask Mary for more than the cost of materials today, however; as an elderly widow, she was on a tight enough budget as it was, and he and Blair were not exactly struggling to make ends meet. Jim grinned the satisfied smile of a man with a full stomach as he turned his car into the lane which led up to the cottage. Since he’d refused to take any money off her, Mary had seen fit to ply him with endless tea, sandwiches and cake instead, as well as send him on his way with homemade chicken and mushroom pie and freshly baked cookies for him to bring home for Blair. Celtic hospitality, so he’d learned, was alive and well and living in a place called Ravensdale.

Blair’s car was in its usual parking spot, indicating that he’d come home early from the archaeological dig site he was currently working on. Jim pulled up alongside and shut off the engine, casting his sentinel hearing over to the house and automatically seeking his mate. What he heard was puzzling, to say the least.

“Heel one-two-three, heel one-two-three, heel… fuck! Oh man! Okay, try again.” Listening to the odd shenanigans inside as he walked up the gravel path towards the main front door, Jim heard Blair take a deep breath. “Right, here we go. In-two-three and out-two-three, turn-two-three and turn-two-three. In-two-three and out-two-three…”

As Jim reached the glass door, he could see Blair through it bobbing around the main living area of the cottage. The table had been pushed right over to one side of the dining area, and Blair’s feet were making an odd percussive sound on the tiles. Only… the rhythm, it had to be admitted, was more than a little lacking in regularity.

“Turn-two-three and turn-two-three, turn-two-three and turn-two-three,” Blair was reciting out loud as Jim pushed the door open and stepped in. Blair was moving now in tight little circles, which made Jim dizzy just watching. As he whooshed past Jim, Blair paused in his counting. “Oh hey, man!” he greeted, still whizzing around.

Bemused, Jim had to ask. “What the hell are you doing, Sandburg?”

“I’m dancing round the house,” Blair informed him, somewhat redundantly.

“That’s obvious,” Jim noted.

Blair stopped. “No, I mean I’m dancing round the house. That’s the name of that move I was doing just now, Jim. In shorthand set dance speak, it’s just called ‘house’, although sometimes people shout out ‘round the house and mind the dresser’ instead, to account for the fact that doing it in a small Irish cottage can be a bit of a squeeze and potentially detrimental to your best china.” Blair grinned widely, obviously pleased with himself. “How do you think I look, huh?”

Jim suspected that he wasn’t actually getting the full effect somehow, or perhaps he was just clueless, because what Blair had been doing had looked considerably less than impressive to his untutored eyes. But he loved Blair, and this was making Blair happy, so what was the harm in a little white lie? “Hey,” he said indulgently. “Looking good, Chief!”

“Damn.” As usual, Blair could read him like a book. His face fell. “I suck, don’t I?”

“Really, really well,” Jim confirmed.

Blair slapped him on the arm. “Jim,” he warned. “Get your mind out of your pants and tell me what you really think. Come on, I can take it. Am I making a complete fool of myself, here?”

The expression of uncertainty in Blair’s eyes, which had been so full of joy just a moment ago, cut Jim to the quick. “Maybe you just need a little more practice,” he tried to reassure, wanting to make Blair smile again. “You’ve got a great sense of rhythm.” Usually, he added to himself mentally. “And I’ve seen you dance before – not this stuff, obviously, but you always seemed pretty good at it.”

Blair ran a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture of stress. “The ceili is in two weeks, man. There’s only two more classes between now and then. I’m never going to be able to do this in time!”

“Just keep trying, Chief,” Jim advised him. “If you practice like this every day, you’ll get better, right?”

“I don’t think this is really working,” Blair admitted ruefully. “To do it properly, I really need to practice regularly with a partner.”

“So, why don’t you ask someone?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jim regretted them - even more so at the look of calculation which was steadily replacing the expression of pained disappointment on Blair’s face. He decided to leap in fast to try to stem the inevitable. “What about the woman you were dancing with the other week – Dolores?”

“She’s got a regular partner already – her husband, Brian. He just couldn’t be there with her that first night. And at the class last night I was paired up with Noreen, but she’s a nurse and she’s doing the night shift for the next fortnight up at the hospital in Dundalk, so there’s not much chance of getting any time with her before the ceili.” Blair turned pleading, puppy-dog eyes on Jim. “Jim…”

“I don’t think so, Chief.” Despite his rebuttal, Jim could already feel that he was on the slippery slope to jiggety-jig now that Blair had brought out the big guns – those goddamned eyes. “I haven’t got the first idea how to do anything like this. If you’re worrying about looking bad despite the classes you’ve gone to, how do you think I feel about it?”

“Jim, please!” Blair clicked into high gear. “Please, man! I’m on the ropes here! I’m not asking you to dance at the ceili or where anyone else can see. Just here, in the house with me, all right? Just to help me out, so I don’t look like a total dick on the night. Please, man!”

Jim would truly rather take a bullet than do any such thing but, despite his misgivings, he guessed it wouldn’t do any harm to help Blair out a little. The worst that could happen, if they kept it here between themselves, was a pair of bruised feet, wasn’t it? “Okay,” he conceded. “I’ll do it. But just in private, okay? So long as we’re clear about that.”

“Oh man, I love you!” Blair grabbed Jim in a hug. “Thanks so much, Jim!” he said, his eyes shining. “I really, really appreciate it.” And in the next moment, Jim found himself being soundly kissed, which he returned with equal enthusiasm, loving the way Blair squirmed so delightfully in his arms as he tried to get close and closer still.

As rewards went, he had to admit, an armful of sweaty, happy, grateful Blair was way, way up there.

***

Jim’s lessons started the next day. “Okay, man,” Blair told him. “We’re just going to start with the basic polka step, all right? Just… watch what I do, and go with the flow, here. Just count as you go. One-two-three, one-two-three.”

It wasn’t too hard, Jim found, until Blair showed him how to put an extra little tap of the heel into it. “Jesus, Chief,” he said, after losing the thread once again. “This is complicated.”

“Believe it or not,” Blair told him, “this is one of the simpler steps - wait till you see the one for the Connemara Set. But I digress. Let’s go again, okay? Heel one two three, heel one two three…”

Together they worked at it for a while, and gradually Jim began to get the hang of it. He was beginning to feel pretty confident with his progress, in fact, until Blair tried to get him to speed up. “You’re kidding, right?” he protested. “I can’t do it any faster!”

“Jim, they dance this at high speed, okay? This is still pretty slow.”

Jim didn’t really believe that until Blair put on a CD for them to practice to. “I can’t do it that fast!” he said. “Chief, it’s just not possible!”

“Just do your best, man!” Blair insisted. “Keep trying, okay? You’ll get it eventually. I did!” And with that, Blair launched into his step with gusto.

Watching Sandburg’s attempts – which were scarcely better than his – Jim had to wonder how his partner could make that assertion with such confidence.

***

Jim had insisted that they take it slow, so he could have a chance to get the step down first before they did any actual movements. So it was a couple of days later before they got down to the nitty gritty.

“Okay Jim,” Blair said, with an ominous brightness of tone. “You know how to waltz, right?”

“Yeah,” Jim admitted.

“Then this should be really simple for you to understand, man. Come here.” Blair manoeuvred them both so that Jim was where he wanted him, grabbing Jim’s right hand with his left, and grasping him around the waist with the other hand. Then, he struck a pose. “In set dancing,” he explained, “everything is done in what they call a ‘waltz hold’. Like this. Kind of similar to the whole ballroom dancing deal.”

Jim was confused. “What about all that Riverdance stuff? You know, that tap dancing guy in leather pants? He didn’t do it like this.”

“You’re talking about Michael Flatley,” Blair intoned patiently. “And no, that’s not the same; that’s step dancing. What we’re doing here is set dancing. It’s a completely different thing.”

Well that made it all clear – not.

Of course, Blair had more to say. Which was fine, because his ability to enthuse knowledgeably about just about every topic under the sun was one of the many reasons Jim loved him, after all.

Well, during the times he didn’t fantasise about stuffing a sock in his mouth, at any rate.

“Set dancing,” Blair told him, launching enthusiastically into his lecture, “is a social dance form, not an exhibition dance like step dancing. It’s something that ordinary men, women and children have been doing together at small gatherings in houses for centuries, primarily on the west coast of Ireland, where most of the collected dances, like this one, come from. Traditionally, people also used to get together do this stuff outdoors at crossroads – back in the days before traffic was an issue, they’d lay down wooden boards at the joining of several roads out in the country for sets to be danced on; but these days it’s more usually done at big ceilis, like the one we’re going to. Oh, and occasionally you’ll get a set danced in a pub where musicians are playing – I saw it done a few times when I visited Miltown Malbay a couple of years ago-”

“Okay, Chief. I understand,” Jim interrupted. “Leather tap dancing guy is not our role model, here.”

Blair grinned. “Well, you know, Michael Flatley is a pretty amazing dancer, man, and I’m sure knows how to do this stuff too. But no, that’s not what we’re aiming for.” Undaunted by the interruption, Blair seemed determined to continue furthering Jim’s education. “Anyway, since the 1980s there has been a huge surge of interest in set dancing right across Ireland and all over the world, which has brought these previously little-known regional dances to a virtually global audience-”

Oh, where was a sock when you needed one? “Chief,” Jim interrupted again. “Spare me the seminar, okay? Let’s just get on with it.”

Blair gave him an exasperated look, but he obviously decided that it would be prudent to shut up if he was to ensure Jim’s continued compliance. “Okay. Let’s get to it, then. Are you comfortable?”

Jim wasn’t, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. “I don’t know, Chief. I did a little ballroom dancing as a kid – my dad made Stevie and me go to a couple of lessons. And by the way,” Jim put in, “you ever tell anybody that, and I’ll have to kill you.”

Blair smirked dangerously, but held his peace, exercising what had to be mammoth restraint. “So what’s bothering you?” he asked.

Jim shook his head. “This isn’t the same, somehow. It’s like I’m all switched around.”

“That’s because you’re dancing as a woman, Jim. In set dancing, just like in ballroom dancing, the man stands on the left and the lady on the right.”

“You’re kidding!” Jim was incredulous. “Why do I have to be the woman?”

Blair shrugged. “Hey buddy, you’re just helping me practice, remember? If you want to dance the male part, you’ll have to go to the classes, like me. In the meantime I need to learn the male parts of the dance, so I can do it properly at the ceili, ergo I need you to dance the woman’s part. Don’t worry,” he added. “I’ll lie back and let you assert your manhood later!”

The fact that Blair had used the words ‘let you assert your manhood’ had not escaped Jim – it was becoming more and more evident to him who, more often than not, was the principal driver in their relationship. Accepting that there was nothing he could do about it – even if he’d actually even wanted to - Jim sighed. “Let’s just get on with it. The quicker we get this done, the quicker I can throw you down and assert my manhood. Assuming I’ve got any left by then, that is.”

Blair just laughed at Jim’s sulky tone, then proceeded to teach Jim to dance around the house and mind the dresser in his usual characteristic, bossy way.

***

Blair came back from his third dance class full of the joy of having learned something new. “Jim!” he insisted as soon as he came in the door, dragging the reluctant man out of the nice, cozy armchair he’d been resting in reading a book while Blair was out. “You’ve gotta try this, man! We learned the last figure of the set, and it’s a hornpipe. It’s a whole different step!”

“Calm down, Sandburg,” Jim said as he was all but bodily dragged over to the dining area where they usually did their dance practice. “It can’t be any more difficult than the stuff we’ve already done.” And, truth be told, Jim had mastered the polka step far quicker than he’d anticipated, and was no slouch at the actual dance movements too. If he was honest, he considered himself to be a little better at it than Blair, despite not having gone to any of the classes that his partner still religiously attended.

Not that he’d ever admit that to Blair, of course.

“No, no, this is much harder, man!” Blair insisted, shoving the table out of the way with a scraping sound on the floor which set Jim’s teeth on edge. “Watch. This is the easy way to do it, right?” Blair adopted a pose, then started to step, counting out loud as he went. “One-two-three, one-two-three. One-two-three, one-two-three.”

Jim blinked. “That’s about half the speed of the polka,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Blair told him, “is that when you put in the battering,” which, Jim had learned, was the word for the complicated, percussive stepping element of this type of dancing, “it goes like this. Hop-heel-stamp-heel-stamp-heel-stamp, hop-heel-stamp… shit! Try again. Hop-heel-stamp-heel… fuck!”

Blair was obviously having problems, and Jim could see why. “That doesn’t look easy,” he said.

“I told you that, you doofus!” Blair exclaimed. Then he looked at Jim mournfully. “The ceili is just next week, man! How am I going to learn this before then? And Jim, the battering’s just the start of the problem. In this figure, you change partners continually, and end up dancing with every woman in your set before going back to your own partner. I’m going to screw it up, man, and mutilate some poor woman in the process. I just know it!”

“Chief, aren’t you getting a little hysterical, here? I mean, this is just a social dance; it’s not some kind of performance. Isn’t it supposed to be fun?”

“Well, yeah!” Blair admitted. “But man, set dancers take this stuff really seriously! The etiquette is that you don’t attempt to do it unless you have a pretty good idea what’s going on, and if you screw it up, no one will want you in their set. I’m getting flashbacks to high school already, here. You remember what it feels like, huh, when no one wants you on their team?”

Actually Jim didn’t, because that had never happened to him; but in the spirit of solidarity he decided not to inform Blair of that fact. “Yeah,” he lied. “I remember. But Chief,” he urged, “try to get some perspective here. If this is making you miserable, you don’t have to do it.”

“Are you kidding?” Blair grinned suddenly, every bit as mercurial as he’d been all the time Jim had known him. “I’m not going to let this beat me!” He grabbed Jim by the hand. “Come on, tough guy, get with the programme. I’ll show you the step, then we can practice it together.”

Shaking his head in bemusement, Jim allowed himself to be led. But he contented himself, as he tried to emulate Sandburg’s halting attempts to demonstrate the difficult step, with breathing in the delicious exertion-warmed aroma of his partner. And as he slowly learned what Blair had to teach, he basked in the anticipation of heading off to bed soon for a dance of a different kind.

***

At last, the big night came. Jim and Blair arrived at the hotel a little after ten o’clock – social events, like this one, tended to start considerably later than they were used to back in the States. Even then, as they walked into the big ballroom where the ceili was being held, they found that they were a little early. The band were only just taking their places on the stage, and the room was still half-empty.

They went to the bar for drinks, then found a table in a corner from where they could get a good view of the proceedings. Before too long, some of the musicians Blair had recently gotten to know came in and, spotting him and Jim, came over to join them. “Well,” greeted Siobhán – well being a substitute for hello in Dundalk-speak. “How’s she cuttin’, guys?”

“Hey, we’re good,” Blair told her, as she, Joe and Ciarán sat down. Before long, several more of their friends arrived, some of whom Jim and Blair already knew and some they didn’t, so both of them found themselves drawn into introductions and chat which had them laughing out loud before too long.

At last, the ceili started. Most of those at the table – but not Jim and Blair – got up to dance. “I’ve gotta sit this one out,” Blair told Jim. “It’s the Caledonian Set. I’ve not learned it yet.”

The dance lasted a good half-hour, and Jim could see what Blair meant about how complicated and skilful set dancing could be. Many of the dancers on the floor were performing incredibly complex steps as they moved in tight and unbelievably precise ways within each set, and the percussive rhythm of dozens of battering feet echoed round the room with primitive, addictive resonance.

Of course, Blair took this opportunity, as they sat watching on the sidelines, to educate Jim some more. “The Caledonian’s got seven figures, man,” Blair told Jim, as the dance progressed, “which is why this is lasting so long. A figure is the name given to each distinct part of the dance, like chapters in a book. The music stops at the end of each figure, but the dancers remain in place until the music starts again for the next figure. Most of this particular dance is done to reels, but the last figure is a hornpipe. It’s got different movements, but the step is the same as the one used for the hornpipe in the Kerry Set – you know, the one we’ve been learning? We should watch when they get to that part. You know, to see if we can’t learn something from observing the experts.”

At long last the hornpipe figure was imminent, and Blair sat up attentively. “Watch this, man!” he directed. “This is it!”

The music started, and Jim watched raptly as feet deftly hopped and heeled and stamped in a perfect rhythm, the cleverest dancers amongst them sticking in a few extra little flourishes of their own as they moved around in an incredibly complex pattern. It was fantastically impressive, and bore little or no resemblance to the amateur attempts they’d been practicing diligently in their kitchen.

Jim and Blair shared a look. “Oh my god,” Blair said, apparently terrified. “I can’t do that!”

Jim shrugged. It wasn’t as if he was intending to get up and dance, after all. “Just do your best, Chief,” he said, grinning. “I’m sure you’ll cope just fine!”

The set ended not long after that, and the other occupants of their table returned to sit down and take a break, laughing and perspiring and generally having the craic. Blair had once described set dancing as an aerobic workout, and now Jim could see – or rather smell - exactly what he meant. Fastidiously, he turned his sense of smell down for the duration.

The night rolled on, the two men watching and intermittently chatting as the South Galway Reel set, the Clare Lancers and the Derrada were performed. The band was, as Blair had said, really good; fiddles and flutes predominating, with vamping piano and drums forming a percussive, bass backdrop. Pints were consumed, and the chat during the times their dancing friends took a break was entertaining and fun. Jim had to admit, he was having a really good time.

Then the announcement of the dance they’d been waiting for came. “This is it, man,” Blair said nervously, standing up. “The Kerry Set!” He stood there looking pitiful, like the kid he’d been in high school, wanting to join in but unsure of his welcome on the team. Until, that was, one of the dancers at their table took him under her wing. “Come on, Blair,” said Linda. “Let’s see what you learned at your class!”

Happy that Blair had found someone to strut his stuff with, Jim stood, intending to refill their glasses at the bar while Blair was busy. But Siobhán grabbed his arm, obviously misreading his intent. “Hey, you can dance with me!” she said, pulling him inexorably towards the dance floor.

Shocked, Jim tried to resist. “You’ve got it wrong,” he said. “I don’t… I can’t… I have no idea how to do this!”

Siobhán shrugged, not letting up for an instant as she manoeuvred him into place. “Blair said you’d been practicing together at home,” she said. “If you know the basic step and movements, you’ll be fine. The rest of us will steer you straight if you get lost!”

But Jim, now he was on the dance floor, had another problem. Aware all the time of Blair’s surprised and delighted eyes upon him from across the set, he protested, “Look, Siobhán. When we did this at home, Blair insisted I dance the woman’s part. I don’t know how to do it as a man!”

Siobhán’s eyebrows raised at that, a twinkle of mirth in her eye. “Let’s swap around then,” she said. “You’re not the only ‘flexible’ dancer here tonight.” And with that, she steered Jim into the woman’s spot before taking up the male position herself.

Even with the most cursory of glimpses, Jim very quickly determined that, while there were several women dancing as men at the ceili, since there seemed to be a general shortage of the latter, he was emphatically the only man dancing as a woman. This revelation did not fill him with reassurance, especially as more than a few amused glances were being directed his way from the other sets up on the floor, as well as from several onlookers.

The music started after that, so Jim had little option but to accept his fate, despite how self conscious he felt. Luckily for him, Siobhán really knew what she was doing. She kept him on track, calling out instructions as they went: “Body. That’s right. Now, watch what the top couples do. We’re sides, so we do it second. Okay, right hand star!” At intervals, Jim met Blair in the centre of the set, their hands joining and separating briefly, their eyes meeting for brief, mirth-filled seconds before the shape of the dance took them apart again. The eight dancers in their set weaved in-and-out in a pattern that reminded Jim obliquely of celtic knotwork; entwining, curling, interconnected.

The first three figures were over all too quickly, passing without incident as, so far, neither Jim nor Blair had made a complete ass of themselves. In fact, Jim was incredibly gratified when, during the brief halt between figures, Siobhán informed him, “You’re really good at this! You’ve got great coordination.” Across the set, he could see that Blair was apparently not doing quite so well, since Linda was teasing him roundly for his mistakes, though with obvious good humour.

The music started up again, and they launched into the fourth figure – known as The Ladies Chain. Jim cast Siobhán a dirty look when she told him, “Go on, Lady Jim. Right hand to Linda, left hand to Blair, dance round behind his back and then back to me.”

Meeting Blair on the other side of the set as they chained, Jim had a brief moment to share his pain. “I’m going to kill her, and they’ll never find the body!” he said. Then he was moving away from Blair and back to his smirking dance-partner.

When the time came for them to repeat the chain, and Jim once more danced around behind him, Blair took that brief opportunity to share his pain as well. “Forget about Siobhán,” he said. “I think Linda’s gonna kill me if I step on her foot one more time! You’ve gotta save me, man!”

Finally, it was time for the fifth and last figure – the hornpipe. And the significance of that suddenly struck Jim – given that he was dancing the woman’s part, he’d be obliged to dance up-close-and-personal with every man in the set.

Looking around at the smirking faces of Joe and Ciarán and their partners, as well as Blair’s expression of wide-eyed trepidation, he realised that everybody else was well aware of it too.

There was no more time to think about it. The music started, and all four couples launched into the body of the dance, followed by ‘house’. Then came the first partner swap. As Siobhán danced in towards the centre of the set alone, Jim moved off to the right, to meet Joe coming back out of the circle. Joe pursed his lips at Jim and blew him a kiss. “Well hello, darling,” he said, as they moved into waltz hold. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

The whole set – plus some of the other people dancing in sets nearby – broke out into laughter. His cheeks hot with embarrassment, knowing that the only way to save face in this ridiculous situation was to give as good as he got, Jim blew Joe a kiss back. “Hey baby,” he drawled. “Wanna come out back afterwards and show me your best moves?”

More laughter filled the air, and Joe grinned delightedly, seemingly not at all offended or creeped out by the innuendo, propelling the two of them skilfully round the set as they completed the body and launched into the ‘house’ movement. Once that was over, it was time to separate. “Like ships in the night,” lamented Joe, as Jim moved off. “I’ll miss you sweetheart.”

“Yeah, like a rash,” Jim muttered. To his relief, his next port of call was Blair. “Just put me out of my misery right now,” he told his grinning partner as they began the body. “One shot, right between the eyes.”

“Aw, come on, Jim!” Blair said. “You’re having fun, right?”

“I am now I’m dancing with you,” Jim groused, holding tight to Blair as they moved around. “Not one of your brightest ideas, Darwin,” he added. “Only teaching me the woman’s part.”

Blair was merciless. “You had your chance to come to the class, buster. Don’t blame me!”

All too soon, it was time for them to part. To Jim’s chagrin, Blair patted him on the ass as he moved away into the waiting arms of Ciarán.

Jim immediately propelled Blair to the top of his list of people to kill once this night was over.

Ciarán, at least, seemed to have some sense of decorum about this whole thing. He kept his eyes elsewhere as they danced, and didn’t hold Jim any closer than he absolutely had to. Joe, dancing just across the set, seemed to feel it incumbent upon him to step into the breach, however. “Hey, Ciarán! How’s your new girlfriend?”

Ciarán met Jim’s eyes apologetically and shook his head. “Ignore him, Jim,” he said. “He’s just jealous that he lost you to me!”

Jim snorted disgustedly. One more to put on the list – at this rate he would be in danger of running out of bullets.

At last, it was time to move back to Siobhán for the final run through the dance. “Don’t say a word,” Jim pre-empted, as they started on the body for the last time.

“Aw, come on, Jim!” Siobhán said. “You know none of us have any problem about you and Blair being a couple, don’t you? We’re just having a bit of fun with you. No one means anything bad by it.”

“Some people have a problem with it,” Jim insisted bitterly. He’d heard the murmurs on occasion, about the two ‘quare fellas’ up in Ravensdale. Cursed with excellent hearing as he was, he knew the true nature of his relationship with Blair had not gone unnoticed, and that there were people who strongly disapproved.

“Well not us,” Siobhán said emphatically. “You’re not exactly the ‘only gays in the village’. Joe’s cousin Aidan, who went to school with Ciarán and me, lives across the water in Birmingham with his husband – they had a civil ceremony there last year, which we all went to.” She winked. “And I already told you that I’m flexible.”

They’d moved into the final part of the figure – the house. It took all Jim’s concentration to get round the set, so conversation ceased for a few moments. Then the music stopped, and the dancers broke apart to applaud the band.

As everybody else clapped, Jim caught Siobhán’s eye, feeling reassured by what she’d said despite his lingering embarrassment. “Flexible, huh?”

She grinned. “I’ve been known to swing both ways. I had a girlfriend when I was at university, though I like men too.” She put a reassuring hand on Jim’s arm. “You’re among friends here, Jim,” she said. “Anyone ever gives you real trouble, you can rely on us to stand up for you. Just do me one favour.”

Jim frowned. “What?”

“For the love of god,” she pleaded emphatically, “talk Blair out of getting a bodhrán. Gay fellas are always welcome down at the session. Bodhrán players,” she shuddered, “especially novice bodhrán players, that’s another thing entirely!” And with that, Siobhán headed off towards the bar.

As Blair came up beside him, flushed with exertion and happiness, Jim had to ask. “Blair, what the hell is a bodhrán?”

***

Of course, Blair regaled Jim with the full history and etymology of the bodhrán all the way home. About how it was a goatskin drum, played in traditional Irish music, and wouldn’t it be cool, man, if he could get himself one and learn a few beats and go join in down at the session? “Because the guys who play at McManus’s are really great, Jim, don’t you agree?” Blair said, for about the thousandth time. “And their music is awesome, really, really incredible, Jim, and it would be so amazing to find a way to be a part of it. And it's not as if I'm not musical, after all. Maybe this dancing thing is just not where my skill lies…”

Blair was driving, so Jim sat contentedly allowing his partner’s words to wash over him, breathing in the ripe smell of their mingled sweat in the close confines of the car, his heart pounding just a little faster than its usual resting speed with anticipation and longing.

He couldn’t wait to get Blair home.

***

No sooner were they through the door of the cottage than Jim pounced. “You smell incredible,” he said, burying his nose in Blair’s hair and taking in lungfuls of rich, perspiration-scented air.

“Hey, I stink!” Blair chuckled, his deep, sexy voice sending shivers up and down Jim’s spine. “You’ve got such a thing for sweat, man.”

“Only yours, Chief,” Jim declared unashamedly.

By mutual, unspoken agreement, they moved straight into the bedroom. Clothes soaked with the sweat of their exertion were removed and discarded, and Jim revelled in the more potent aroma which was revealed underneath. He was busy snuffling at the aromatic feast of Blair’s chest when his partner spoke up. “I guess you’d like to reassert your manhood now, huh?”

Jim shook his head, pausing in his ministrations to look deeply into Blair’s gorgeous, passion-filled eyes. “I guess I can handle dancing the woman’s part a little longer,” he said. He leaned in close to Blair’s ear, feeling his lover shudder as his breath stirred that sensitive zone. “Blair,” he demanded huskily. “Fuck me. Please.”

Blair had never been a man who needed to be asked twice, and tonight was no exception. He sat up, calculated intent in his eyes, and pushed Jim decisively down on the bed, taking charge with ease. Jim lay quiescent as Blair took his own sweet time to lovingly prepare him, his movements methodical and careful; making Jim feel things that, just a few short months ago, he’d feared he would never get the chance to feel, no matter how much he wanted it.

No matter how much he wanted Blair.

“Blair,” gasped Jim, helpless before the onslaught as Blair’s body eventually breached his own; slowly, reverently. “Love you. Love you so much.” Overwhelmed as he always was by this act, Jim was barely able to express the intense emotion which consumed him. “Blair,” he gasped, the pleasure so close to pain he couldn’t separate the two sensations. “Blair…”

But Blair understood – he always did. “Hush,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, Jim. I love you so much.” His eyes penetrated deep into Jim’s soul, offering him everything and more; all that he was and all that both of them would ever be. “I’ll take care of you, Jim. I always will. Trust me.”

Jim couldn’t look away from the face of his lover as Blair brought him relentlessly, thoroughly and completely to the brink, just as Blair seemed unable to look away from him; his beautiful eyes darkened and softened by his own pleasure. And as the intensity built Jim knew himself to be cherished and held safe, even as he became lost to sensation and emotion so powerful he thought he might die before it was over.

Afterwards, broken and consumed, soothed and comforted in equal measure, Jim rested in Blair’s arms until dreams of swirling dancers swept him away on a tide of ethereal sound; leaving a lone fiddler to stand guard at the gates of dawn.

~ End ~

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Writing news

2008-05-11T07:59:12Z

The final part of The Night Terrors is progressing nicely but, due to circumstances in my offline life which have slowed my writing schedule down, the estimated posting date has changed. I now estimate that Part the Third should be finished/posted by July 2008 at the latest. For those of you who are waiting to read the final part, I've posted a small teaser on the Home Page, just to whet your appetite :-).

Another snippet in the Irish Saga is also in the works, and should be posted sometime this week.

The Pure Drop 1/1 (Slash)

2008-03-17T14:02:43Z

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Summary: It's Paddy's Day.

Author's Note: This is part of the Irish Saga universe.

Rating: NC-17

The Pure Drop

By Fluterbev

17th March 2008

Blair had always found St. Patrick’s Day to be a bit of an anti-climax since he’d moved to Ireland. The green beer that’d prevailed in Cascade’s Irish theme pubs, as well as the atonal renderings of ‘Danny Boy’ and ‘The Unicorn Song’, were entirely absent in this part of the world. In fact, he’d never actually met anyone in Ireland who even knew ‘The Unicorn Song’, thoroughly un-Irish adoptee in Irish-American culture as the ditty had turned out to be.

As an American adoptee in a foreign culture himself, and while living in Dublin during the first four years he spent in Ireland, Blair had annually thrown himself into the Paddy’s Day celebrations that Ireland’s capital had to offer. He’d gone to stand among the crowd which lined the streets to watch the obligatory parade, resplendent with marching bands and carnival floats decked in green, white and gold, and afterwards he’d found himself drinking overpriced pints of Guinness – most definitely black, not green – in the trendy pubs around Temple Bar. There he’d discovered an Ireland that was not quite Ireland, for all its sociable hilarity – it turned out that he’d mostly been in the company of Germans, fellow Americans and English lads over for a stag party. And when the drunken strains of ‘Danny Boy’ had, indeed, rent the air, Blair had been unable to shake the conviction that he was doing it wrong.

Paddy’s Day up in Co. Louth, where Blair had come to live several months ago was, by contrast, a muted affair. It was a national holiday and, like almost everyone else he knew, Blair had the day off – which seemed to be the most exciting thing about it for the majority of his co-workers. Dundalk, like most of the other small towns in the region, boasted no parade, and the shops were all shut. The pubs were open, though; so, wanting to show Jim a bit of the real Ireland he’d discovered five years down the line, Blair dragged his friend out into town just after lunch.

McManus’ bar was pretty empty, with just one or two die-hards propping up the bar and the strains of The Corrs – AKA local family made good - issuing from the jukebox. Jim eyed the sparse proceedings with a raised eyebrow, but didn’t seem too bothered by the lack of festivities. Instead he bought them a round: “A pint and a glass,” he asked for, his ready adoption of local turns of phrase making Blair smile. Farmer Jim, third generation Irish as he was, was really beginning to come into his own.

They went to sit in the window seat while they waited for their Guinness to settle; no quick pouring in this establishment - it’d be delivered to their table when it was done and not before. While they waited, Blair launched into his usual spiel when cultural events of note were taking place. “You know, there’s a theory that it wasn’t actually the snakes that Saint Patrick drove out of Ireland, but the pagans. It’s all to do with the cult of Crom Cruich. Hey, in fact, I should take you over to Ballymagauran in Cavan sometime, and show you where the cult used to worship…”

Jim just watched him indulgently out of the corner of his eye, and eventually Blair stopped mid-flight. “What?” he said irritably.

Jim shrugged, looking infuriatingly superior. “You’re trying too hard, Chief,” he said. “Relax, huh? I don’t need you to be a tour guide all the time.”

Only slightly stung by the criticism – Jim’s protests that he talked too much were usually only token ones, and Blair had made it a lifelong habit to ignore them – the continuance of his lecture was interrupted anyway by the arrival of their drinks. And a few moments after that it turned out there was to be entertainment in the offing after all, when a couple of people Blair recognised from Ravensdale came in, instrument cases in their hands.

It was one reason Blair liked this pub – McManus’ was a bar where the local traditional music crowd seemed to hang out, although frequently the timing of their sessions seemed to have no rhyme or reason whatsoever. Blair had not actually known there would be any music here today, since it had not been advertised anywhere he’d seen it. He suspected it was most likely an ad hoc arrangement, and that the musicians simply relied on the local grapevine, calling each other whenever one or two of them was in the mood to meet up and play. He decided to indulge his curiosity, and ask one of the ones he recognised if they were there specifically to celebrate St Patrick’s Day.

The guy he’d asked shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not really here because of that,” he said, as he took his bow from its case and rosined it up. “It’s just that we’re all off work today. Any opportunity for a tune!”

It seemed that the easy-going sentiment was shared by quite a few others. As fiddles and flutes were taken out and tuned over pints and chat, more musicians arrived; their instrument cases and chatter filling the small bar. Eventually Jim and Blair relinquished their seats, it clearly being the appropriate etiquette to do so when there was music to be played and an increasing number of people in a confined space to play it. The session commenced, the music – all instrumental, not a ‘Danny Boy’ or a unicorn in sight – lively, fast and rhythmic.

As Blair and Jim stood on the fringes, Blair was in seventh heaven. This was the Paddy’s Day he’d been looking for back in Dublin – the real thing, undistilled by shamrocks and green paint. A natural, organic expression of Irishness; a celebration of the richness of this island’s culture in its purest, natural setting.

At some point when it was his partner’s round again, perhaps because Jim had picked up on his enthusiastic desire to be a part of this, Blair’s glass of Guinness had mysteriously increased to a full pint, and Jim’s pint had been demoted to Ballygowan. It seemed that Farmer Jim was driving them home – eventually. In the meantime, however, Blair stood close to Jim, bopping a little and basking in the atmosphere as the music raised the roof. And when his attention wasn’t on the music there was conversation and laughs to be had with the other people standing around in the bar, and the indulgent eyes of the man he loved upon him at intervals when Jim wasn’t similarly engaged in having the craic.

Eventually, as the day drifted into evening every bit as seamlessly as one reel segued into another, Jim slung a companionable arm over Blair’s shoulders. “Hey Chief,” he drawled, and Blair grinned at the easy, relaxed tone of his partner’s voice, liberally spiked with something a whole lot spicier. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Blair agreed, his arm creeping around Jim’s waist in turn.

The other man pulled him close, his hot puffs of breath warm against Blair’s ear. “You got any Irish in you?” Jim murmured silkily.

Blair chuffed a laugh. “You know I don’t,” he said. “It’s you with the Irish ancestry, man.”

Jim chuckled, his lips wetly brushing the curve of Blair’s lobe and making him shudder. “Do you want some?” he asked suggestively.

“Jim!” All-too conscious of their very public location – and while they didn’t exactly hide the fact they were a couple, some discretion was necessary in a place like this - Blair pushed him away. “I think it’s time to go, buddy,” he said, his spine tingling with anticipation. “Looks like you’ve had too much of the hard stuff!”

Jim saluted Blair with his glass of sparkling water, his eyes twinkling. “Or maybe,” he noted enigmatically, pushing the double entendre for all he was worth, “not enough!” He winked. “You gonna give me some hard stuff when we get home, Sandburg?”

Blair rolled his eyes. But he wasted no time in hustling Jim out of there, anyway.

Not long afterwards, lying sated and relaxed beside Jim in bed, Blair pushed himself up onto one elbow and looked down at the man he loved. The blind in here was open, the nearly-full moon and remaining half-light of evening illuminating the white-painted walls of the room with an almost ethereal glow; and under that light Jim’s skin looked almost luminous, shining with health and sweat, his chest heaving with the aftermath of exertion. His eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed. Blair thought that he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Jim cracked open an eyelid and peered at him quizzically. “Haven’t I tired you out, yet?” he asked, in a voice filled with mock-exhaustion. Okay, Blair had to admit that maybe some of it was probably real exhaustion – Jim had certainly given his all a moment ago.

“Don’t interrupt, man,” Blair told him in response, smoothing a hand in a decreasing spiral over Jim’s flawless, smooth pectoral, and reducing the focus of its meandering to a hard little nub of a nipple, which he pinched. “I’m busy having a religious experience, here.”

Jim didn’t respond. But after a few moments of being the focus of dedicated worship, during which Blair brought his mouth into play as well, he admitted breathily, “Yeah, me too.”

Their movements after that were slow and unhurried, the urgent heat of their earlier coupling transmuted into something altogether more profound and reverent. This dance was ageless and they both knew it well; a two-hand reel in which neither Jim nor Blair led or followed, but instead both undulated in concert with each other; pushing, pulling, sliding, pressing. The music which led them was achingly soulful; a minor-keyed reel resonant of joy and tragedy in equal measure, imbued with the sum total of their lives and everything that they were to each other. And at its culmination it was not a crescendo that they reached, but rather a pinnacle of harmonic perfection. Every note in tune, every step in time, every breath and ecstatic cry merging in convulsive, melodic synchronicity.

It was fully dark by the time Blair found breath to speak. Snuggling close to his partner's hot, beloved bulk, he pulled the comforter over them both and murmured, “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, Jim.”

The snore which answered him made him grin. And a moment later, he joined in the chorus.

~ End ~

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Story Announcement: The Night Terrors - Part 2

2008-03-01T22:08:15Z

I've just posted the second part of my slash fantasy AU, The Night Terrors.

Part 1 (posted in February) is here

Part 2 (newly posted today) is here.

Alternatively, you can access all parts of the story via the Home Page.

Please see part 1 for synopsis, warnings etc.

New story: The Night Terrors (Part 1) SLASH

2008-02-17T19:07:22Z

I've just posted the first part of a new slash story in this fic journal. It is a fantasy AU which was written in aid of Moonridge, and which was won at auction by sunglow66. She has kindly waived her exclusive 30-days right to the story, therefore allowing me to post it here today.

The Night Terrors is novel-length (150,000 words approx), and will be posted here in three parts. Part 1 has been posted today, Part 2 (which is already written) will be posted sometime in March, and Part 3 (which is still in progress) will be posted in either April or May. If you prefer not to read works in progress (though I class this more as a series) you might prefer to wait until all the parts are posted.

Please note the warnings in Part 1.

The story can be accessed via the home page, or click here to go to Part 1

Hope you enjoy it!

Breaking Point 1/1 (Gen)

2008-01-03T22:26:10Z

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Summary: This is set mid-canon, but takes an AU turn after that. What if Blair revealed Jim’s secret in a different way – under duress?

Rating: R for references to violence

Category: Gen (smarm) or pre-slash – take your pick.

Dedication: Written with much love for my friend Luicat, for Christmas 2007.

Breaking Point
By Fluterbev

January 2008

Blair knew that everything had its breaking point. He’d spent enough time in the lab to understand that if you apply heat at just the right temperature, for a prescribed length of time and at exactly the right stress points, even the strongest metal would first bend, then break.

It shouldn’t be so surprising, therefore, to discover that he had a breaking point too. And that once reached, nothing – neither love, loyalty or honor – could have held him together once the right pressure was brought to bear.

Shifting uncomfortably in the narrow hospital bed, Blair considered calling the nurse to ask for some painkillers, but decided that pain was nothing more than his due. Bandages covered the worst burns and lacerations, but couldn’t hide them. Nothing would ever hide them, just as Blair could not hide from his own weakness; the scars destined to remain as a permanent, visible reminder of his failure.

Swallowing back the tears which were never far away, Blair closed his eyes and tried really hard not to hate himself.

***

Forefront in Jim’s mind, as he faced this asshole in the interrogation room, was Blair’s face when he’d found him. The devastated look in his partner’s eyes when Jim had bent down to untie him.

And Jim was haunted by the words he’d spoken. Not, I’m pleased to see you, or get me out of here.

Instead, Blair had said, over and over: I’m sorry.

The reason for Blair’s apology was sitting smugly across the table from Jim, and the bastard was so sure of himself he hadn’t even bothered to lawyer-up. “Like I said, Detective,” Jack Dowling reiterated. “You cut me a deal, or I drop the dime and make sure every two-bit crook in Cascade knows about your ‘special advantages’.”

This interview was on the record anyway, so it was not as if Jim even had a choice. “No deal,” he said flatly. “I’ve already got you for the kidnapping and torture of Blair Sandburg. I’m willing to bet that as soon as forensics is finished turning your warehouse upside down, I’ll be adding the torture and murder of at least two missing students to that tally. You’re never going to be free again.”

Dowling sat back in his chair, seemingly unaffected by the threat. “It’s your funeral,” he said nonchalantly. “Your little friend was very forthcoming when I asked him why he hung around with you – of all my subjects, his story was the most fascinating. You want me to keep any of that to myself, then you’d better reconsider what you’re gonna do with all that ‘evidence’ you’ve got.” He smiled smugly. “As soon as word gets out about how to make you zone, how long do you think you’ll survive as a cop, huh? And you and I both know how interested the military will be in what you can do. When I drop the word in the right ears in D.C., how long do think it’ll be before you’re back working for Uncle Sam?”

“Listen, Dowling,” Jim growled, breaking point having been reached. “It’s your fucking funeral, you asshole, not mine!” He stood, towering over the sadistic bastard, leaning in to hiss menacingly right into his prisoner’s face. “The only off-the-record deal you’ll ever get, after what you did to Sandburg, is for me to make damned sure you never survive long enough to say anything!”

“Detective!” The door had flown open with a bang, and Simon’s imperative order halted Jim in mid flow. “Get your butt out here, right now!”

Jim paused just long enough for the very sincere threat in his words to penetrate, feeling nothing but intense satisfaction when Dowling’s heart beat faster and the scent of nervousness emanated from him, despite his poker face. Then Jim turned away and followed Simon out of the door.

As soon as they were in his office, Simon read Jim the riot act. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, threatening him? Everything you said back there is on tape, Ellison. Anything happens to him from now on, and people are going to ask questions!”

Feeling resignation wash over him, Jim shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Simon. My life as a cop is over, and you and I both know it. Dowling intends to spread the word about my sentinel abilities, deal or no deal. I’m guessing, from his reactions in there, that he’s already set the wheels in motion.” Reaching to his belt, Jim unhooked his badge, and removed his gun from its holster. Reverently, deliberately, he placed them both on Simon’s desk. “I quit,” he said. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

It was a measure of how right he was that Simon didn’t try to argue him out of it. Instead Jim’s Captain – Jim’s friend – looked at him with sad eyes. “I still can’t believe that Sandburg told him,” he said. “I thought the kid would protect you with his life.”

Jim shrugged, feeling rage surge – though not at Blair; god, never at Blair. “You hurt and terrify a man enough, Simon,” Jim said bitterly, “and he’ll tell you anything you want to know. I learned that the hard way in the Rangers. None of this is Blair’s fault.”

“What do you mean,” Simon asked, “the hard way?”

Jim shrugged. “There are things in my army background I can’t talk about. But believe me, Simon. I understand exactly where Blair is right now.”

“Jesus, Jim.” A look of misery flashed over Simon’s face. He cared about Sandburg, Jim knew, despite his usual gruff bluster, and Jim’s words – as well as his precipitous resignation - had deeply unsettled him as well. “I need to get Blair’s statement,” Simon went on, gathering himself with an effort. “In view of the circumstances I was hoping to keep this contained, and have you handle it personally. But I guess, since that’s no longer an option, I’ll have to hand the case over.”

“Give it to H,” Jim suggested. “He’s a good cop, and he’ll do what’s right.”

Simon nodded. “What a goddamned mess,” he noted. Then he fixed his gaze back on Jim. “You going to see Blair?”

“Yeah.” Jim flashed once again to the look on Blair’s face when he’d found him – terror, pain, humiliation and misery; but over it all, crippling, unimaginable guilt. “He’s going to need us, Simon. You know what he’s like - he’s gonna feel responsible when he finds out I’m no longer a cop because of this.”

“Go on,” Simon urged. “Get out of here. Take care of the kid.” He rose, placing one big hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself, too. And whatever happens from now on, I’ve got your back, Jim. Yours and his.”

***

Lying on his side, pain throbbing through his wounds and his heart, Blair forced himself to look ahead and work out where to go from here. He most definitely didn’t want to look back - to do so was to face terror and despair and things done to his body and mind which he did not want to acknowledge.

The memories of what had been done to him were already too close; constantly just under the surface of his thoughts. But worst of all – worse even than any of that – was the realization that his own sense of loyalty only went so far. His courage and determination to put Jim’s safety before his own was, so it seemed, merely skin-deep.

Clearly, Jim wouldn’t want him around anymore; and who could blame him, after such a betrayal? Blair had broken the fundamental trust between them in a way that could never be put right. Jim’s secret – which Blair had promised faithfully to uphold - was now in the hands of a brutal murderer, who had made it very clear that he intended to use that knowledge to ruin Jim’s life. And it was all Blair’s fault; because all he’d cared about during those fateful moments had been making it stop.

If it had been Jim in that same situation, Blair was certain he’d never have caved no matter what was done to him. So what right did Blair have to remain at the side of someone as courageous and strong as Jim, when the first time pressure was brought to bear he’d betrayed Jim’s precious secret so comprehensively?

Despair overwhelmed him. He had no right - and he was certain that Jim would see it in exactly the same way.

Just as soon as he was able to get out of here, Blair would take steps to absent himself. Find somewhere else to live, abandon his research, sever his ties with the police department. Of course he’d be there if Jim needed him for advice or help with his senses – just as he’d be there to support Jim if the consequences of Blair’s actions did him harm. But Blair couldn’t imagine why Jim would ever want to trust him or accept his help after what he’d done.

If only his half-buried, fervent wish for Jim to walk in right now and tell him that everything was going to be okay would just go away. Like the pathetic loser he was, Blair couldn’t help remembering the gentleness in Jim’s hands as he’d unshackled Blair from the awful metal table he’d been secured to; or the soft, reassuring tones of his voice and the tenderness in his expression, and his own utter relief that he was going to survive the nightmare after all, now that Jim had come to rescue him.

Jeez, what a goddamned wuss he was.

But Jim had left soon enough, hadn’t he, after Blair had confessed to him exactly what he’d done? And Blair had to admit that now Jim would have gotten the other side of the story from the man he’d gone back to interrogate, then the chances were that he wouldn’t be coming back ever again, except perhaps to tell Blair to get the hell out of his life.

Time to get over it, Sandburg, he told himself, grief and guilt consuming him. Time to pull it together. Hell, you failed when it came down to the wire. You can’t afford to fail again – you owe it to Jim to do the right thing, and make amends as best you can And if that means losing Jim’s friendship for good – well, you’ll just have to live with the consequences of your actions.

But man, it hurt so bad.

***

As Jim drove over to the hospital, Blair’s words, as they’d traveled together in the ambulance, haunted him. “I screwed up, man,” he’d said tearfully, his blood staining Jim’s shirt as his fingers gripped on tightly. “I… I told him all about you, your senses, your weaknesses, everything. You’ve gotta stop him, Jim. He’s gonna tell everyone – you’re going to be in serious danger. Don’t let him… don’t let him…”

“Blair, come on,” Jim had pleaded, trying to get his partner to settle down – his heart rate was off the scale. “We’ll deal with this later, all right? Just take it easy.”

But Blair had been inconsolable. “I’m sorry, Jim. God, I’m so sorry,” he’d said, over and over again.

They’d been separated when they’d reached the emergency room, Blair taken away for immediate treatment for the injuries he’d suffered at Dowling’s hands. And Jim had gone straight back to the station to find out what, exactly, Dowling knew.

Now, heading back to the hospital, Jim felt nothing but a strange sense of relief. The thing he’d most dreaded had come to pass, as deep down he’d always known it might. His abilities were no longer a secret, and his career as a cop had been compromised.

All he could do was move on from here.

Jim sighed, the exhalation just one step toward shrugging off what was done and going forward. All of that he could deal with. Hell, it wasn’t as if it was the first time he’d made a new start during his life. But what concerned him the most – what made him step on the gas – was that his partner, his friend, felt himself responsible for bringing this about. And Jim desperately needed to convince him that it was not his fault.

The responsibility for this lay with one man, and one man only: the soon-to-be convicted murderer Jack Dowling; ex-covert ops, trained – exactly like Jim had been – in the kind of interrogation techniques which the general public never, unless they were as unlucky as Blair, got to know about. In the hands of a man with those skills, Blair couldn’t have stood a chance – and that was something that Jim understood better than most, from bitter, horrifying experience.

***

Blair couldn’t relax, no matter how hard he tried. He hurt in a million places, his muscles bunched in a semi-permanent fight-or-flight response, starting at every sound in the corridor, every footstep outside his door.

Sleep would probably help, and a dose of the painkillers he had earlier refused would probably help make that possible; but Blair didn’t feel safe enough to allow himself that respite. Not here, not when anyone could come upon him unawares. The thought that someone might touch him when he was unconscious – no matter how pure their motives – filled him with nothing but dread.

So instead he lay tense and hurting. He fantasized constantly about his own, small room back at the loft, and the security of knowing that Jim was just upstairs, wishing desperately – just as he had throughout the whole ordeal – that he could just wake up at home, and find out that this entire thing had been nothing more than a nightmare.

But Blair was terribly afraid that all his longing thoughts of home were destined to remain unfulfilled. There was no place for him in the loft now - not in the home of the friend whose secret he had betrayed.

After a while, Blair’s desire for escape became overwhelming. Desperately needing to get out of here – even if he had no idea where he was going to go - Blair pushed himself upright in the bed and swung his legs down onto the floor, wincing at every movement. His heart pounded erratically as he opened the door of the nightstand beside the bed, arrhythmia being a residual effect of the electric shocks he’d been forced to endure. The doctor had explained it to him earlier, and he’d reassured Blair that it would be likely to settle down given time. Overall, in fact, there was no serious, lasting damage – most of his injuries, though painful now, were fairly superficial and would heal.

Blair shook his head bleakly. His body barely showed any sign of the agony he’d been subjected to. There would be a few scars, of course; some of them mildly disfiguring. But for the most part he’d gotten off lightly. He ruined his best friends life, and managed to walk away mostly unscathed. Where was the justice in that?

The nightstand was bare of the clothes Blair had hoped to find there and, belatedly, Blair remembered he’d been nude when Jim had found him. He guessed that his clothes – if they were still at the place he’d been held – were being treated as evidence by now. Cursing silently, Blair looked down at the surgical gown he was wearing. How the hell was he going to get out of here wearing that?

His hands shaking, he reached under the gown, and pulled off the adhesive pads which held the heart monitor’s contacts in place. Clothes or no clothes, he couldn’t stand it here any longer. He’d obtain a set of scrubs from somewhere if he had to.

The sound of running footsteps approaching and voices shouting out in the corridor, set Blair’s heart pounding erratically once more, his palms sweating in sudden, crippling fear. And when the door flew open a moment later to admit several people Blair’s panic reached its peak and he cried out in terror, throwing himself backwards across the bed in his haste to get away.

***

Upon his arrival at the hospital Jim had been talking to the nurse who was supervising Blair’s care, when they were both interrupted by the sound of an alarm at the desk. “Cardiac arrest, room 512,” Andrea called urgently to her colleague. And as they hastened towards the room in question Jim immediately broke into a run right on their heels - 512 was Blair’s room.

Inside, he found the nurses hovering over Blair, who was huddled on the floor on the far side of the bed, his eyes wild. The discarded portable heart monitor – the removal of which had set off the alarm at the nurses’ station – was lying on the bed.

Jim moved straight over and the two women stood aside to let him pass. Once there Jim wasted no time. Getting right down on the floor he took Blair into his arms. His partner was fighting for breath, clearly terrified, and rigid in Jim’s hold.

Needing to get him calm, Jim ordered, “Chief, settle down. Come on, breathe, damn it!”

Instead of reassuring him, Jim’s words seemed to have the opposite effect. Blair looked at Jim despairingly, his eyes filling, and in the next moment began to cry – huge, unrestrained sobs. Helplessly, Jim pulled Blair close, cradling him against his chest. Meeting Andrea’s eyes over Blair’s head, he pleaded, “Can you give us a minute, here?”

The nurse nodded, waving her colleague towards the door – they were aware of the circumstances that had brought Blair here, and were therefore keen to see that their patient got the emotional support he clearly needed. “See if you can get him back to bed,” she asked before she left. “The doctor wants to monitor his heartbeat for the next few hours at least - he’s been borderline tachycardic since he was brought in. It would be good if you could persuade him to take something to help him rest as well. He’s refused medication so far.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Jim agreed. Then, as the nurses withdrew, he turned his attention back to Blair. “Hey come on, buddy,” he soothed, rocking him slightly. “It’s over, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Blair didn’t seem to have any words with which to respond, though the awful, gut-wrenching sobs kept coming.

Not knowing what else to do, Jim held on, soothing Blair as best he could, silently cursing Dowling with all that he was for reducing his plucky, capable partner to this broken, frightened mess.

***

For Blair, lost in a never-ending cycle of pain, fear and shame, it was as if his last shred of control had been stripped away the moment Jim walked in the door. Lost as he’d been in reflexive, remembered fear - brought on by the commotion in the corridor and the fluttering edge of panic which was his constant companion - it had taken a moment for him to remember where he was. Now, though, he knew. Jim was holding him. Jim was rocking him. Blair wanted this moment to go on for ever, because here in the shelter of his friend’s arms he finally felt as though the world might just turn again.

But as his sobs gradually died away Blair knew that it was only an illusion. His world would end the moment he – once again, though this time of his own volition – opened his mouth.

Resigned grief and shame overwhelming him, he threw himself decisively on his own funeral pyre. “I betrayed you,” he gasped out. He dared not look Jim in the eye; that was the one small weakness he permitted himself now, overshadowed as it was by the huge act of cowardice he’d already committed. “Don’t… you can’t…”

“I know what you did,” Jim forestalled him. “And there’s a lot we need to talk about, Chief. But now is not the time, all right?”

“But… I… Please…” Articulation had fled, Blair reduced once more to the halting, terrified voice he’d used when making confessions under the influence of intense pain and fear.

But Jim was not similarly lost for words. “Right now, what you need is rest, Blair. You’ve taken a lot of punishment, buddy, and you’ve had enough. We’ll get you something for the pain, and I’ll stay with you while you sleep. After that we’ll talk, all right? But not before. You’re in no shape for getting into this right now.”

Blair didn’t want to sleep, knowing that when he awoke there would still be so much unresolved. “Jim,” he said, as he already had a million times, wishing he could convey his desperate sincerity so that Jim would hear it. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t blame you.” Jim’s grip on him was suddenly fierce. “I don’t blame you, Sandburg,” he said again. “You listening to me? All I care about, right this moment, is that you’re here with me, alive. You hearing this?”

The tears were back, Blair’s endurance at an end. He nodded, not understanding how Jim could be saying the things he was saying. It wasn’t the first time his friend had been betrayed – not by a long shot. Yet he’d dared to trust Blair regardless, and that trust had been so desperately misplaced.

No matter how much Jim told him he wasn’t to blame, Blair didn’t think he’d ever be able to live with the fact that he’d hurt Jim in that way, or with the knowledge that he was even capable of doing such a thing.

***

Blair had quietened down a little, so Jim decided to get him back in the bed. “Up you come, Chief,” he said, hauling his partner to his feet. In a couple of strides, Blair leaning heavily on him the whole way, they reached their destination.

Blair seemed to be pretty much at the end of his rope, so he was easy enough to maneuver into bed. After covering him with the discarded blankets, Jim pulled a chair close beside the bed, and reached out for Blair’s hand, which he cradled within his own. Blair was trembling and exhausted; his face averted as though in shame. Keeping hold of Blair’s hand, Jim reached over with his other one and pressed the button which would summon the nurse. “Sandburg,” he said in a voice which brooked no argument. “We’re gonna get you checked out, and you’re going to take something to help you rest, okay?”

Blair finally looked at him then, his face screwed up in despair. “I don’t want to… to sleep. I need to get out of here, man.” His eyes flickered nervously toward the door as Andrea entered, followed by the doctor who was on duty.

Jim recognized Doctor Taylor from earlier; she had a good manner – reassuring yet firm - and she employed it now. “Mister Sandburg,” she smiled as she approached the bed. “I know that you’d prefer to be at home, and believe me, I understand. We’re going to do our best to get you there as quickly as possible. But the telemetry we have from the heart monitor indicates that you’re still having some arrhythmia. It will probably clear up within the next few hours, assuming you get some rest. But in the meantime it would be a good idea for you to stay here so we can make sure everything is okay.”

Blair’s hand in Jim’s was a rigid indicator of how tense he was. Intuitively interpreting the problem, Jim assured him, “Blair, Dowling is in custody. He can’t get near you again. And I promise you – I’ll stay right here with you, okay? For as long as it takes, buddy. I won’t leave you for a minute.”

Pressing the issue on the heels of Jim’s reassurance, Doctor Taylor asked, “Blair? Will you allow us to do a quick examination? Nothing bad – just blood pressure, pulse, the usual.”

His expression achingly vulnerable, Blair nodded. He watched warily as his vitals were taken and the heart monitor reattached, his eyes flickering towards Jim at intervals as if for reassurance. Jim smiled at him. “Hang in there, Blair,” he soothed. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Finally, Blair was given a couple of shots – an analgesic to soothe the pain of his injuries, as well as a mild sedative which would enable muscles and tendons stressed to breaking point under Dowling’s hands to finally shed their fight-or-flight readiness.

Once the medical staff left them alone Jim cupped one hand against Blair’s cheek, the other hand curled around his fingers, feeling with satisfaction the enforced relaxation the drugs had already begun to induce as they infused Blair’s body. He leaned in close, looking deep into eyes filled with exhausted sorrow. “I’m here,” he said. “Just rest.”

Blair’s eyes overflowed again. “I’m sorry,” he murmured brokenly.

Jim kissed him tenderly on the forehead, then used a tissue from the box beside the bed to wipe away Blair’s tears. “Don’t be,” he whispered. “You’re safe now, Blair. That’s all that matters.”

But Blair was still resisting comfort – both that of the sedative and of Jim’s presence. “How can you say that, man?”

“Because it’s true.” Bringing out the big guns, Jim cupped Blair’s face in both his hands, making it impossible for the other man to look away. “Like I told you, there are things we need to talk about, just as soon as you’ve gotten some rest. There’s a lot of stuff I never told you about my past. A lot of stuff I can’t tell you, even now. But there’s one thing I need you to understand.” Jim brushed his thumbs over Blair’s cheeks, intercepting the continuous twin-streams which flowed there. “I know you had no choice, Blair. I know that, because I know exactly, from personal experience, what someone like Dowling is capable of.”

Jim should have known that, once a bone like that was thrown, Blair would be unable to resist it, no matter what state he was in. “What do you mean,” Blair demanded, “‘Personal experience’?”

Jim had hoped to wait until Blair was in better shape before getting into this, but now he’d let the cat out of the bag he’d forced his own hand. Still, he wasn’t in a position to tell Blair everything, even now, so he fell back on generalities. “Dowling is ex-Rangers, ex-covert ops, just like me,” he said. “We were both trained in methods of getting information out of prisoners. Everything he did to you he learned in the military, and he knew exactly what would make you talk.”

Blair blinked, but his comprehension was clear. “You learned how to torture people?”

“In the army they called it interrogation, not torture. And it went both ways. We learned how to conduct interrogations. But we also learned what to do if we were captured ourselves. And you know what?” Jim held Blair’s appalled gaze with his own. “Those lessons were pretty short, compared to the others. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because,” Jim produced another tissue and dabbed at Blair’s cheeks, drying his tears, “it was accepted that if the enemy captured us, and if the right pressure was brought to bear, then we’d tell them everything they needed to know. And that,” he added, taking Blair’s hand in his once more, “is why on missions where capture was a possibility, they gave us capsules to hide in our mouths. One bite and it would be all over – no chance we’d tell them anything, then.”

“Cyanide capsules,” Blair murmured. “Like in James Bond movies, right?”

Jim shrugged. “They’d moved on from cyanide when I was in the Rangers. But yeah, essentially it was the same thing.”

Blair was looking drowsy now, his eyelids heavy. “So what you’re saying,” he said “is that the answer is to die before giving in, right?”

“No, you idiot,” Jim refuted amiably. “I’m saying you weren’t given that choice or any other choice. Dowling had the expertise to make you talk; you talked. End of story. Not your fault. Anyone in your position would have done the same thing – and that includes guys like me, so you can cut out the self-recrimination crap, all right?”

Blair’s eyelids fluttered, then closed. “Jim…” he began, then exhaled; a huge sigh, finally losing the fight against the sedative.

“Yeah,” Jim breathed, fingertips stroking gently at Blair’s hairline and his other hand holding fast to Blair’s. “That’s it, Chief. You get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

***

Contrary to Blair’s expectations the world kept on turning when he awoke, despite the constant wobble in its axis. Jim’s secret had already spread like wildfire in the Santa Ana winds, igniting pockets of heat wherever it went. And the huge fissures which had opened up beneath Blair’s feet were held together for him with nothing more than Jim’s understanding and forgiveness.

There had been hard lessons learned in Jim’s past, it seemed, though he never went into detail about it. And citing that knowledge as his authority, he refused to allow Blair to wallow in guilt at all. Blair thought that, if Jim said it often enough, he might even end up believing it. Jim was just that convincing.

By necessity, they shielded each other from the worst of the fallout. As soon as he was back on his feet, determined to do the right thing no matter what, Blair placed himself as a buffer between Jim and those who constantly plagued him for stories - media hounds treating Jim as the very kind of sideshow freak he’d always dreaded becoming. Blair inserted himself firmly in-between, fielding their questions and, using talents gleaned from years of academic politics and misdirection to deflect the glare away and onto less intrusive matters.

Jim weathered the storm like the trooper he was, although Blair could tell that the heat of exposure was almost too much to bear at times. While ever-mindful of the threat from criminals with an axe to grind – many of them now in possession of the information Dowling had leaked - Jim bore most of the rest of it stoically, occasionally erupting in fury when pressed a little too hard or just one time too many by some nosy reporter.

Jim refused to take seriously Dowling’s warnings about government interest in his abilities, now the cat was out of the bag. “The military knew about me a long time ago, just as soon as I was rescued from Peru,” he told Blair. “If they wanted me back in the ranks, they’d have recruited me a long time ago.” Blair wasn’t sure how right Jim was about that. It was just one more constant worry – and one more facet of guilt – that he juggled.

But for the most part, no matter the pressure he was under, Jim remained rock-steady, planning ahead for the time – once Dowling’s trial was out of the way – when he’d move on with his life. Blair constantly marveled at how well he coped with it all, terrified as he’d been of exposure for so long.

Blair sometimes didn’t fare quite so well. The press were overly interested, in the most prurient of ways, in Cascade’s torture victim; the man who’d revealed his best friend’s remarkable secret while under pressure more commonly found in guerilla republics than U.S. cities in the Pacific Northwest, and who had narrowly avoided becoming the latest victim of yet another serial killer. It was hard enough for Blair to articulate what had happened to him even in the supportive environment of his therapist’s office, let alone deal with those pushy journalists who persisted in turning the questions away from Jim and onto Blair’s experiences, and who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

On the occasions it was Blair under pressure, like right now, Jim could be relied upon to appear at his shoulder and forcibly take the phone from his frozen fingers. “Listen pal,” Jim said, holding the phone up to his ear, his other hand heavy and reassuring on Blair’s shoulder. “This is harassment. You call here again, and you’ll be hearing from my attorney.” The phone was unceremoniously slammed down, and Blair was pulled into Jim’s arms. “You did nothing wrong,” Jim reiterated – because, inevitably, Blair’s perspective had gotten a little skewed once more. “Breathe, Sandburg. You don’t have to deal with scumbags like that.”

Blair swallowed down his usual retort – the words I’m sorry tended to have the opposite effect than the one he intended, making Jim angry more often than not at Blair’s continued attempts to take responsibility for this whole mess. So instead, Blair had worked to find subtler ways of expressing his ever-present remorse. “You don’t have to deal with it either, man. You’ve got enough problems of your own without taking on mine as well.”

A sharp flick to the back of the head made Blair start. “You stupid shit, Sandburg,” Jim growled at him. “We’re in this thing together. Cut the crap, all right?” A final squeeze, and Jim marched away back to whatever it was he’d been doing before the phone rang.

Left rubbing the sore spot on his head in Jim’s wake, Blair couldn’t help but grin at Jim’s ability to make a slap and an insult seem like the deepest expressions of caring.

***

Dowling’s trial was hard on both of them. The media spotlight, ever present, now turned on them both full-force, the press waiting to ambush them outside the courthouse each day, camping out in considerable numbers outside the loft when they went home. To make matters more stressful Blair was forced, as the primary witness in the case, to take the stand on the last day of the trial, and every moment he was up there Jim ached to spare him the pain of recall.

Thankfully, the prosecution chose not to drag Blair’s testimony out, and the defense abstained from questioning him at all. It would have been futile for them to do so in any case, as well as needlessly cruel, because evidence of Dowling’s guilt already existed in spades. The tapes Blair had been forced to watch during his abduction, as a graphic illustration of what Dowling intended to do to him, had documented quite clearly the brutal murders of the other two students the guy had abducted. As for what had happened to Blair himself – well, that was quite simply an open and shut case.

Eventually, white and shaking after the stress of holding it together when it counted, Blair was excused from the stand. He managed to remain in the courtroom through the final summing up of the case, sitting tense and still beside Jim. But in the recess that followed while the jury was out, Jim stood sentry outside the bathroom door while Blair threw up the contents of his stomach; assiduously ensuring that his friend had a measure of privacy.

Afterwards, they took their seats in the packed courtroom to watch the jury deliver its inevitable verdict. And in the aftermath they ran the gauntlet of reporters on the way out, Jim resisting with a huge effort of will the imperative urge to punch his way through the crowd.

***

Instead of heading back to the loft, as Blair had expected, Jim set off driving in the opposite direction. “What’s going on, man?” Blair asked.

Jim’s face was set and hard – an expression Blair was more than familiar with. “I was thinking we could spend tonight in a hotel,” he said. “I think we’re due a little privacy.” He flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror. “We’ll find somewhere to go just as soon as I lose these goons.” He glanced across at Blair. “That okay with you?”

“Um, yeah, yeah that’s fine,” Blair agreed. To be honest, Jim was not the only one who was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of facing the barrage of cameras and reporters waiting to ambush them back at the loft. “Hey,” Blair said impulsively. “How about we get right out of town? Head off out into the sticks somewhere for a few days?”

Jim glanced at him again. “You sure, Chief? We don’t have a change of clothes or anything else with us. I was just thinking one night away from the loft, you know? Just to give us some time out without cameras in our faces.”

“What do we need that we can’t get on the road?” Blair said, feeling reckless and a desperate urge to be free of it all. He grinned at Jim, and could tell that the other man was sorely tempted. “Let’s go, man!”

In the next moment, Blair was certain that it was the right thing to do. Jim’s face transformed from the expressionless misery which had marred it for so long into a look of calculated determination. Glancing again in the mirror, he ordered, “Hold on, Chief. Time to shake these idiots from our tail.”

Blair grabbed tight to whatever he could find, his heart pounding with a sudden surge of adrenaline, as Jim made a series of tire-screeching turns. And he grinned when Jim reflexively reached out to secure him in his seat as they rounded a particularly sharp corner. The familiar, protective gesture was every bit as welcome as the flash of triumph Jim shot him a little while later when, unencumbered by their ever-present shadows, they finally hit the freeway and got the hell out of Cascade.

***

Blair was further downstream, standing almost up to the tops of his waders in the water. As Jim cast his line again he smiled at the fact that his partner had managed to obtain yet another ridiculous hat from one of the stores they’d visited to buy their gear, his favorite fishing hat having been left at home.

Jim breathed deep, luxuriating in the sounds, smells and sights of nature. The music of the water, the fresh smells of water and foliage, and the solitude of this place, populated as it was by no one other than him and the person he cared about most in the world. Casting his senses out freely, Jim reveled in the moment.

He planned to do a lot more of that – living in the moment – from now on.

When they’d arrived last night and finished setting up camp – having mutually decided that the great outdoors would be better for them than any hotel or motel - the two of them had talked late into the night. Sitting by their campfire, fortified by coffee laced with good whisky, they’d by turns discussed, cajoled and argued. They’d gotten pissed at each other over the course of it, and more than once both of them had shed bitter tears.

By the time the sky had lightened with the onset of dawn, they’d reached agreement. By circumstance, fate, or whatever else it could be called, they were in this together. Both of them were determined to stick by the other at any cost.

The only question left was what, exactly, their next move should be. Too many people knew Jim’s secret for him to be entirely comfortable staying in Cascade, and his career as a cop there was at an end. He was not entirely without options, however. He had a college degree and years of experience in law enforcement behind him, as well as a good number of solid ideas about where he could go from here, career-wise. In the interim, he could cash in and live off the investments he’d made over the years. And he was seriously considering selling the loft, which would net him a nice profit on the equity it had accrued.

One of the most contentious issues they’d discussed into the night was Sandburg’s future. Blair was on indefinite medical leave from Rainier anyway, due to the lingering psychological consequences of his ordeal. It turned out that he had no real plans to go back there and, instead, was adamantly determined to stick by Jim – something which Jim had argued strongly against. Why the hell should Blair give up years of study, as well as his doctorate, just to follow Jim to god knew where? What about his career?

Blair had gotten really angry at that point in their discussion. “If you don’t know the answer to that by now, man,” he’d said, his voice harsh and uncompromising, “then you don’t know me at all.”

But of course Jim did know. And in the end he’d given in, just as he’d done the very first time they’d met, when Blair had cajoled him into taking on such an unconventional partner. He’d learned back then, courtesy of a garbage truck, exactly how much he needed Blair in his life. Despite Blair’s continued, irrational guilt over something which had truly not been his fault, Jim knew that it was not guilt which drove his determination to stay by Jim’s side – if it had been, he would never even have considered going along with it. Instead he was fully aware that it was something far more profound, as well as something which he most definitely shared. As dawn broke they’d managed to come to a clear accommodation, the rising sun casting its light over the rest of their lives like an omen.

Jim smiled to himself as he cast the line once more. Between the two of them, they’d figure it out. With his experience and Blair’s ability to think on his feet – well, how could they possibly fail, no matter what they turned their hands to? As long as they remained partners, there was a whole world of possibilities ahead of them.

Glancing once more at Blair and deeply approving of his confident stance in the water, Jim was forced to acknowledge that they were more alike than anyone could have ever guessed. Both of them were survivors. Both of them had endured things no one should ever have to endure - Jim had meant it, when he’d said that he’d learned about torture and its aftermath the hard way. One day, perhaps, he’d tell Blair the story of his own breaking point, secrecy be damned. In the meantime, he’d do his best to show the other man his depth of understanding in a million other ways – just as Blair constantly did for him.

“Woo hoo!” Blair’s delighted yell drew Jim’s attention. “Look at this!” He was holding up a huge bass – it had to be at least a five-pounder. “Hey, don’t tell me this place is catch and release, man!” Blair demanded.

“Nope.” Jim waded over, helping Blair net his catch. “This one’s a keeper, Chief,” he said.

Just like you, buddy. Just like you.

~ The End ~

Updates to fic journal

2007-11-02T13:57:11Z

There have been a couple of recent updates to this fic journal, as follows:

2nd November 2007

Added new gen TS snippet: Infusion. This is a missing scene for the gen/slash story I added recently: Immersion.

27th October 2007

Added Art Index page. This contains links to pieces of art that various people have produced (or allowed me to use) for my stories.

Illustrations added by Lorraine Brevig, Rhianne and Peter Neverland.

Hope you enjoy the story and the art!

Story Announcement – Immersion (gen and slash)

2007-10-20T10:37:37Z

I’ve just posted a new story to this fic journal. To save space on your friends lists I have backdated the relevant entries, to avoid spamming you unnecessarily with multiple parts.

The story is called Immersion, and was previously posted as a work-in-progress in my personal journal. It is now complete, and has been betaed, edited and revised. It is available in two versions:

Gen version

Slash version

Please note the summary, warnings, ratings etc.

Both versions of the story can also be accessed from the Home Page (which I have recently reorganised slightly in an attempt to improve navigation).

Hope you enjoy it! :-)

Sentinel Justice 4/4 (slash)

2007-08-13T17:46:07Z

Back to Part 3

Simon took charge of the logistics of getting them out of the hospital with a self-assured competence that freed Jim to give all his attention to Blair. Throughout it all – the discharge procedures, the wheelchair ride to the exit and the trip in the car - Blair remained distant and uncommunicative, still lost in some place the two of them could not follow; making Jim feel utterly desperate to get them safely home.

Simon – who had offered to drive them home, since both their cars were still at the crime scene - dropped them off at the front of their building. After bidding farewell to Blair (who didn’t acknowledge it at all) and exhorting Jim to call should he need anything, he drove off immediately; wasting no time in leaving Jim alone to tend to his guide. His unspoken understanding that they needed to be together right now, without anyone else present, increased Jim’s already swelling respect for the man tenfold.

As Blair shuffled into the loft, dressed in a clean set of hospital scrubs, it seemed oddly incongruous to Jim, considering what he’d been through, that there were so few visible reminders of his ordeal.

Despite being knocked around by his captor, as evidenced by the swelling lump concealed under his hair, Blair’s features were largely unmarked. There were still traces of dried blood in his hair; but the rest of it had been cleaned away from his face and body by the medical staff who’d examined him earlier. At Jim’s urging he’d also brushed his teeth and rinsed out his mouth before leaving the E.R.; his movements automatic and expression distant, apart from a faint, persistent grimace as he’d spat into the stainless steel bowl that Jim had held for him.

Now they’d gotten home, Blair was still following directions like an automaton, and keeping his gaze averted from Jim. He had not spoken one word since his rescue, neither to Jim nor to anybody else. And his face remained expressionless, as though nothing that happened could touch him in any way; although that was contradicted by the desperate, lost look that periodically flickered in his eyes.

Jim recognized that haunted, hopeless expression, and Blair’s inability to articulate his shock and pain. He had seen it before – when he’d first brought Blair back here, on the day of his retrial. Back then, instinct had driven him to act immediately, when reason had demanded he wait until Blair had gotten over the shock of being freed. But instinct had won, and he’d felt compelled to bond with Blair almost as soon as the traumatized, frightened young man had gotten in the door.

Instinct was also driving him now.

Moving to stand in front of Blair, Jim put out a hand to palm his guide’s cheek, hoping to stir Blair out of the dark place, and lead him back into the light. But, just before his hand made contact, Blair grimaced as if in agony and flinched away, turning his head aside. “Don’t,” he whispered harshly, his voice cracked with pain.

Jim recoiled in shock. Blair had never once refused his touch, in all the time they’d spent together – in fact, he tended to welcome it openly, isolated and needy as he’d been for so long. Guides required tactile contact, almost more than sentinels, and Blair was no exception.

But Blair had been hurt today; perhaps more than Jim could ever know. And reason suggested that touching was something that a man hurt in the way that Blair had been hurt, emphatically did not need.

Then instinct reared its head again; and Jim dismissed reason altogether.

***

Blair felt unclean, inside and out; the taste, stench and phantom feel of teeth sinking into flesh replaying on an endless loop and consuming his senses. His constant replay of that exquisitely vile moment was frequently supplanted by the memory of other times that his mouth had been similarly put to use; although the blood he’d tasted on those occasions had always been his own.

He was aware enough to know that he was home now, in the loft; and somehow, that seemed very wrong. He was filthy and debased – he did not belong here, sullying the purity of Jim’s home and Jim’s love. So when Jim had reached out a moment ago to touch him with tenderness, Blair had rebuffed him. And in the aftermath of that, Blair closed his eyes in shame and misery, wanting nothing more than to die.

But, after an anguished pause, a persistent hand reached for his, nevertheless; and clean, cool fingers closed around his own. Passively, eyes still closed, Blair allowed himself to be led, his resistance already at its limit after uttering that one, terrible word. And besides, Blair had often found that there was sanctuary in submission; it was, after all, the way he’d survived so long.

A door opened, and Blair felt himself steered into another space – the whirr of the familiar fan clearly whispering bathroom. As his momentum stilled, the hand which led him falling away, Blair found solace once again in that familiar blank, quiet space in his mind, from where he could perceive what was happening, but where it could not touch him.

Hands were at work, divesting him of the scrub-top he was wearing in calm, efficient movements. His shoes were untied and removed, and Blair shivered as his elasticated pants were slipped down, each leg raised and lowered as they were removed completely, along with his socks, leaving him nude. The hands left him, and he heard the rustle of cloth, the slide of a zipper. The slap of bare feet across tiles heralded the splash and trickle of water. After that, Blair found himself led again, his feet lifting one after the other over the rim of the shower cubicle in familiar reflex.

He surfaced from his stupor abruptly, as the powerful spray of warm water made contact, drawing in a panicked gasp of air. Strong arms steadied him and surrounded him, pulling him backward to lean against a big, hard, equally naked body; the overwhelming sensation of wet skin-on-wet skin banishing his odd detachment altogether.

“Jim,” he gasped, frightened at the intensity of it.

“Shh,” Jim admonished, gentling Blair with his hands. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

“I’m dirty.” Blair clutched at Jim’s forearms where they encircled his belly, feeling tears start, his control lost.

“Then I’ll get you clean,” Jim murmured. And he proceeded to do exactly that, his hands reaching for soap then moving over every inch of skin with a gentleness and a thoroughness that only a sentinel could offer to his guide.

As Jim’s hands moved across his body, cleaning and comforting in equal measure, Blair wanted to tell him, through an almost continuous stream of tears, that he was dirty on the inside, as well. But somewhere along the line - perhaps as Jim’s fingers moved on to massage shampoo into his scalp and through every single strand of hair - the healing touch of Jim’s hands seemed to have touched something deep within as well. So that, by the time Blair’s squeaky-clean hair had been thoroughly rinsed, and Jim began to tenderly wash the rivulets of tears from his face, he found he could look at last into Jim’s eyes without fear, and see himself reflected there.

And he found that what he saw really was not so broken or worthless after all.

***

Later that night, with Blair’s nude, sweet-smelling body blanketing him in their bed, Jim listened as Blair told him, for the very first time, of what he’d endured in prison. And when Blair finally slept, secure in his arms, he stayed awake late into the night, listening to his guide breathe and allowing his own silent tears to fall.

***

Savoring the bite and burning aftertaste of whisky, Simon Banks twirled the glass he held in his hand, contemplating its amber depths.

It held no answers, though. He’d learned, through bitter experience, that nothing truly did.

Two of his men gunned down in cold blood. Two fine officers – one a twenty year veteran, the other a rookie only two years out of the academy – murdered simply because they were in between a pervert and his target.

Taking another sip of the scotch – an expensive, imported Speyside malt – Simon reveled in the burn as it slid down his throat, which was tight with emotion that he would not allow himself to let loose. Two families were in mourning tonight. Gerry Bryant’s widow had not wept, her eyes instead full of a terrible, resigned understanding, as though she’d lived her life dreading, yet expecting, the moment her husband would be killed in the line of duty. She’d thanked him for telling her, and asked if he was doing okay. Jesus.

The family of Rick Springfield could not have reacted more differently. His mother had all but collapsed, overwhelmed with grief at the loss of her only son. She’d raised him alone, so her neighbor – who had been called in to help comfort the distraught woman - told Simon. Framed photographs all over the tidy, modest house had borne testament to the pride Martha Springfield had in him; snaps of the boy at various stages of childhood; college graduation photos, photos of the proud mother standing beside her incongruously young looking son in his police uniform.

Simon drained the glass, willing the lump in his throat to subside. He took off his glasses, and rubbed eyes scratchy with exhaustion and distress.

Unbidden came a memory – his own mother, equally devastated by grief. His father, stony faced and dry eyed, thanking the uniformed man who’d come to tell them that Simon’s eighteen year old brother had been killed in action, just one week after being bonded to a sentinel and deployed in Vietnam.

Aching with remembered pain, Simon reached for the bottle, and refilled his glass.

***

Jim woke alone in bed, to early morning sunlight filtering in through the high windows and the aroma of coffee. It was so like the start of any normal day, that it took a few moments for the memories to come rushing back. When they did, Jim rose, heart pounding, to look over the rail and down into the apartment.

Blair was moving around quietly in the kitchen, apparently preparing breakfast, his back to Jim and a robe cinched tightly around his slim waist. His hair was wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.

Pulling on his own robe, Jim headed down the stairs. Watching Blair closely as he approached, he noted the slight tremor in his guide’s hands and the deliberate way he moved, as if he was uncomfortable in his own skin.

Playing along – if Blair needed the illusion of normality to help him cope, then that was fine by him – Jim poured himself some coffee. “Hey,” he said softly. “What are you making?”

“Scrambled eggs.” Blair’s voice was hoarse. “Be ready in ten, if you want to grab a quick shower first.”

“Okay.” Jim took a sip of coffee and, after a speculative look at Blair, who kept his back obstinately turned to Jim, took his mug and headed off toward the bathroom.

The act continued right through breakfast; Blair making an obvious effort to eat everything on his plate, and to talk of inconsequential things as though yesterday had never happened – despite the fact that he never once looked at Jim. But as he rose from the table, the empty plate he was carrying toward the sink slipped through his fingers and smashed to pieces on the floor. “Damn it!” Blair exclaimed, his hands shaking as he stood looking down, paralyzed, at the destruction. “Fuck!”

“It’s okay.” Jim wasn’t even aware of moving, only that in the next moment he had pulled Blair into a hard embrace. “It’s just a plate, Chief. It doesn’t matter.”

Blair was shaking. “It’s broken,” he said redundantly. “I broke it, Jim.” And a moment later, he was sobbing as if his world had come to an end.

Holding on tight, Jim desperately hoped that the plate was the only thing that was broken.

***

“I feel raw; like I’ve been cut open,” Blair explained later, once the storm had passed. The two of them were stretched out full-length on the couch, Blair enveloped in the comforting sanctuary of Jim’s arms. “It’s like… it’s like I’ve lanced a boil, and all this… stuff is oozing out. I mean,” he laughed, self deprecatingly, “I don’t make a habit of this, you know? I usually manage to keep it pretty much together. I’ve had to.”

Jim’s voice rumbled through the broad chest next to Blair’s ear – a comforting, soothing sound. “You have to give yourself time to heal, Chief. You went through a terrible thing yesterday, and you went through terrible stuff in prison. For a guy who has been keeping that inside for so long, you’re doing pretty good.”

Blair didn’t feel like he was, not right now, but he recognized the essential truth of what Jim was saying, nevertheless. “I’m a survivor, right? I can get through this.” Blair took a breath, and the next time he said it, he sounded even to himself as though he meant it. “I can get through this.”

“Yeah.” Blair felt himself squeezed tighter for a moment, the arms which held him so lovingly his haven from everything that might hurt him. “You can. We can.”

Since his late night confession to Jim, memories he’d tried hard to suppress kept ambushing Blair; reminding him of the depths he’d had to stoop to - in prison, as well as yesterday - to survive. But the ritualistic, thorough cleansing that Jim had subjected him to had stripped away much of his self-loathing, leaving him scrubbed clean and reborn – allowing him to pour out, under cover of darkness and safe within the protection of his sentinel – the poison he carried deep within. Despite a resulting sense of raw vulnerability and a lingering feeling of uncleanliness, Blair had to concede that it was difficult to keep on hating himself when Jim’s whole body had told him – and continued to tell him - how precious he was, and how much he was treasured.

Pulling out of Jim’s embrace to look up into his partner’s eyes, Blair was surprised to see tears silently flowing down his face. “Hey,” he said, devastated by the sadness in Jim’s expression. “What is it?”

“It’s just…” Jim put out a hand to stroke Blair’s hair. “I wish so much that you’d never been hurt, Chief. What you went through…”

“Hey,” Blair said gently. “Look on the bright side, man. No pain, no gain, right? If it had never happened, I’d never have met you.”

“We might have met through the network.” Jim was stubbornly implacable.

Blair shook his head. “I never went near the network, remember? After my mom was taken, I didn’t trust them at all. You’re the first – the only – sentinel I’ve ever bonded with. And you know what, man? I don’t regret a minute of it.” Blair shrugged. “Yeah, okay, I’d rather some of it never happened, sure – especially the part where people actually died. But no matter how awful the stuff that happened to me was, it brought us together, man. How can I ever regret that?”

“I love you so much.” Jim pulled Blair close again. “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met, Blair.”

Holding Jim back tightly, Blair didn’t feel all that strong; not right now. But he knew that, in the meantime, there was more than enough strength in his sentinel’s muscular, gentle frame for him to share.

***

There was a well known saying about sentinels and guides: sex doesn’t lead to bonding, but bonding leads to sex. It was often said with a wink and a nudge, just out of regular earshot, whenever people saw him and Blair together and recognized them for what they were. Jim, of course, had no trouble hearing the poisonous mutters, and fought a constant inner battle with his urge to punch the worst offenders out.

There were a lot of popular myths about sentinels and guides, most of which were just that – myths. Guides were uncontrollable sex monsters, sentinels were unable to subdue their primal urges, and other stereotypical crap. It was all just one more way of keeping sentinels and guides in their place, by portraying them as less than human and no better than beasts – all the better to justify the continued violation of their civil rights.

Ironically enough, however, considering it was often recited as a slur, there was more than a sliver of truth in the old proverb about sex and bonding.

Jim had been far from a virgin when he’d first met Blair. He’d had various sexual relationships, just like any normal, red-blooded man, which had nothing at all to do with bonding. And he’d also engaged in any number of bonding sessions – most of which had led, almost invariably, to sex.

It was really not all that surprising - bonding, after all, was an intensely sensual and intimate act. More than a little primal by nature, dominance and submission played an integral role (whether or not the protagonists were turned on by that in regular sex), because the sensations were often so intense for guides that they frequently expressed a desire to be physically restrained to allow them to fully and freely participate in the experience. And restraining a guide to inflict unimaginable pleasure upon them, was a hugely tantalizing sensory concept to any sentinel.

For a sentinel, bonding involved learning a guide’s body intimately. Focusing the senses on the fine detail – the sights, sounds, smells, taste and feel of a guide in rapture. The pay off for such an intensive sensory workout, for a sentinel, was finely tuned senses and a sense of well being, which would keep them grounded and in control until the next time they needed a bonding session.

For the guide, the experience was even more profound. Craving touch as they did, most guides held back during regular sex, keeping themselves detached; unable to fully let go for fear of overwhelming their partner with their heightened responses. But in a sentinel’s embrace, there was no need to hold back. Sentinels wanted – in fact, required – guides to express themselves during the bond, without reservation. In the heat of the bond, each sentinel provided a secure place for their guide to give vent to his or her natural urges; holding them immobile with the strength of their body as the guide shuddered and cried out at being touched and cherished in such an overwhelming way.

Understandably, given what bonding entailed, it was normal for a guide to get turned on during the bond to the point of orgasm. When that happened, as it invariably did, the sentinel would usually not be far behind.

Bonding was infinitely better than regular sex, Jim had to admit. Far, far better, especially with Blair – because for them as lovers and life-partners, there was no division between the place where bonding ended and sex began. In that sense it was utterly unlike a bond of convenience, such as the emotionless encounters Jim had previously sought with other guides through the network.

Jim had worried that there would be a distance between them now, after everything Blair had been through. That Blair would feel too inhibited, too afraid, to fully submit to Jim’s caresses in the bond.

He could not have been more wrong.

Jim could hear/see/feel Blair’s rapid pulse, his blood surging; and sense the tight, rushing heat of his groin. Blair was close – so close. It was not unheard of for him to come multiple times during the bond, which was just what Jim aimed to make him do this time.

It was not as if it was all just for his guide’s benefit, after all. Jim desperately needed to do this to him, just as much as Blair needed to have it done.

“Jim… Jim,” Blair moaned, over and over, his blue eyes wide and unfocused. He was squirming deliciously, fighting but not really fighting Jim’s tight hold on his crossed wrists, as the sentinel’s other hand relentlessly explored his inner thighs, parted and held apart by the weight of Jim’s legs and lower body. “Please… please….”

Blair was a sensual feast, laid out beneath Jim like this. Desperate, needy, vulnerable. He smelled of sweat, clean skin and arousal, and the sounds he made were the only music Jim ever wanted to hear. He tasted delicious and heady; intoxicating and a little risqué, like some exotic cocktail. The soft hairs on his inner thighs tantalized Jim, drawing the sentinel’s hand inexorably toward the place where they met, the contrast of the coarser hairs against Jim’s hyper-sensitized skin delightful in the extreme.

Blair’s struggles and pleading were desperate now, and so Jim judged him ready for release. All it took was one unyielding, decisive grasp of Blair’s balls, the heel of Jim’s hand pressing firmly against his penis, and he convulsed; Jim’s mouth descending hard onto Blair’s to swallow his animalistic cries.

Afterward, Jim pressed Blair’s hips down against the bed to hold him still as he lapped up his delicious essence, his senses singing. Then he started his guide once again on the long, slow, relentless burn; his own delayed release made all the more sweet by anticipation.

***

“I think you killed me.”

Jim grinned, feeling sated, relaxed and more than a little smug. Blair hadn’t spoken for more than an hour; hadn’t even moved. “You’re welcome, Chief,” he said happily. “Any time.”

Blair chuckled weakly. “Yeah, well time is exactly what I need, man, before I’ll be fit for anything!”

They were dozing, replete and snuggled together, when the phone jarred Jim awake. “Ellison,” he muttered as he sleepily answered the call.

“Jim, it’s me.”

“Simon.” Jim was instantly awake, Blair watching him from eyes no longer heavy lidded with contentment, but hooded with wariness.

“How’s Blair doing?”

“He’s… doing okay. Much better,” Jim answered lamely.

“Look, I hate to do this,” Simon went on. “But I need to get statements from both you and Blair. Is he up to coming into the station? Or would you prefer it if I came over there?”

Jim relayed the query to Blair, who said decisively, “We’ll go to see him. Okay, Jim?”

Jim looked at him questioningly. “Why? Chief, are you sure you’re up to that?”

Blair nodded. “I’m sure. I just… I don’t want to talk to him about it here, all right? This is my safe place.”

Blair’s resolve was clear, but Jim understood it wouldn’t be a walk in the park, nevertheless. “We’ll be there in a couple of hours,” he informed Simon, before ending the call. Then he took Blair’s hand. “I’ll be with you,” he said. “I won’t leave your side for a second.”

Blair nodded. “Thanks,” he said thickly, the tears back in his voice.

Wordlessly, Jim gathered him in.

***

Justin Powers, so Simon assured them both after they’d given their statements, would be going away for a very long time.

As they sat in the police captain’s office, Blair listened impassively while Simon outlined Powers’ likely future. “It’s complex, legally,” he told them, meeting Jim’s eyes in shared understanding. “He will most certainly be tried in the State of Washington for his crimes, but there are a lot of other places wanting their pound of flesh too, including at least three other countries. The scale of what he did… well, it’s huge. One thing is for certain - he’ll never be freed. And the death penalty is a very real possibility.”

Jim hoped that the latter would not come to pass – but not out of any care for the man’s life. What he’d most like to see was the bastard being made to live in the same circumstances that Blair had been forced to live – as a convicted child molester and murderer, in among the regular prison population. But it was out of his hands, and he had to trust that justice – regular justice – would take its course. “I’m just glad,” he said to Simon, “that he’s been caught. What happens now doesn’t matter, as long as it’s over.”

“Yeah, it is. And that’s mostly down to you, Counselor,” Simon said. He grinned wryly. “You did some pretty good detective work on this case, Jim. You ever thought about becoming a cop?”

Jim grinned back, gratefully acknowledging the very real respect behind Simon’s joshing. “I think I’ll stay this side of the fence, Captain. Thanks, anyway.”

Simon rose, picking up the coffee pot to refill Jim’s mug. “Powers will be moved to prison in the next couple of days, to await trial. Right now, the guy is still in the hospital under armed guard. I’ll be happier when he’s finally under lock and key, but essentially it’s all over. A lot of people will be breathing easier tonight.”

“Is he…” Blair swallowed, his hand shaking slightly as the captain topped up his coffee. “I mean will he…”

Simon, it seemed, understood what Blair was trying to ask. “He’ll never be able to rape anyone else, Blair. Thanks to you.”

Blair ducked his head, his hair hiding his expression. But Jim could feel Blair’s contradictory emotions as if they were his own.

Allowing Blair space to pull himself together, Jim asked, “Simon, the little boy. Is he okay?”

Simon nodded. “The guy scared the hell out of him, but apart from that he was unharmed. Again, Blair,” he said turning to Jim’s guide, who lifted pained eyes to look at Banks, “that’s down to you. If you hadn’t done what you did, keeping him distracted and away from the kid – well, I doubt things would have ended so well.”

Blair, it seemed, had no answer for that. But the glance he threw Jim’s way convinced the sentinel of one thing; that finally, it was over, and Blair’s healing – and their lives together as a bonded pair - could truly begin.

***

Life resumed its normal cadence, and Blair fought with his demons just as hard as he ever had, doggedly wrestling into submission the repercussions of everything that had happened. The new semester began, and Blair went back to school, where he threw himself wholeheartedly into his studies; determined to successfully earn his place in the law firm at Jim’s side.

Jim, as always, was his rock, his light and his everything.

As time went on, and things settled down into a comfortable rhythm of work, home and bonding, Blair didn’t think life could ever get any better than this, or that Jim could possibly give him more than he already had.

He was wrong.

***

It had been a long week, but at last it was Friday evening. Hefting his heavy bag of books – and man, he’d thought his backpack had been heavy back when he’d studied anthropology, but legal textbooks were something else – Blair wasn’t really concentrating on anything, as he unlocked the loft door, other than the two days off from school ahead.

There were voices inside. Jim, it seemed, had visitors, and Blair’s heart sank just a little. He’d been hoping for a little private time, just him and his sentinel. It was still an effort, sometimes, for Blair to be around other people, especially strangers, and he lived for the quiet moments he and Jim spent together at the weekend. Their Friday evenings, in particular, tended to be sacrosanct, and he’d been looking forward to this all day.

Moving inside, he schooled his features with an effort from disappointment to forced brightness. “Hey, Jim,” he greeted, as the other man appeared before him.

The sentinel had an unfathomable expression on his face, which made Blair’s heart skip a beat. “Hey Chief,” Jim replied, pulling Blair into a tight hug.

Sinking into the embrace, Blair turned his head and glanced toward the couch, where he could see the back of two heads. Their visitors were sitting close together - two women, by the looks of it. He didn’t recognize them from this angle, but something about this whole situation was making him feel really uncomfortable. “What’s going on, man?” Blair asked nervously.

“Everything’s fine, Blair,” Jim assured him. Blair felt himself squeezed tight. “There’s someone over here who’d really like to see you.”

Blair pushed himself away, to meet Jim’s eyes. Something – a feeling, a realization – was creeping its way through him. “Jim?” he queried plaintively.

Jim just nodded, his eyes full of love. “It’s okay, Chief,” he said. “Go on.”

As if in a dream, Blair walked toward the couch. As he rounded the front of it, the two people sitting there turned to look at him. Two women, both with hair shorn military-short. One of them tall, muscular, unfamiliar.

The other…

“Oh god,” Blair said, as brown eyes, set in a still-beautiful elfin face, drank in his approach; her expression – joy, sorrow, trepidation – the mirror of his own emotions.

“Mom,” he whispered.

He never knew afterwards who moved first, or how long they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms. He barely registered when their two sentinels – his and Naomi’s – came over to bolster them up, wrapping their guides in an encircling perimeter of safety and love.

But he would never forget the words she spoke – the first thing she said to him, after all the long, painful years of separation. “I love you, Blair,” she told him. “I’m back now. And I’m not going away, sweetie. Not ever again.”

The End

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Sentinel Justice 3/4 (slash)

2007-08-13T17:43:21Z

Back to Part 2

The child’s body was found two blocks from Jim’s father’s house, by a real estate agent who was showing a prospective buyer around the empty property. Needless to say, the sale was aborted before it had even begun.

Despite the initial claims of the profiler who was working with the police department, even Captain Banks understood that it was a message.

***

Jim’s first fear was that Blair would immediately be suspected, since the time of death was confirmed to coincide with the time they’d spent alone together in William Ellison’s house. “He was with me the entire time,” he told Banks forcefully, when the captain paid them a visit at the loft. “I have CCTV footage to prove it – he never set foot outside my father’s property for two days.”

“He’s not a suspect, Ellison,” Banks shot back, equally forcefully. “How many times do I need to tell you that, huh?” Then, more softly, “How’s he doing?”

“How do you think?” Ellison wiped a tired hand over his face. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Banks – this is not an indication of guilt, not in any way.” He took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to let some of his anger and fear out with it. “He feels responsible,” he finally said. “He’s already got cracked notions about Emily, as you know – he feels he should have done more, should have saved her, no matter how irrational that is. If this guy is following Blair around, taunting him with more child deaths – well, do the math. He’s not thinking all that rationally right now.”

“It seems pretty rational to me.” It was a measure of how upset Jim was, that he hadn’t heard Blair come up behind him. “I mean, it’s obvious that it’s not exactly a coincidence. Hi, Simon,” Blair added, as he moved around Jim, his hand resting lightly on Jim’s arm and soothing the sentinel’s frazzled nerves with the touch, despite his own obvious inner turmoil - which was evident in his gaunt, unshaven face and shadowed, haunted eyes.

“No, it’s not a coincidence,” Simon confirmed. “That’s the reason I’m here, Blair. The guy’s game plan has changed – it seems he may be fixated on you. I want you to consider going into a safe house.”

“No,” Blair said firmly.

Jim looked at Blair incredulously. “What do you mean, ‘no’? Chief, this guy is dangerous!”

Blair looked at him witheringly. “You think I don’t know that, man?”

Simon interrupted the furious staring contest that had suddenly resulted between sentinel and guide. “Blair, please, think about this option very carefully before you dismiss it. If this guy comes after you, and we now have good reason to believe that he might, I can’t guarantee your safety unless you are in protective custody.”

“I won’t do it.”

Furious with his guide’s intransigence, when hiding him away from danger was exactly what his primal instincts were urging him to do, Jim pleaded, “Blair, look…”

“No, you look!” Blair’s inner core – which Jim had long since discovered was comprised of thoroughly unbreakable material – came to the fore. “I spent more than three years in prison already because of this sicko. I am not about to get locked up again!” He looked at Simon. “You said it, man - protective custody. Couches, carpets and cable T.V. are a whole lot nicer than a ten-by-eight cell, I admit. But I’d still be confined – trapped. I’m not gonna do that again. Not voluntarily.”

Recognizing the futility of argument, no matter how much he disagreed with Blair’s stance, Jim turned away, defeated. He felt drained, suddenly, as well as terrified that he would screw up, that he’d miss something – just like he’d missed the fact that the killer had been in the neighborhood, and had murdered a child just a short distance away from where they’d been.

Mostly, he was desperately afraid that Blair would end up paying the price for his failure.

Blair was there in front of him suddenly, both hands palming Jim’s cheeks. “Hey, hey!” he said softly, his eyes searching Jim’s. “I know you’re doing your best to look out for me, and I know you’re totally at the end of your rope with the constant vigilance, man – don’t think for a second that I haven’t noticed you doing it. I know you’re scared something’s gonna go wrong. But we’ll get through this, I promise. All right?”

Jim was awed that their connection was so strong, that Blair had picked up his insecurity about his own shortcomings. Still, he had no excuse. “Chief, I’m your sentinel. I’m supposed to protect you. How the hell can you trust me, when I let him get so close?” He looked at Blair pleadingly. “If we go into a safe house…”

“No, I won’t do that.” Blair turned back to Banks. “Simon, there’s an alternative, right? I mean, if you’re willing to go to the expense of putting me in a safe house, then you could spare someone to keep an eye on us, right? Because Jim’s an awesome sentinel, but he’s pretty exhausted right now. He needs a break – he can’t be on duty twenty-four hours a day, no matter how much he thinks he’s supposed to be Superman.”

“I’ll assign a protective detail,” Banks agreed. “You’re our only witness, Blair. We’ll do our best to make sure you’re kept safe.”

“Good.” Blair held Jim’s eyes. “We’re gonna be fine, okay?”

“Okay,” Jim agreed tiredly.

He just wished he believed it.

***

Life resumed its usual pattern and days, then weeks, passed – uneventful, despite the constant, churning anxiety which plagued them both. Apart from the constant police presence which shadowed Blair everywhere, things quickly settled back into what passed for a normal routine, with Jim tied up again with his legal work, and Blair diligently pursuing his degree.

It was hard at first for Jim to relinquish Blair’s safety into other hands, by trusting the cops who were assigned to protect him to do it. But in the end, he was forced to concede that he had to, if they were both to continue to fulfill their responsibilities and get on with their lives.

Besides, Blair had made it very clear to Jim right from the start that he really didn’t have much of a choice.

The excruciating limbo they found themselves in made Jim hold off in his search for Blair’s mother, for the time being, at least. Blair’s emotional reaction to Jim’s offer to find her and become her advocate had convinced him that locating her was something his guide desperately needed, even if they might ultimately learn that she was dead. But on the off-chance that she was still alive, it would be far safer not to link her to Blair at the present time, considering it was quite likely that a crazed murderer was stalking him.

Frustrated at the apparent lack of progress in the case, Jim found himself spending a lot of time thinking about it himself. From what he’d learned from Banks the police investigation, not surprisingly, was centered in and around Cascade and Seattle - the two cities where the murders had occurred. The assumption was that the perpetrator had ties to both cities, perhaps through family or work. But, oddly, the artist’s impression – which was still being widely distributed in the media - had garnered no suspects, which seemed strange to Jim. If the guy had connections in both cities, then surely someone would have recognized him by now?

So, during the times Jim’s mind was not already fully occupied with his latest legal case or with monitoring their surroundings, his mind constantly returned to the questions raised by the murders. Why did no one recognize the guy in the drawing? Why were the cases so spread out, time-wise, and why Cascade and Seattle? What was the significance, if any, of the diverse locations - a warehouse, a school playground, an empty house - in which the bodies had been found?

Determined to understand, Jim kept an eye out for anything, anything at all, which might provide an answer.

When the eureka moment finally presented itself, he couldn’t believe how obvious it was.

***

Blair was in a hurry, as always. He was supposed to be at a lecture right now, but he’d gotten distracted in the library – he often tended to lose track of time when engrossed in reading something interesting.

As he dashed across the campus, not having time to wait for his ever-present police minders to catch up with him – and not really even registering that he couldn’t see them anyway - his cell phone rang. Scrabbling in the bottom of his rucksack to find it, he brought it to his ear. “Hello?”

Silence greeted him.

Assuming a bad signal, Blair was about to hang up, when a frightened child’s voice whimpered in his ear, “I want my mommy.”

The next voice was emphatically not a child. “Hello, Blair.”

Blair’s breath froze in his throat; the world falling away into nightmare as the trap closed around him.

***

Jim could have kicked himself. All these fucking weeks – all these years – and no one had seen it until now. And in the end, it had not been his tireless internet searches or personal enquiries which had revealed the nature of the beast.

It had been a simple international news round-up on CNN, which he had put on to watch in his office while he ate his lunch.

Rushing into Banks’ office without knocking, he got straight down to business. “The guy’s a sailor. He’s been doing this for at least the past five years – killing kids in ports all over the world. A kid was found raped and murdered in Liverpool, England three weeks ago – the second case there in the past three years. I got suspicious when I heard about it, because it sounded so similar to the cases here. I did some research. Rising Tide, from Vancouver, was in dock there at the time.”

Banks blinked. “Should I know that name? It sounds familiar.”

Jim nodded. “It’s one of the ships Blair mentioned seeing when he was under hypnosis – it was here in Cascade the day that Emily was murdered. According to what I found out, it was also here when Aaron and Carrie were killed, and it frequently docks in Seattle.”

“Shit.” Banks looked dumbstruck.

Jim carried on, determined to provide as much evidence as he could. “There’s more – the same thing happened in Veracruz, Mexico- three unsolved child murders in that city over a five-year period. It turns out that Rising Tide makes periodic trade runs to that port. Searching the ‘net, I found numerous reports of similar unsolved cases in different ports around the world – all of them ones that the company which owns Rising Tide has links with.”

Banks’ face had gone still. “Take a seat, Jim,” he said ominously. He picked up the phone, and pressed speed dial. “Rhonda,” he said into the phone. “Get on to the Harbor Master at Cascade Dock, stat. I need to know if the Rising Tide from Vancouver is in port right now.”

Jim’s heart skipped a beat. “Simon?” he queried.

As he put down the phone, Banks confirmed his worst fear. “We have a missing child on our hands. Seems he was abducted this morning, from a kids’ playground about two miles east of Cascade dock.”

“Oh, god.” Jim was horror struck, his mind rushing immediately to his guide. He pulled out his cell phone, and pressed speed-dial to contact Blair.

As Jim waited anxiously for Blair to pick up, the phone ringing hollowly in his ear, Banks’ desk-phone rang. “She’s there,” Banks confirmed shortly, nodding to Jim’s unspoken query. “Okay, Rhonda. Tell Rafe that I want SWAT mobilized, and every available officer ready to move in at my command. Get Dispatch to put out a general call for all units in the field to move in and establish a perimeter around the dock – no one gets in or out. Our target is the Canadian ship, the Rising Tide.” He stood, strapping on his gun. “Let’s move, Ellison!”

In Jim’s hand, Blair’s distant cell phone continued to ring, unanswered.

***

The area was unbelievably ordinary; the kind of place where Neighborhood Watch ruled the roost and women baked cookies for their kids to take to school. It reminded Blair eerily of one of the places he and Naomi had lived when he was growing up, back before the dark times had ripped them apart.

Then, unlike now, he had lived in innocence of the darkness at the heart of all things.

Don’t call the cops, the guy had said, or I’ll kill the kid. And even worse: I know where your fancy lawyer is right now – I’m watching him, pointing a gun right at him. Contact him, and he’ll be dead before the call ends.

It could have been a bluff, but Blair didn’t want to take that chance. Ultimately, he didn’t have a choice. No choice at all.

As he approached the house, moving through a nightmarish world where the laughter of children playing formed a dissonant counterpoint to the dread which consumed him, a fatalistic realization overwhelmed him. This was how it was, he knew deep in his soul. How it was meant to be, how it was supposed to end. The rest of it – the past year of love and light and healing – had never been meant to last. He’d known it, deep down, all along – ever since that moment that Emily’s pleading eyes had begged him for help, and he’d fallen short of the task.

Like ghosts, the faces of Emily and the other children who had been murdered danced around him, mocking him for his inadequacy and cowardice. And the realization that he’d lived with for the past several months almost choked him – that those other children might have lived if only he’d fought to prove his innocence right at the start, instead of languishing hopelessly in jail and hiding subsequently in Jim’s shadow, while the monster continued to run amok.

Following the directions he’d been given, his steps leaden with dread and self-recrimination, Blair moved around the house to the back door, which he found unlocked. He turned the handle and walked inside, into a bright, clean kitchen.

“Hello Blair,” the monster said amiably; a gun in one hand, and the other tangled in the hair of the terrified child who cowered at his feet.

***

Blair’s cell phone was found, abandoned, close to the parking lot behind the Rainier law faculty building - beside the bodies of the two policemen who’d been sent to guard him. Jim’s senses led him unerringly to it and them, zooming in on the distant ringing tone while its ghostly echo rang unanswered in the phone he held against his ear, his nostrils overwhelmed with the reek of blood and gunpowder.

Jim held on to the phone – the symbol of his broken lifeline with Blair – even as the first cops arrived to secure the scene.

Banks drew up a short while later, and zeroed in on the sentinel. “We secured the boat,” he said shortly. “All but four of the crew were on board. Our suspect is one of the ones missing – the ship’s cook, Justin Powers.” Simon frowned at the two phones Jim held. “What’s that?”

“Blair’s phone.” Jim looked at Banks, feeling the thunder of fear and anger rippling through him. “The bastard’s got him.”

Banks didn’t question Jim’s transgression in disturbing evidence at a crime scene. “We’ll find him,” he promised. “Powers crossed the line a long time ago, killing children in my town. Now he’s killed two of my men and kidnapped another kid, as well as Blair - who, in case you hadn’t realized it, is someone I regard as a friend. But thanks to you, we now know who he is. It ends here, Jim.”

Jim’s attention was only partly on what Captain Banks was saying. Breathing in deeply and analyzing the smells he encountered, he pointed at a vacant parking space. “Blair’s car was here,” he announced. “Powers didn’t physically take him – Blair drove off alone.”

“So where did he go, and why?” Banks prompted.

“The guy called him,” Jim deduced, looking down at the phone. Sure enough, the last call received had been at 11.31 a.m., the number withheld. “He threatened him somehow. Maybe used the kid’s safety to get his attention.” Jim moved, back toward the secluded area taped off and surrounded by a crowd of forensics personnel and cops. “He told Blair to go over there, made him look at the bodies. Convinced him that he was serious.” Jim moved back into the main parking lot, a rank yet familiar smell assailing him. He pointed at the grass verge bordering the area. “Blair threw up over there,” he indicated. “He was upset; terrified. I can still smell it.”

“Why’d Blair leave the phone by the bodies?” Banks’ matter-of-fact acceptance of what Jim was telling him was a balm to his desperation.

Jim looked at the phone in his hand. “Maybe the guy told him to,” he posited, although even as the words left his mouth he suspected otherwise.

Which left another reason.

Pressing the keypad again, Jim scrolled through the options. Instinct leading him to Blair’s text messages, he found a saved draft. He looked at Banks. “There’s an address,” he said. “Blair never sent the message – just saved it, and left it here for us to find.”

Looking grim, Banks studied the phone that Jim handed to him, then turned to bark out orders to his detectives. As they scrambled to their cars, he turned back to Jim. “Let’s roll,” he said.

***

There was a lot of stuff that Blair had never told Jim about his time in prison - things that, no matter what happened, he desperately hoped Jim would never find out. Things to do with how he’d managed to stay alive during those first few nightmare months, when the only thing he’d had of value to use in exchange for his life had been his body and his skill at giving pleasure.

He’d survived it then, and he’d survive it now.

“Man, you’re good at that.” The monster fastened his pants, and patted Blair condescendingly on the head.

Blair was kneeling at the man’s feet, hands bound cruelly tight behind his back; the foul residue in his mouth and the despair in his heart making it a gargantuan effort to maintain the deception. “I’ll do whatever you want,” Blair promised, looking up at his repulsive attacker through hooded eyes. “I’m a guide, man,” he said silkily, perpetuating the stereotype and the erroneous assumptions of this asshole for all he was worth. “I can make you feel better than you ever felt before.”

“Later,” the guy said shortly. “I’ll finish eating first, then have some nice fresh boy meat, before I get back to you.”

“No!” The threat to the child, who was currently locked in a closet blessedly out of sight of what had just occurred, horrified Blair. Mastering himself with an effort, he rubbed his cheek against the guy’s leg, the touch a sultry promise. “Why settle for that, man, when I can give you everything that you need?”

“You’re a horny little thing, ain’t you?” the monster – who was all the more horrific for being so very ordinary - laughed. “So it’s true what they say, huh? Guides just can’t get enough?”

“It’s all true,” Blair lied, his voice seductive; desperate, despite his revulsion that this time the child would not be touched, no matter what he had to do to keep it that way. “I’ll prove it, if you’ll let me.” He stayed on his knees, fervently resisting the urge to vomit. He had to put his own feelings about this to one side – the important thing was to keep the kid safe until help arrived. And it would arrive - Blair held to that hope with everything that he was.

He just hoped that Jim would never find out what he’d had to do to ensure that this sicko left the little kid alone.

Blair watched as the man sat back down at the kitchen table and crammed the half-eaten burger that was there into his mouth; and he kept a wary eye on the gun, which was just in reach of the guy’s hand. That was the biggest problem – the guy was armed and clearly more than willing to use his firearm to lethal effect, as he’d proved by his cold blooded killing of the two cops who had been guarding Blair. It was as if human life was totally meaningless to him next to his own gratification – he’d clearly stop at nothing to get his sexual kicks.

Despite the obvious danger he posed, however, Blair found it amazing how the clear light of day had revealed the demon he remembered to be little more than this incredibly nondescript man. The guy wasn’t any taller than Blair – and he was certainly no giant. He was average height, average weight, average build, with un-striking features – no wonder no one had recognized him from the drawing.

But it was impossible to ignore the fact that the nondescript package hid a truly dangerous person who made it his life’s work to rape children; as well as adults - like Blair - who he first ensured were not in a position where they could fight back. And who then discarded them like meaningless trash, once he’d finished, before moving on to the next target.

Blair took some consolation in the fact that, by maintaining this current fiction of willingness, he seemed to have thrown the guy for a considerable loop - which at least gave Blair hope that he might leave the little boy alone, and that Blair himself might come out of this alive, if not unmolested.

In terms of the latter, it was too late for that now. Too late by far.

But he would get through this, Blair told himself firmly, no matter what he had to do. He’d survived far worse in prison, from guys who could easily eat this idiot for breakfast.

***

The order had gone out for a silent approach. Officers moved in to furtively evacuate other residents from the immediate area, SWAT snipers took their positions and Banks and his team got into place to surround the building.

The address that Blair had given them was in a quiet, suburban neighborhood, the house a furnished rental property which was currently between lettings. The people living in the adjacent houses it seemed, had assumed that the man they’d seen going in and out earlier with a small child in tow had been the new tenant.

Sticking to Banks like glue until told otherwise, Jim’s eyes constantly drifted to the car parked in the driveway - Blair’s car.

As if sensing Jim’s inner turmoil, Simon put a steadying hand on Jim’s shoulder. “We’ve got a hostage negotiator on the way – he’ll be here in just a few minutes,” he murmured. “But before he arrives, I want to ask you something, Jim. You’re a sentinel. You’re uniquely placed to find out what we’re dealing with, here. I understand this is difficult for you, with Blair involved. But if you could tell me what’s going on in there, or even if Blair and the kid are still alive-“

“I’ll do it,” Jim interrupted firmly.

Simon’s face was all grim sympathy. “You might not hear anything you’d like, Jim - you know what we’re dealing with, here. I want to be sure that you understand that before you agree. You’re under no obligation to do this.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jim had never been more certain of anything – except, perhaps, Blair’s innocence. “Just… if you could keep your hand on me, ground me. I’m not used to listening over long distances. I know you’re not a guide, but it might help…”

“I’d be honored,” Simon said, squeezing Jim’s shoulder.

Something oddly wistful in his tone made Jim look at him quizzically; but there was no time to explore it further. Closing his eyes, he allowed his awareness to drift toward the house, seeking for the rhythmic evidence of life that sentinels tended to latch on to most easily. He found it in the shape of a single heartbeat, galloping with the quickness of childhood and accompanied by frightened sobs. “The kid is somewhere in the house by himself,” he murmured to Simon. “The sound is muffled, somehow, like he’s in a small space. A closet.”

“That’s good, Jim,” he heard Simon say softly. “Go on.” The sensation of his hand on Jim’s arm was a solid, dependable presence.

Seeking again, desperately looking for the one thing he truly wanted to find, Jim latched on to the other sounds in the house, and zeroed in. Another heartbeat, well-known and beloved, racing every bit as fast as it had back in the courtroom during Blair’s retrial; and a second one, also beating out a speedy rhythm.

There were other sounds, too. Disgusting sounds.

Horrified and unable to turn away, Jim listened.

***

“That’s it, little guide. You get me good and wet.”

Please, Blair thought, trying desperately not to gag. Please, just do it. Get it over with.

Ketchup-covered fingers tangled in Blair’s hair, forcing his head to stay still despite the brutal assault on his mouth. “Yeah, just there. Just there…”

Oh god. Oh god, just let it be over, please….

“That’s it, that’s it. Get me nice and wet and hard and then…”

I can do this I can do this…

“And then I’ll go get the boy, yeah. You make me nice and hard, little guide, so I can be ready for him. Oh yeah…”

No, no, no, no! Blair froze, horrified. That was not what was supposed to happen! He was supposed to keep the guy’s interest. To keep the little boy safe, until the cops arrived.

Blair’s sudden resistance didn’t go unnoticed. The guy pulled away, and cuffed Blair smartingly, making his ear ring with the force of the impact. “What the hell did you stop for, huh?”

Blair had to keep trying – he had to. This guy couldn’t be allowed to hurt the little boy – he just couldn’t. He straightened up with an effort – the blow had made him dizzy. “You don’t need the kid, man. Not when you’ve got me.” Blair’s voice shook, hoarse with misery and disgust; which he desperately hoped the guy would mistake for lust. “I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”

“Jealous, huh?” The guy laughed, this time ruffling Blair’s hair. “I got plenty of staying power, little guide - you don’t have to worry about that. Soon as I’m done with him, I’ll get right back to you.” Fingers tightened cruelly in Blair’s hair as he was once more seized and held in place. “Now suck me, damn it!”

Having no choice but to obey, Blair opened his mouth. But even as he submitted, a stark realization crystallized within him - unless the cops got here right now, the guy would do whatever he wanted to Blair, then go after the kid anyway.

Looking up at the panting monster who towered above him - eyes closed in rapture and burger grease staining the corners of his repulsive mouth while he growled out obscenities - Blair made a decision. Rape was only possible, after all, if you had the tools for the job.

Mustering all the anger, despair and sheer determination at his disposal, seeing in this hideous creature an echo of every single asshole who had hurt him in this way, Blair inched his head forward to take the man in deep, then bit down hard.

***

Jim didn’t hesitate. Ignoring the horrified cry of “Ellison!” which burst out of Banks, he sprinted towards the house, sure of only one thing: he was going to kill Blair’s abuser. He was going to kill him not just for what he’d done today, but also for turning what should have been the best years of Blair’s life into a living nightmare.

But most of all, he was going to kill him for making Blair believe that, in this desperate situation, he had no choice but to offer himself in the place of another.

The strangled, agonized howl that filled his eardrums made him sprint even faster. He didn’t register at all, as he rounded the back of the house, that it was not Blair who made the sound.

***

Sheer, bloody-minded determination was the only thing which kept Blair’s jaws clamped shut, for endless moment after endless moment, as his mouth flooded with the foulest, most disgusting filth he could ever imagine.

He barely registered it when a flailing, ferocious blow finally unlatched him. He came to himself a few blank seconds later, vomiting violently, his stomach rebelling against the unimaginably putrid matter which threatened to choke him.

***

Bursting in the door with a recklessness borne of sheer desperation, Jim allowed himself no more than one second to take in the sight before him.

Blair, hands tied behind his back, huddled over on his knees in a retching, miserable heap, his face totally obscured by blood.

Sparing his guide no more than that single glance, Jim’s instincts screamed at him to remove the threat before providing solace. His attention latched onto the only other occupant of the room - who was currently squirming on the floor in a fetal position, an unearthly keening emitting from his throat.

In two strides, Jim was upon him. Seizing the animal by the throat, he hoisted him aloft and slammed him hard against the wall; his cold, hard need for vengeance lending him inhuman strength.

As agonized eyes lifted to his, Jim smiled; feeling absolutely no mercy in his heart. “Say goodnight, asshole,” he growled.

***

Simon Banks was not having a good day.

First of all, an innocent child had been abducted in his city, by someone who was quite probably a serial rapist and murderer of children all over the globe. Then, a little while later, two of his best uniformed officers had been murdered, and the man they were supposed to be guarding – a man with whom Simon had struck up an unlikely friendship – had been taken by that very same killer as well.

Next, Jim Ellison’s totally amateur sleuthing had cracked the mystery of the child killings, despite months of solid, dedicated police work – which was humiliating to a man in Simon’s position, to say the least. On the plus side, it had meant that they now knew who their perp was and where to find him; but that was the only good thing that had happened so far during this whole goddamned, endless, disastrous day.

In breach of regular police procedure - although in line with what he’d thought to be his better judgment (as a police captain who had been appointed by virtue of his sensitivity in such matters) - Simon had brought Jim Ellison along with him during the operation to free Blair and the abducted child from the killer’s clutches. With what he understood about sentinels and guides, he’d felt he’d been doing the right thing in giving Jim the opportunity to be right there on the scene, ready to give comfort to his guide as soon as they got him free.

But, just a moment ago, Jim Ellison had hared off without warning, in a vigilante attempt to free his guide from Powers’ clutches – a foolhardy act which could end up putting Blair, the kidnapped little boy and the whole goddamned lot of them in jeopardy.

Allowing himself no more than one second of outraged surprise to consider how much worse things could possibly get, Simon sprang to his feet to follow after; bellowing orders to his officers as he went, and motioning for two of his men to follow him.

Moving stealthily around the back of the house, weapon at the ready, Simon edged cautiously around to where the back door was swinging open. Peering warily around the doorframe he took in what he saw inside, then stepped back and holstered his weapon. “Stay back,” he ordered the two officers who were tailing him. “Don’t let anyone inside here until I tell you.” And with that, he went into the house.

The scene in the kitchen was like something out of a horror movie.

Blair was alive and conscious, though clearly hurt. He was a bloodied, disheveled mess, his eyes wild as he struggled weakly against the ropes which bound him; the floor in front of him slippery and foul with blood and vomit. Wishing nothing more than to get him some immediate aid and find the child who was, presumably, still locked up somewhere in the house, Simon nevertheless understood the urgency of dealing with Ellison first.

If he failed to do that effectively, the sentinel would likely be the next one of the pair to be sentenced to jail-time for murder.

More blood led away from Blair across the floor to where Ellison was holding a white-faced man – who Simon immediately recognized as their suspect, Justin Powers – up against the wall. The guy’s pants were down around his ankles, blood trailing down his legs to pool on the floor between his feet, and his lips were turning blue from the death grip that Ellison maintained around his neck.

Simon moved to stand just off to the side, so that he was well within Ellison’s peripheral vision. “Jim,” he tried, first. Then, more firmly, “Ellison!”

The coldest eyes Simon had ever seen turned his way. “What?” Ellison demanded, not releasing his grip one iota. The guy he held seemed to have already passed out.

“Stand down, sentinel,” Banks ordered. “I’ll take it from here.”

Ellison shook his head. “He deserves to die for what he’s done,” he asserted, his voice pitched to the utter calm of intense rage.

“Yes, he does,” Banks agreed. “But not like this.”

Ellison didn’t back down. “This is justice, Simon. Sentinel justice.”

Banks held his gaze. “You and I, Counselor,” he said. “We’re men of the law. We may often find ourselves on opposing sides of an issue but, in this, you and I stand together. This man absolutely needs to pay for what he’s done.” He moved closer, determined to make the sentinel hear him, “But this,” he said, “is not the way.”

“He raped and killed children!” Ellison’s fury and grief was obvious now. “He took away the past four years of Blair’s life.” His voice broke. “He hurt him so badly, Simon. You have no idea!”

“And he’ll be punished for all of that - you have my word.” Simon softened his voice, willing Ellison to believe him. God knew, he meant it. “Trust me, Jim. Please.”

Ellison held Simon’s gaze for an endless moment; then looked back at the man he held, intense hate and revulsion in his expression. Slowly, disgustedly, he released his grip, allowing Powers’ senseless body to slump to the floor.

As Ellison stood looking down at the unconscious man, breathing hard in reaction, Banks laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sentinel,” he said softly. “See to your guide. He needs you now.” And he watched in relief as Ellison’s vengeful meltdown was aborted, and the sentinel moved away to do exactly that.

***

All Blair could think, as Jim approached him, was, “He’ll know. Everyone will know.” He’d tried to spit it out; to expel the gory evidence of where his mouth had been and what he’d done, but there was too much blood, too much filth. It was inside him, that ugliness. It had always been inside him, ever since the very first time.

But now, it was obvious on the outside too.

In prison it had ceased to matter, once he’d gotten used to it. It was a way of life in there; part of the necessary price he paid for life and limb. After the initial emotional meltdown he’d gone through, he’d eventually gotten pragmatic about it. Accept it, or die; simple as that. Excel at it, and they might not even beat you.

But he wasn’t in prison any more and, out here, those rules did not apply. Out here, there was a name for people like him; a name which was incompatible with lover and guide and friend.

“Hey.” Jim’s voice was so gentle that Blair could hardly stand it. His hands were gentle too, as they untangled with sentinel-precision the clumsily knotted clothesline which bound Blair’s achingly numb wrists behind him; Jim continuing to talk softly as he worked. “Easy, Chief. It’s all over. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Blair didn’t dare look at Jim’s face. Instead he kept his head down as he was freed, his mouth fixed open in a horrified, nauseated grimace, unable to make even one sound.

Things got a little blurry, after that; the painful blows to the head Blair had taken and the adrenaline rollercoaster he’d been riding lending the world a distant fuzziness which was not entirely unwelcome, under the circumstances. Maneuvered passively onto a gurney, Jim a constant, solid presence by his side, Blair only surfaced out of his odd stupor when he heard Jim speaking to Simon, as the paramedics bustled around making him ready to be transported.

“Most of it’s not his blood,” Jim was saying.

“I did wonder,” he heard Simon reply. “If that’s the case, then it’s pretty clear, from the state of both of them, what happened here.”

Mortified – although he’d honestly known that he wouldn’t be able to conceal what he’d done, as soon as he’d made the decision to fight back - Blair welcomed the blank almost-consciousness which enveloped him once again, as though it was a beloved friend.

He came to awareness once more, just a few moments later, when the gurney he was on was being wheeled out toward the ambulance. As they neared a patrol car against which several police officers were leaning, he heard one of them say to the others, “I’ve never seen anything like it, man. The guy’s dick was damn near bitten clean off!” As the gurney was wheeled past the cops, several curious faces turned to watch them go by; Blair acutely aware all the while of the telltale blood which surrounded his mouth.

His face burning in humiliation, Blair closed his eyes and turned away, wishing desperately for the sanctuary of oblivion once more. At the same moment, Jim’s fingers reflexively clenched on his arm; and Blair had no idea whether the gesture was one of support or anger.

***

When Simon Banks arrived at the hospital later, ostensibly to be on hand during the transfer of Justin Powers from the operating room (where re-attachment surgery was being attempted) to a guarded, private ward, he took a brief detour to E.R.. There, he found Jim Ellison engaged in a heated debate with a doctor.

As Simon approached, he heard Jim say, “Look, I understand what you’re saying. But this situation is totally different. He’s a guide – my guide – and I understand exactly what he needs. So either you get me someone here who understands sentinel and guide medicine, or you go get me the forms to sign. Because I am going to take him home, whether you advise it or not.”

The doctor was not happy, Simon could see. “If you insist, then I have no choice. Unless, of course, I decide to have him involuntarily committed for a psych assessment – which, believe me, Mister Ellison, I am this close to doing, given his current level of responsiveness.”

Ellison laughed shortly. “Don’t even think about trying to fight me with that one, pal. Blair’s case doesn’t come close to meeting the criteria for a civil commitment, and you and I both know it. You so much as wave an E.P form in his general direction and, speaking as Blair’s attorney, I’ll be more than happy to see both you and your employer in court.”

The doctor was holding up both hands in surrender, even before Ellison had finished speaking – the legal threat was more than enough to remove the last of his resistance. But the guy did make one final proviso. “At least get him some counseling. I’ll give you a list of recommendations along with the AMA form.”

Ellison nodded shortly. “I’ll make sure he gets whatever help he needs. No argument there.”

As the doctor moved away, Ellison turned round, and spotted Simon. “Oh, hey. Captain.” He ran a weary hand over his face. “You been there long?”

“Not long.” Simon nodded in the direction the doctor went. “He giving you some trouble?”

“They don’t want me to take Blair home.” Ellison snorted. “Idiots. Not one of them knows anything about sentinels and guides. What Blair needs now….” Ellison’s eyes went distant. “What we need – we’ve got to be together, Simon. Not to go into too much detail, but…”

“You need to bond. I understand,” Simon said.

Ellison looked at him quizzically. “How come you know so much?”

Simon shrugged, the old pain making itself felt. “My eldest brother was a guide,” he said simply. “He died on active service in Vietnam. I guess I spent most of my life asking why he was taken from us, and learning what I could about people like him.”

“Oh, god, Simon.” Ellison looked thunderstruck. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Simon deflected; firmly suppressing the familiar pain with the practicalities of the present, as was his habit. “How’s Blair doing?”

Ellison took a deep breath. “He hasn’t spoken. Not a word. He seems… lost, somewhere inside. Like he’s not really even here.” Ellison looked at Simon despairingly. “He won’t even look at me, Simon.”

“Get him ready to go home,” Simon directed. “I’ll see if I can hurry up the doctor with those forms.”

Ellison nodded. But before he turned to go, he said haltingly, “Simon… thanks. I mean it. You… you’re a good friend. To both of us.”

Simon clapped him on the shoulder, then turned away to chase down the doctor.

Nothing more needed to be said.

Concluded in Part 4

Back to Home Page

Sentinel Justice 2/4 (slash)

2007-08-13T17:40:18Z

Back to Part 1

When Jim asked Banks why it was that Blair’s interview had been conducted by the Captain himself rather than the detectives who were re-investigating Emily’s murder, he was reassured by the answer. “I’m not proud of the fact,” Banks had said, “that an innocent man went to jail because of mistakes made by this department. I want to ensure that Mister Sandburg is not put through any unnecessary pain during this investigation, and the best way I can do that is to take direct responsibility for liaising with him myself.”

Banks was sincere, Jim could sense. He even seemed to have taken a liking of sorts to Blair; treating him with not just professional courtesy, but also with unmistakable kindness throughout the difficult process of Blair’s recounting. But there was an additional undercurrent to their interaction as well which, as an attorney, Jim was absolutely not oblivious to – he had no doubt that Banks was being leaned on politically from above and pressured to deliver, both with regard to the murder case itself and the sensitivity with which the police department dealt with sentinels and guides.

Jim knew full well that there had been a huge shake-up following Blair’s acquittal. Police departments across the State had been subjected to a thorough review, and heads had rolled - with dismissals, early retirements and re-assignments taking place across the board. Sensitivity training had become compulsory for all serving officers, and the police academy had revamped its curriculum to raise awareness among its cadets of sentinel and guide issues - particularly essential now that sentinel and guides could live openly as civilians (and therefore under police jurisdiction) because of the abolition of the draft. It was during this time that Banks had taken over as the Captain of Major Crime in Cascade. He was widely touted as a forward thinking, scrupulously fair-minded man, with zero sympathy for prejudice of all kinds.

Despite his outward friendliness, though, Banks was playing his cards close to his chest; and something about what he carefully didn’t mention made Jim suspect that there was more to the Emily Bullock case than they were being told. The level of manpower that had been drafted in seemed out of proportion, somehow, to a re-opened murder case four years down the line.

Sadly, his suspicions proved to be true.

***

Blair’s racing heartbeat and muttered, “Oh no,” brought Jim down the stairs and into the living room in double-quick time. His guide was staring at the T.V. screen in horror.

“The body was found in the same area of the dock where, almost four years ago, Emily Bullock was murdered. Police are not confirming that there is a link with the Bullock case, but sources say that two further unsolved child murders in Seattle have a number of similarities…”

“It’s him.” Blair turned despairing eyes toward Jim. “It’s him, isn’t it?” He looked shocked and haunted.

“Chief, we don’t know that.”

Blair seemed about to retort, but both of their attentions were grabbed when they heard a familiar name. “Captain Banks,” a reporter was demanding, a microphone thrust in the police captain’s face. “You interviewed Blair Sandburg recently. Is he a suspect in this latest murder?”

“We have a number of leads which are being followed up as part of the investigation,” Banks deflected firmly, his face impassive. “I can’t comment on who might or might not be regarded as a suspect at this time.”

“Goddamn it, Banks!” Jim could have strangled the guy for his politico-speak non-answer. “All you had to say was no!”

Jim continued to watch with horror, as the anchorman came back on the screen, the hollow-eyed mug shot which had been taken of Blair after his arrest displayed up in the corner of the screen. “Blair Sandburg, who concealed his guide status to avoid the draft, was acquitted during a retrial of Emily Bullock’s murder, after spending more than three years as a convicted killer in Starkville Penitentiary. The case received worldwide attention, and sparked changes in the law…” The T.V. screen went dead, the silence in its wake deafening.

Blair threw the remote onto the couch, and turned. Without a word, he headed toward the small bedroom under the stairs – his bolt hole when things got to be too much.

When Jim moved to follow, however, Blair paused in the doorway to look back, his eyes huge and dark in a pale, still face. “Leave me alone; please, man. And I need you not to listen in.” He paused, looking at Jim pleadingly. “Okay, Jim?”

It was almost too much to ask, of a sentinel whose guide was in agony. But Jim understood, despite his baser instincts – privacy was something Blair needed, a right that he was relearning after being deprived of it for so long. Wanting nothing more than to wrap him in his arms right now, to take him upstairs and bond with him until all of this was obliterated by their need for each other, Jim nodded. “Okay,” he murmured. “You gonna be all right?”

Blair smiled sadly. “Ask me later,” he said. And retreating into his haven, he closed the door between them.

***

Jim wasted no time. While Blair fought his demons in the security of the small bedroom, he got straight on the phone to the police department to contact Banks. As Blair’s attorney, he could not allow any assertions in the media – even assertions by omission – that Blair might not be innocent. They had enough shit to deal with as it was.

But Banks, damn the man, was not available. After leaving a message for the captain to call him back, Jim called his own secretary to dictate a formal letter of complaint – he would have gone into the office to do it, but he didn’t want to leave Blair alone right now. His grievance was stated clearly and concisely - he would sue, unless Banks stated publicly that Blair was in no way being treated as a suspect.

He’d nearly concluded the call when he was disturbed by a knock at the door. Extending his senses a little, he almost growled at who he found there.

It was Banks.

“Sandra,” he said to the woman on the phone, “I’ll call you back.” Terminating the connection, Jim opened the door, and went straight on the offensive. “What the hell would it have cost you, huh, to just tell that reporter that Blair is not a suspect?”

“May I come in?” Banks asked mildly, unfazed by Jim’s aggression.

With bad grace, Jim motioned him inside – he wasn’t at all happy about it, but the alternative was conducting their business out in the hall, within earshot of their neighbors; and that was definitely not an option.

Blair emerged from his room as Banks entered the apartment. “Simon,” he greeted. “Thanks for coming over, man.”

“No problem, Blair,” Banks replied, his demeanor softening.

Jim looked between them both incredulously. “What, you’re on first name terms, now?” He glared at Blair. “What the hell is this, Chief?”

Blair looked discomforted – as well he might, since he’d clearly been keeping secrets from his sentinel. “We’ve, uh, met for coffee a couple of times since I gave my statement. Simon – Captain Banks – and I have been discussing ways to help me remember more of what happened.”

Jim turned back to Banks. “I warned you. No contact with him other than through me. What part of that don’t you understand?” Jim was livid. “I’ll be filing a harassment suit, right alongside the one for defamation of character, if you don’t get the hell out of here right now, and keep the hell away from him!”

“Jim!” Blair was in his face suddenly. “Calm down, all right?” Hands, like rain on a forest fire, clutched at his arms, dousing the brightest flames of his anger with their restorative touch. Softly, Blair told him, “He’s here because I invited him.”

Well, that explained why Blair hadn’t wanted him to listen in – rather than falling to pieces behind the closed bedroom door, as Jim had assumed, he’d been calling Banks instead. “Why?”

“I suggested to Blair when we last met,” Banks answered, “that hypnosis might help him to remember. He’s our only witness, but his memory of the incident, as you know, is almost non-existent. There’s a chance that, under hypnosis, he might recall more details. He might even be able to identify Emily’s murderer.” He looked at Blair, “As well as the murderer of the two kids in Seattle, and Aaron Wright, the boy we just found.”

“It’s the same guy, then,” Blair said, a catch in his voice.

Banks nodded. “It looks like it. And, just so you know, you’re not a suspect. You were still in prison when the kids in Seattle were killed, and there is no doubt that the same person killed Aaron. No doubt at all.”

Blair nodded. “Thanks for telling me,” he said. “And I… I’ve decided. That’s why I called you over, man. The hypnosis – I’ll do it.”

Jim didn’t like where this was going. “Chief, there’s probably a good reason you don’t remember a lot of what happened. You were put through hell; probably saw things that your mind just couldn’t handle. I’m not sure that unlocking those memories is a good idea.”

Blair turned back to look at him, his expression sad, maybe a little scared. But there was a determined set to his mouth, and a reservoir of strength in his light-colored eyes that brooked no argument. “Jim,” he said. “This is not about me, man.”

And of course, he was right. Kids were dying, and the man responsible had to be stopped. Accepting defeat, Jim enveloped Blair in his arms. “Okay,” he agreed miserably.

“Just be there for me, all right?” Blair clutched him back tightly, dread obvious in the tenseness of his body.

Jim nodded against Blair’s hair, his eyes closed, hating that his guide was going to be put through yet more pain. “Always,” he promised.

***

It was a beautiful day. Since he’d moved into the nearby warehouse district, Blair enjoyed walking down here by the docks, looking at the big cargo ships and fishing boats, and seeing which far-off places they came from. It was endlessly interesting; a little slice of the world that an anthropologist like him couldn’t help but be drawn to.

Today there was a big container ship in from Russia, and among the fishing boats there was even one from Norway and another from England. He wondered what in the world had inspired them to come this far.

Names, Blair. What are they called?

Oh, right. Names, yeah, he could do that. The Russian ship was the Nekrasov, from the port of Dudinka. The Norwegian boat was Aksel, out of Narvik. There was also the Harriet from Portsmouth, the Rising Tide from Vancouver…

As Blair made note of the names, a cloud passed across the sun, the ensuing breeze and slight chill making him shiver. It was as if someone had walked across his grave. Around him, the hustle and bustle of the docks continued unabated, but Blair felt odd all of a sudden; as though he didn’t belong. His stomach was in knots, and he had a sudden urge to run. It made no sense.

You’re safe, Blair. Nothing can hurt you.

The odd feeling retreated a little as Blair continued to walk along the dock. He shook himself a little - that had been weird. But in the next instant the sun came out again, and all was fine. Glancing at his watch, Blair saw that it was time to head back – he was meeting some friends this afternoon, and if he didn’t get back to his car now, he was going to be late.

What time is it, Blair? Where are you going?

It was 12.16 pm. Man, he really needed to get moving. He was meeting the others - a bunch of people from the Anthro Society - just before 1.00 up at the Rainier campus, before heading off to see a movie with them at the community arts centre. It was Saturday, and the traffic was probably going to be heavy by now.

He turned away from the waterfront to walk down between a couple of buildings, intending to head back via a shortcut out of the docks to his car.

Which buildings?

Oh, right. The one on his right was the old Varfleet shipping offices. The one on the left was a derelict warehouse – he couldn’t make out the faded name painted on the brickwork.

Blair continued on. It was dingy down here, and trash had piled up in the corners. Cardboard boxes, crates, various debris. Stuff that was not out of place down a deserted alleyway on a busy dock.

Then Blair stopped dead, his feeling of dread returning. In the middle of his path was something that did look totally out of context – a shoe. A young woman or girl’s shoe.

Blair stood riveted, unable to tear his eyes from the dreadful object. He couldn’t do this. He wanted to be back on the dock, in the bright sunlight. Or somewhere else; anywhere else. He just couldn’t…

It’s all right, Blair. You’re not alone – you’re safe. Nothing can hurt you.

That wasn’t true. It could hurt him, Blair knew it. It could hurt him, and it would.

He heard it, then. A long, gurgling, terrified scream, coming from the open doorway on his left. With leaden steps he moved toward the sound, then stopped, frozen in his tracks.

Immobile on the threshold, unable to move into the terrifying blackness waiting within, he suddenly wanted Jim with every frightened breath, every beat of his pounding heart. But Jim wasn’t here – he didn’t belong here, in this time, with Blair.

Jim is with you, Blair. He’s right beside you, holding you, protecting you. Go through the door, Blair.

No, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Go through, Blair. Go inside.

Like a puppet, jerked along by an invisible string, Blair moved in through the entrance, dread making every step an ordeal. And then he was in, and he saw it – the awful tableau that his subconscious had managed to bury for all this time.

She was still alive. Emily, his mind supplied. It was Emily, revealed in a thin stream of sunlight which descended from a high window, and illuminated her face like an angel. She turned pleading eyes toward him, pinned as she was under the man’s bulk. “Help,” she whimpered, a child’s voice. “Please, help me…”

As if in a dream, Blair heard his own voice; horrorstruck, angry and so goddamned innocent of all that was to come. “What the hell? Hey, get away from her, man!”

The man lifted his head. Blair couldn’t see him clearly – he occupied the shadows surrounding Emily, a creature of darkness. “Make me,” he said.

His voice, Blair. Tell me about his voice.

What’s to tell? Two words, two simple words. Not enough to tell if he had an accent, or if he was young, or old; not when the words were twisted into a monster’s growl by Blair’s remembered horror.

Dream-Blair moved closer – and now Blair understood that this was exactly that; a dream, a memory. His mind, too frightened to face it, had retreated a little, unable to live in the moment any longer and experience this as if it was really happening now. That separation emboldened him; made him stronger. He’d never remembered this much before, and he would survive this. He would.

You’re doing great, Blair. Tell me what happened next.

“I went closer. I wanted to pull him off her, you know? But he... he hit me with something as soon as I got close. I didn’t see it. It stung like crazy, man. My legs just… just collapsed under me. I couldn’t breathe. I think he hit me again after that, maybe knocked me over the head with something – I passed out.”

“It sounds like he had a tazer.” That was Jim – Jim was here. Thank god. Blair could have wept with relief.

“Blair,” that was the other voice, the one he’d barely noticed, but who had been there with him throughout, nevertheless. A safe voice. “I need you to go deeper again. Go deep, Blair. You’re safe, we’ve got you. But you've got to go back…”

Blair came back to himself in the warehouse. There was a weight holding him down, hands clawing at his clothes. “No…” he protested weakly.

“Shut up.” The blow which followed made him taste blood, his ears ringing.

Blair couldn’t move, limp as a rag doll as his pants were unfastened and pulled off. Squinting against the darkness, Blair tried to see where he was, what was happening. For an instant, the sunbeam which still illuminated the face of the child beside him – now gone still and slack – fell upon the face of the man who rose over him, before he dipped his head and disappeared back into shadow. A second after that, another blow robbed Blair of consciousness.

Back up, Blair. Go back to that moment when you can see him. Hold it in your mind; look at his face.

Like a movie rewinding, Blair watched as the man’s face moved back into the sunlight, then stopped; freeze frame.

Time stood still.

Look at him - see every detail.

Nondescript brown hair, cut short. A beard, close trimmed, reddish in color. Pale grey eyes, with a greenish-tint. Pale skin. A small jagged scar, under his right eye. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Lean, on the way to gaunt. Frighteningly ordinary, when by rights he should have looked like a monster.

Remember him, Blair.

Note was taken, the man's face duly committed to memory.

Now, come back to us.

Blair pulled abruptly out of the past and back into the present, letting go his held breath in a shaky rush. He turned despairing eyes toward his sentinel, who had been here with him all along; holding him, supporting him. At his other side sat Dan Wolf, the hypnotherapist they’d come to see. Behind Dan, Simon Banks stood watching, a grim expression on his face.

Jim spoke, his voice rough with emotion. “Hey, Chief?” he asked. “Do you remember what he looked like?”

Blair nodded, still seeing the man’s face, like a snapshot in his mind’s eye. He doubted that he’d ever be able to forget it again. “Yeah,” he whispered, his mouth dry. “I remember.”

“I’ll ask the artist to come in. Best to get it down right away, while it’s still fresh in your mind,” Simon said gruffly, leaning forward to pat him awkwardly on the arm. “You did good, Blair.”

Jim’s arm tightened around him, and Blair leaned into his warmth, soaking up the comfort shamelessly. And his attacker’s face, twisted by lust and bathed in sunlight, loomed bright and clear in his memory; frozen in time, like a fly in amber.

***

Blair never talked about his time in prison.

Jim knew the obvious stuff, of course. He had learned, back when he’d taken on the case, that Blair had initially been incarcerated among the general prison population. A hefty proportion of the six months he’d been there had been spent in the prison infirmary; as well as a month in Cascade General, chained to a hospital bed as he recuperated from major surgery. Upon his return to prison after that, Blair had been put in solitary confinement, and had remained there for the next three years.

It wasn’t hard to extrapolate what, exactly, had happened to him in Starkville, therefore. Not hard at all.

The worst part of it was that, when the topic came up between them, Blair tended to shrug the whole thing off, as though it was of no consequence. “I survived, man,” he would say. “That’s all that matters.” Then he’d look at Jim, his eyes full of sorrow; deflecting attention from himself, as he tended to do. “Emily didn’t. Compared to her, and those other kids, I was lucky.”

Lucky. That was not exactly the word that Jim would have used.

Blair never talked about his time in prison, but he didn’t have to. His body told the tale in the scars it bore. And there were nights he woke up screaming, reaching out in desperation from terror filled dreams, crying and begging for them to stop.

***

Despite having always being cautious and selective about his sexual partners – a necessity for a guide in hiding - Blair had always enjoyed sex, during the rare times he’d allowed himself to indulge. He loved to feel the slide of skin-on-skin, slippery with sweat and passion, along with the panting, desperate reaching for mutual nirvana. But most of all, he adored the feeling of being that close to another human being – physical and emotional intimacy were craved by guides with all that they were.

Blair liked to think that he’d always been a considerate lover, cherishing the people he’d slept with and giving them everything that he had to give. And it had been nice. Tender, gentle loving with women (and it had always been women – he’d never felt safe putting himself in such a vulnerable position with men) that he’d first grown to care about as friends – because with a stranger, the risk that his secret might be betrayed was far too great. He’d always been careful, focusing on the pleasure of his partner and holding back his own heightened responses as much as he could. And he must have been successful at doing so, because no-one he had slept with consensually had ever suspected that he was a guide.

But none of it had ever made him feel anything like he did with Jim. He’d never truly understood how powerful sexual bonding could be between a sentinel and guide, until he’d experienced it himself. And now that he had his own sentinel, he couldn’t imagine ever turning back, or ever again being satisfied with the monochrome, two-dimensional loving he’d indulged in back in the past.

Jim was a take-charge kinda guy, as he’d proved the very first time they’d bonded. He usually swept in and swamped Blair with sensation, pressing him down with the impressive strength of his body while Blair shuddered and trembled through his caresses. Jim knew exactly how to prolong his pleasure, it seemed; unerringly using his senses to interpret and manipulate Blair’s responses, and allowing his guide free rein - in the security of his sentinel’s restraining embrace - to fully experience and express the overwhelming pleasure he was driven to. And, considerate lover that he was, Blair enjoyed turning the tables, dissolving Jim’s strong frame into a boneless, keening mass in turn. A sentinel’s senses, Blair had to conclude, were every bit as much of a delicious tool to tantalize a lover with as a guide’s heightened sensuality.

It was often Jim’s voice, urging him on in the midst of almost unbearable sensation, which drove Blair to completion. As Blair writhed, groaning out his need helplessly under Jim’s merciless hands, Jim would whisper silkily in his ear: “C’mon, Chief. C’mon. Go with it. Give it to me.” And tuned to the pitch of that voice like a harp string, Blair would resonate with the deep vibrancy of it, the moment too perfect, too unendurable to prolong for even one more second without breaking.

In the aftermath, Jim always held him; safe and secure. And for all the shattering perfection of the crescendo, those quiet, tender moments were the ones that Blair truly lived for.

***

Jim smiled, his face buried in a mass of fragrant curls. Blair was boneless in his arms, utterly wiped out by their bonding. Equally sated, the sight, sounds, smells, taste and feel of his partner’s ecstasy having driven him just a moment ago to his own orgasm, Jim sighed happily. There was nowhere in the world he would he would rather be right now than here.

Blair shifted a little, obviously settling in to get comfortable for the long haul – which was utterly fine by Jim. As Jim watched, one perfectly proportioned hand lifted, to languorously scratch at Blair’s nose, hidden away under all that hair. Jim intercepted it as, task completed, it began its descent, bringing it instead to his lips for a kiss. Blair’s skin tasted of sweat and sex and Blair. A sappy grin on his face, Jim decided it was his favorite flavor.

Lacing his fingers with Blair’s, Jim studied the hand he held. Blair had nice hands, he decided. Masculine, square, deft. Blair’s skin was smooth and healthy, betraying his relative youth. Turning Blair’s hand over, Jim noted a scar he’d seen many times before, though not up close – an ugly, raised mass on the inside of his wrist. Blair didn’t usually permit this kind of scrutiny – he preferred not to bring reminders of his ordeal to their bed, and tended to shy away from letting Jim see his scars at other times. But he was drifting, half-asleep as he basked in the afterglow, so Jim took advantage. Curious as to the origins of this injury, he zoomed in his vision to look at it more closely.

It looked like a series of parallel knife wounds, Jim decided. From the direction of the cuts, self-inflicted; although too shallow to be intentionally life-threatening. The scars were jagged and uneven, as though the knife used had been fairly blunt. Jim winced, frowning. It must have hurt like hell. Why the hell would Blair have done that to himself?

Zooming in closer, Jim noted a blue pigment under the minute bits of the skin that had not been shredded by the knife. And then he got it. There was a tattoo under this mess – a crude, blue-ink tattoo. These scars were the result of an attempt to obliterate it.

Blair stirred, turning his head to look at Jim. He frowned when he saw what Jim was looking at, and pulled his hand away. “Don’t do that, man,” he said.

“What was it?” Jim persisted, his voice soft. “The tattoo?”

For a moment, he was sure that Blair wouldn’t answer. The other man moved out of Jim’s embrace and turned his back, sitting on the edge of the bed as if at any moment he would flee, and Jim felt unutterably sad that, in this matter, Blair still did not feel able to confide in him.

But Blair surprised him, as he often did. “It happened on my second day in prison,” he confessed; his voice calm, but his heart pounding double-time. “They told me it was something everybody did – and hey, I got it, man. I was an anthropologist, after all. It was a rite of passage; a mark of belonging to the tribe.” He huffed a miserable little laugh, his back hunching as he curled in on himself. “They all had tattoos. Some of them – the lifers - even tattooed their faces, you know? So I went along with it, assuming that it would help me blend in. Not that they gave me much of a choice.”

Blair fell silent, so Jim prompted, “What happened?”

Blair shrugged. “There were four of them. Three of them held me down while the other did the tattoo. When I saw what it was they were putting on me, I tried to put a stop to it, but I hadn’t got a chance. It was four on one, and I’m not exactly Mister Muscle.”

“What did it say?” Jim asked. He got up as he spoke, and moved to sit next to Blair on the edge of the bed.

“What do you think it said?” Blair said bitterly. “You know what I was convicted of, what they thought I did. They marked me, man, so everybody would know. So that everybody would think I’d…that I was…”

He choked on the words, and Jim gathered him in.

They sat like that for a while, holding each other. Eventually Blair pulled away. He turned his wrist over, and ran a finger over the bumpy scar. “I did this when I was in solitary,” he admitted. “I just… I just wanted it gone.”

“It must have hurt,” Jim noted.

Blair smiled a little ruefully. “Yeah, it did.” He covered the scar with his palm. “It’s ugly, huh?”

Jim shook his head. He reached for Blair’s arm and raised it to his mouth, touching his lips to the unsightly ridges. “Nothing about you is ugly, Chief,” he said.

Blair grinned, suddenly; proving Jim right – he was achingly beautiful when he smiled. “You’re so full of shit, Ellison!” Then, in the next moment, Jim found himself swamped by an armful of Blair as he was pushed back down onto the bed. His guide’s smiling face, perfect and full of love, loomed over him; promising payback.

Squirming happily under the warm weight pressing him down to the bed, Jim submitted without a struggle, already achingly aroused at the thought of what was to come.

But deep inside, he nursed his anger and grief at what Blair had endured. And he made himself a promise: there would be payback of another kind, just as soon as the bastard who’d hurt his guide was caught.

***

Gluttony was a sin, or so they said. The man grinned, taking another dripping bite of the half-pound Wonderburger he held, ketchup oozing out and spattering like blood on the front of his shirt. Yeah, like he cared. There were far greater sins, and he’d indulged in all of them. And he was not done with it yet.

On the T.V. screen before him, the camera lingered on the face of a young, long-haired man, as he exited the Cascade central police precinct. His expression intrigued the watcher. Surprised; perhaps wary – just like he remembered. And proud – oh the pride in that face couldn’t be denied. Even when he was afraid, that one kept it together; held himself with dignity.

It was one of the things that made him desirable, and lingered in the memory.

Taking a swig of his beer as he lay in glorious sloth on the couch, the man watched the footage on the screen avidly. The lawyer, he decided, would need to be dealt with first. He was hovering protectively over the kid, reacting with anger to the reporters that swooped in to surround the pair of them; his physical presence intimidating and words cutting. Yes, he’d need to be dealt with. The other one would be easy to subdue, just so long as his legal bulldog was elsewhere; preferably dead.

After all, he’d subdued him before. And oh, the sweet memory.

If he’d known at the time that the boy was a guide, he’d never have knocked him out before fucking him. Guides were wanton and sensual - hell, everybody knew that. Touch them just right, and they’d dance for you; making you feel like the biggest fucking stud in the world. This time, therefore, he wanted to do it properly – sliding in between those slim, muscular thighs, hearing him moan, making the boy feel things he didn’t want to feel.

Making him want it.

The man squirmed, lost in a haze of lust. Yeah, this was going to be good.

On the screen, the lawyer was hustling the guide away, a proprietary hand on the small of his back. Watching their interaction enviously, the man imagined himself in the lawyer’s place. Touching the boy possessively like that, then taking him home and greedily lapping up all that he had to give.

The man wanted it so much, he hungered for it.

An artist’s rendering appeared on the screen, and the man grinned at the likeness. It was pretty close to how he looked, he had to admit; the kid had a damned good memory. He probably should have killed him at the time, he wryly acknowledged as he drained his beer, to avoid shit like this.

He’d meant to kill him, of course; it was just bad luck that he’d been disturbed before he’d gotten the chance. But Lady Luck had turned out to be on his side after all – the boy had been blamed in his place, and the irony of that still made him laugh out loud. So despite that drawing being flashed about all over the news, he still believed that his luck would hold. He was luck personified, after all.

And what the heck – the fact that the kid was still alive meant that he’d get another shot at him; which was great, because he didn’t usually get to plow the same field twice. And remembering the sweetness of the boy’s immobile body, and imagining that same body squirming underneath him, crying out, wanting it, wanting more, wanting him…

Soon, he promised himself fervently, cramming what was left of the Wonderburger into his mouth. He moved his hand down to his crotch, rubbing urgently at the desperate ache beneath his ratty sweatpants before sliding his hand inside. Oh yeah, soon. As he worked himself, a picture of the guide’s face, frozen in exquisite agony, rose up in his mind. And in the next second his body convulsed, fireworks going off behind his eyelids and his toes curling in rapture. “Yeah,” he panted as he came. “Oh, yeah!”

After wiping his soiled hand on the cushions, he reached for another beer and cracked the tab. He took a swig of it, and nodded.

It would definitely have to be soon.

***

Blair followed in Jim’s wake through the impressive house. “This is my father’s study,” Jim was telling him, indicating a door on the right, through which a massive antique desk and book-lined walls could be seen. “Whenever Stephen and I got called in there when we were kids, boy, we knew we were in trouble.”

Feeling uncomfortable and more than a little bit out of his depth at the conspicuous wealth of it all, Blair asked, “Your dad knows we’re here, right? I mean, he doesn’t mind that you brought me here?”

Jim gave him a sideways look. “Yeah, he knows. He suggested it, actually. I told him I wanted to do something nice for you, to celebrate our anniversary, and he offered us the run of this house for the weekend.”

“Oh.” Blair shrugged. “Okay.”

Jim frowned. “What’s wrong, Chief? I mean, I thought you’d enjoy it – a chance to get away, just the two of us. This place is really private and secure, and the facilities are great. There’s a swimming pool, a hot tub; hell, even a basketball court.”

“No, no! Jim, it’s really nice, man. It’s just…” Blair hesitated. “It’s just, you don’t talk much about your past, and I only met your dad once. He didn’t seem all that… thrilled that we got together. It seems strange to be here, in his space. That’s all.”

Jim looked away for a moment, a pained expression crossing his face. “It wasn’t you, Blair, that bothered him. It’s the whole sentinel thing. He spent so many years denying what I was, making me deny it, that it came as a bit of a shock to him when he found out that I’d finally bonded, and was living openly as a sentinel. I guess meeting my guide finally convinced him that things had changed for good, and that he’d just have to adjust.”

That made sense, Blair supposed, of the cold shoulder he’d gotten a few weeks ago when he’d visited Jim at the office, and encountered William Ellison for the first time. The guy had been frostily polite, and had not wasted any time in excusing himself from Blair’s company. Blair had assumed it was because of the usual stuff – he was no stranger to people being uncomfortable around him, or even downright rude on occasion. He’d gotten used to taking it in his stride, for the most part.

Jim was moving on through the spacious hallway, and Blair followed him through a couple of doors and into a big, modern kitchen. Wanting to know more – wishing for Jim to open up just a little bit about the things that, after a year, Blair still didn’t really know about him - he ventured, “So, your dad is the reason, huh, that you went underground?”

“Yeah, at first.” Jim moved over to the counter, and lifted an open bottle of white wine out of a bucket of ice. Neatly pouring it into two gleaming cut-crystal glasses, he elaborated, “Sentinels run in the family, Chief. My uncle James – my dad’s older brother – was a sentinel too. He was drafted, and he got killed overseas on active service before I was born. I guess my dad didn’t want to lose me the same way.” Jim came over, and handed a glass to Blair, before leaning back casually against the kitchen island beside them. “He told me, right from being a kid, that to remain free, I had to hide what I was.”

“So you did.” Blair took a sip of wine. It was delicious, and probably far more expensive than any he’d tasted back in the pre-Jim days. Hell, or ever.

“So I did,” Jim agreed, sniffing delicately at his own wine before sampling it. “To be honest, he didn’t give me a whole lot of choice - I spent my entire childhood being forced to hide the fact that I had heightened senses. And when I got old enough to go my own way, I carried on hiding it, and he kept on pushing me to keep it a secret. I grew up, went to law school, became an attorney; all of which he approved of. Then I started to specialize in sentinel and guide law, and he went ape.” Jim smiled ruefully. “He thought I was taking too many chances; especially when I started working for the movement to abolish the draft, and taking on high-profile cases like yours. He was convinced I would be found out and get drafted. Eventually we had a big argument, and went our separate ways. That day you bumped into him at the office was the first time we’d seen each other in years.”

“Wow.” That was more than Blair had ever heard Jim say about his father in the whole year since they’d been bonded. “I guess the sentinel gene slipped by your brother, huh?”

“Yeah, Stephen is disgustingly normal.” Jim grinned, taking the sting out of his words. “The next time he’s home from Europe, I’ll introduce you.”

“That’d be good.” Blair had spoken to Stephen briefly on the phone, on a couple of occasions that he’d called when Jim had been out. He’d seemed pretty nice.

“I guess,” Jim said, putting his glass down on the counter, “that my dad actually made my life what it is. If he hadn’t made me keep my secret from day one - and man, he was really tough on me when I slipped up – I’d never have remained free, and I wouldn’t be the man I am now.” He smiled softly at Blair. “Worst of all, I’d never have met you.”

The consequences of that didn’t bear thinking about. “Then we both owe him our thanks,” Blair said fervently. Memories – of their emotional first bonding exactly one year ago, and the nightmare that came before – rose up in him, making his voice husky with emotion. “I guess he saved both of us, man.” Lifting his glass, Blair saluted Jim’s absent father. “To our savior.”

“Our savior,” Jim murmured, lifting his glass and joining Blair in the toast.

***

Now that they were one year into their bond, things were going great; on the surface, at least. Blair had successfully completed the first semester of his law degree, and was adjusting well to freedom generally. The movement for the liberalization of sentinel and guide laws, which Jim still devoted much of his time to, had achieved a number of notable successes. Despite the fact they still had a long way to go on all fronts, there were certainly many things to be celebrated.

But a dark cloud constantly hovered over them, nevertheless. It bothered Jim more than he could say that, despite the artist’s impression of the murderer that had been circulated several months ago, Blair’s attacker – and the murderer of four children - was still on the loose.

Jim had spoken to Captain Banks about it, of course. Frequently, and in the strongest possible terms. Banks, to be fair, was doing his best. Unable to divulge actual details, he had let enough slip to reassure Jim that the case was still priority number one in his department. More to the point, Banks treated Blair with kindness and respect, which was more than most people did. Blair and Simon – as Jim’s guide persisted in calling him – continued to meet for coffee on occasion, the two of them having struck up an incongruous friendship. Jim was even beginning to like the man himself, and suspected that the feeling was mutual; but they were both far too professional to admit it.

But the lack of progress was worrying. The guy who had raped and killed four children, as well as hurting Blair so badly, was still out there. Despite the fact that there had been no further murders either in Seattle or Cascade, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t strike again.

Sentinel that he was, it made Jim wary. He constantly monitored their surroundings, and hated to let Blair out of his sight – no matter how much that was necessary for them both to pursue their lives. It didn’t help that, since the release of the artists impression, the press had been dogging their footsteps again. There were always too many strangers on the periphery, watching their every move, and that made it hard for Jim to accurately assess levels of threat. Banks’ assurance that the psychological profile of the killer did not indicate he would be likely to target Blair, did not reassure Jim in the slightest.

That was why, on the first anniversary of both Blair’s freedom and their initial bonding, he’d brought Blair here, to his father’s house – so that they could relax far from prying eyes, secure from the amorphous sense of threat which constantly preyed on Jim’s nerves. The house was bordered by a high electric fence, and the high-tech security system was second to none.

Not that Jim planned to rely on electronic security alone. Despite intending for this to be down-time for both of them, his senses still roamed free at intervals, patrolling their surroundings, watching for anything – or anyone – that should not be there.

***

This, Blair had to concede, was sheer bliss.

A hard jet pounded aching shoulder muscles as he lounged back in the hot tub, his legs tangled with Jim’s, who was sitting across from him. The sentinel had a look of unabashed amusement on his face, as he watched Blair writhe in sensual ecstasy in the bubbling water.

“Oh, man!” Blair groaned happily, for what had to be the millionth time, his skin tingling with sensation and his muscles being pummeled into languid heaven. “Oh man, that feels so good!”

“You don’t say, Chief,” Jim put in dryly, grinning.

Blair closed his eyes and let out a long, convulsive sigh, relaxing totally into the sensation. He was vaguely aware of Jim moving, his legs disentangling from Blair’s. A moment later, a big, hard, wet body blanketed him, pressing him back even further against the jets.

“I take it back,” Blair gasped, as he felt Jim’s tongue lick his neck, and his hands get busy in other places. “That wasn’t bliss. This is bliss!”

***

The feeling of Blair in his arms, his skin still water-soft and his body profoundly relaxed after their bonding in the heat, the steam and the bubbles, was the best thing that Jim could imagine.

“It’s really good to be here, man,” Blair murmured, his voice rumbling deeply through Jim’s body. The two of them were curled up together on a king-sized bed, loosely wrapped in soft terrycloth bathrobes; the downy comforter a springy, hedonistic delight underneath them. “And… it’s good that your dad is okay with this. With us. I…” he hesitated. “I’d really like to see him again, you know? To say hi, properly. As long as doesn’t mind that.”

“He’d like to see you, too,” Jim assured him, stroking through the still-damp hairs which curled softly down the centre of Blair’s breastbone. “That day he met you – well, it was a big thing, him getting back in touch with me like that. He wasn’t in the best frame of mind when you came in. He was just startled, is all.”

“Yeah,” Blair agreed. “I understand.”

Curious – after all, Blair had been hedging around the subject for as long as he’d known him – Jim asked, “You ever going to talk about your family, Chief? I mean, you told me that you were raised by your mom, and that you’ve been looking after yourself since you were sixteen. But you’ve never said more than that.” Jim had also learned that no one had visited Blair when he was in prison, so either his mother was dead, or they were estranged.

Blair stiffened momentarily in his arms, his pulse jumping. But perhaps the all-pervading sense of safety that surrounded them after bonding loosened his tongue, despite whatever unhappy memories this line of inquiry was bringing up. “My mom was a guide,” he admitted. “I don’t know who my father is.”

Ah, so Blair’s mother was dead, then; and that explained why he’d never mentioned his father. “Was, Chief?”

There was a long pause. Then, “Is, I guess. Maybe.” Blair swallowed. “She was drafted, just after I went to Rainier. Someone must have gotten suspicious and informed on her. From what her friends told me, it was a trap – she thought the guy she was going to meet was a sentinel who needed a temporary bond, but he was an undercover army recruiter. I… we’ve had no contact since they took her away. I have no idea where she is now, or if she’s dead or alive.”

“Oh, Chief.” No wonder Blair never mentioned her – this had to be a source of enormous grief. But it begged a question. “How come no one came looking for you, after she was taken? They must have found out she had a son.”

Blair laughed. “Hey, man, Naomi was totally anti-establishment. She made sure, as soon as I was born, that there was nothing legally tying us together, so that if either of us was ever caught, the other would have a chance of staying free. Sure, if they’d ever gotten suspicious enough to bring me in for a DNA test, then they’d have known I was hers, and that I was a guide too. But she was smart and careful, and she knew people who could forge documents really, really well.” There was a note of pride in his voice. “She raised me to be independent, and encouraged me to think for myself. And she absolutely taught me everything I needed to know about how to get by as an unregistered guide. She was amazing, man.”

There was something defeatist about Blair’s persistent use of the word ‘was’, which bothered Jim deeply – it was as though Blair had already long-since accepted that his mom was dead, when she might very well still be alive. “You know,” Jim said carefully, “I could find out where she is - even military guides are entitled to legal representation. And in any case, there’s a bill coming up before Congress soon. If the new law goes through, as we expect, all former rogue sentinels and guides who have been punitively drafted will be given the option to retire on a pension. If your mom is still alive, and if her sentinel is willing to make the move too, she could be free inside a year. She’s gonna need a good lawyer to help her make the transition, as well as someone to turn to on the outside.”

It was a few moments before Jim realized that Blair was silently crying.

***

The watcher outside the gates eyed the impenetrable defenses which surrounded his quarry, and frowned. He’d have to spring the trap another day, it seemed.

At least finding more bait wouldn’t be a problem.

Continued in Part 3

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Sentinel Justice 1/4 (slash)

2007-08-13T17:32:31Z

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Navigation: This story is posted in four parts. The other parts are here: 2, 3, 4

Summary: Blair Sandburg is in prison, convicted of a crime he did not commit. Three and a half years into his sentence he meets a criminal defence attorney called Jim Ellison, who offers to take his case to appeal - for a price.

Author's Note: This is a 'sentinels and guides are known' bonding AU, minus the slavery (although there are civil rights issues for both sentinels and guides). It was previously posted in parts to sentinel_thurs, with each part following the challenge prompt for that week. This version has been edited and slightly re-written.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to everyone who read and commented on the story as it was being serialised at sentinel_thurs. Thanks especially to laurie_ky, whose inciteful comments helped shape the final product (one of the greatest advantages of writing by WIP ;-)).

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Child abuse, rape, murder

Sentinel Justice
By Fluterbev

August 2007

Blair started in surprise as his cell door was unexpectedly unlocked; the echoing bangs and rasps of the mechanism being disengaged dragging him, heart pounding, out of the fantasy world of his book and back into dreary reality.

As the door opened Blair breathed deeply, mastering his reaction with force of will. It was still several hours before his scheduled hour in the exercise yard and, apart from meals being slid through the hatch under the door at intervals, that was the only part of each long, interminable day of his incarceration that he generally had any human contact.

This solitary confinement, tedious and lonely as it was, was for his own protection, he was forced to acknowledge. The few nightmare months he’d spent in the general wing with the regular prisoners had ensured that he understood that fact very well.

“Sandburg,” the guard revealed in the doorway barked. It was Rosenbaum – the one whose hard shell had never once cracked in front of Blair the whole time he’d been in here. “On your feet.”

Putting down his book carefully, Blair stood. “What’s going on, man?” he asked. He couldn’t help the little nervous jump in his voice – breaks in his routine scared him like nothing else, because they usually heralded something bad.

More than a few times, they had resulted in something very bad indeed.

He was totally unprepared for what Rosenbaum said next, therefore. “You have a visitor.”

Blair blinked. “I have a what?” No one, in the three years, five months and fifteen days that Blair had been in prison, had ever visited him. “Who?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Rosenbaum, as ever, was unmoved by Blair’s obvious shock. “Get out here, now!”

As Blair scrambled to obey, submitting to being frisked and holding out his hands passively for the cuffs, his mind whirred in confusion.

Who in the world would visit him?

***

Blair’s confusion was not at all lessened when a complete stranger - a tall, striking-looking man, dressed in a tailor-made suit and carrying a briefcase – walked into the interview room.

The man sat down opposite, piercing blue eyes in an otherwise unexpressive face fixing themselves on Blair. “Jim Ellison,” the man announced, holding out a hand to shake. “I’m a criminal defense attorney.”

“Blair Sandburg,” Blair said, holding out his own hand as far as the cuff – now secured to the table – would allow, to take the other man’s hand in his own. He laughed, a little nervously. “But I guess you already know that, huh?” He released the other’s dry, firm grip almost reluctantly. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him in any way but violently or intrusively, and something about the simple act of shaking hands – even with both of his own restrained – touched him in an oddly profound way.

It was just one more indication, he acknowledged sadly, that life would never be the same for him again.

“I know a lot of things,” Ellison responded, as their hands drifted apart, his eyes intent on Blair’s face. “But there’s one thing I’m still not a hundred per cent sure about. One thing I need you to tell me, face to face, so I can be certain.”

“And that is?” Blair prompted, squirming a little uncomfortably under that focused stare.

Ellison smiled, his austere face softening imperceptivity, though his gaze remained fixed on Blair. “I want to know,” he said, “if you did it.”

Blair’s heart sank. “What does it matter?” He looked away; his entire being urging him to flee, run, hide. He longed suddenly for the seclusion, the safety, of his cell. “I was convicted by a jury,” he went on, refusing to look at Ellison. “As far as the law is concerned, I’m guilty, man.” He swallowed, a hard lump of bitterness he’d thought buried forever rising to the surface nevertheless. “So yeah, I guess I did it.”

Despite Blair’s refusal to look at him, Ellison’s quiet voice pressed the point, his soft tone merciless. “You pleaded not guilty, yet you raised no defense at your trial,” he pointed out. “Why was that?”

A tiny spark of something – perhaps a ghost of the man he once was – caused Blair to look back at the lawyer. Determined suddenly to meet Ellison stare for stare, despite feeling a lot like a rodent caught in the mesmerizing gaze of a snake, he said coldly, “You said you know a lot. If you know so much, man, then you know why.” Blair laughed, the sound totally devoid of happiness. “Hell, I’m a guide – worse than that, I’m a guide who evaded the draft, which they inevitably discovered after I was arrested. My word was meaningless after that. There is no way, after staying in the closet so long – after hiding what I am for my whole life, and refusing to enlist – that they’d find me anything other than guilty. No defense lawyer, no matter how good, could have gotten me through that.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ellison pointed out. “I know the verdict. I’ve studied the trial transcript, talked to the witnesses and looked at the evidence. What I want to know is what you have to say.” To Blair’s astonishment Ellison reached out to catch one of Blair’s cuffed hands in his own. His grip was oddly comforting and, perversely, Blair savored it; his own touch-starved hand lapping up the sensation. “Did you do it, Chief?”

Caught in that intent gaze, and held in Ellison’s secure grasp, Blair’s determination melted away. “No,” he gasped out, lost and needy in a way he’d thought was beyond him, after all these years. “I didn’t do it.”

Ellison cocked his head a moment, as if listening. Then he smiled, his eyes crinkling. “I believe you,” he said simply. “And I’m going to get you out of here. There’s enough evidence to take your case to appeal - and I’m certain, if you take me on as your attorney, that we can win.”

“Why?” Bitterness rose to the surface. This was all a lie – it had to be. There was no hope for someone like him – Blair couldn’t afford to hope, not ever. “Why the hell should you believe me, when no one else does?”

“Do you honestly think,” Ellison responded patiently - his eyes frighteningly kind and his hand still holding Blair’s firmly - the touch a conflict of comfort and hope and despair - “that you are the only one who’s ever been in the closet?”

And then, suddenly, Blair got it. Ellison was a sentinel.

That’s why Ellison needed Blair to say it, and why he’d held on to his hand – so he could gauge the veracity of Blair’s words with his senses. That also explained, no doubt, Blair’s instinctive desire to cling back to the hand which held his in such an incongruously comforting way, despite them never having met before today - the strong, genetic urge for tactile contact between sentinel and guide.

Not only that; if Ellison was in the closet like Blair, as he had implied, then that meant that he was an unregistered sentinel. One who, perhaps, had gotten to a time in his life where he desperately needed a guide to help him to maintain control, but who had never been willing to sign away his life the way sentinels and guides were expected to do, by enlisting in the military.

That was something Blair understood very well.

But his time in prison, if it had taught Blair anything at all, had shown him that what appeared to be altruism rarely proved to be that in actuality. “What’s the payoff?” he demanded, already guessing what the answer might be. “I mean, you’re not doing this for nothing, right?”

“You’re a smart guy, Sandburg.” Ellison released Blair’s hand, leaving him feeling oddly bereft in its wake. “You and I, we have something in common. Something we both need, but which is almost impossible to get unless you sell your soul to Uncle Sam. You want out of here – and I can give you that. And I need…” he pointedly left the sentence unfinished.

Blair swallowed. Bonding was something he’d never wanted, the associated compulsory enlisting into the military for sentinels and guides something he’d spoken out against his entire life. He’d always regarded it as little more than legalized slavery. A life sentence; no better than jail.

But Blair was in jail already, his life effectively over. He truly had nothing left to lose – and what Ellison was offering, if Blair had understood him correctly, was bonding without the trappings – the legality of which was, admittedly, questionable; but hey, he’d at least have a lawyer on his side.

Blair met Ellison’s gaze resignedly. “I accept your terms,” he said.

Ellison nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. He stood, towering over Blair – an imposing figure, this lawyer-sentinel. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Keep your chin up, Chief.” And with that, he picked up his briefcase, went through the door and was gone.

Left shaken and reeling in his wake, Blair waited to be taken back to his cell, his cuffed hands trembling with terrified hope.

***

Walking cuffed into the packed courtroom to take his place beside Ellison, and seeing the various expressions – disgust, anger, sheer hate – on the faces of those who had turned to watch his entrance, Blair felt like a deer caught in the headlights; or perhaps more accurately a deer caught in the predatory gaze of a hungry pack of wolves, who wanted nothing more than to tear out his throat. Cringing under their regard, he longed right now for nothing more than to be back in his cell – hidden away from public view; hiding in turn from a world which loathed and vilified him.

The moment he’d emerged from the prison van to be hustled in here, albeit through a side entrance to avoid the bulk of the waiting press and the potential threat posed by the massive crowd, he had been blinded by the flashes of the one or two tenacious photographers who had found their way back there anyway. The guards who had transported him from the prison were no-nonsense guys, professional, just doing their job. It was not for particular care of Blair that they hustled him inside quickly and away from the vultures outside, but rather that they were competent and took pride in their work.

“Thanks, guys,” Blair was moved to say anyway, as they deposited him in the cell he was obliged to wait in until it was time to go into the courtroom. He was neither surprised nor disappointed not to get an answer. But hey, praise where it was due. They’d treated him more humanely than most, and that was something he truly appreciated.

Now, as Blair approached the table where he was to sit for the duration of his re-trial, Ellison stood to greet him, his cool gaze fixed on Blair’s face. Once their eyes met, Blair couldn’t look away; feeling himself drawn to the immaculately groomed lawyer like a fish on a pole - hooked by the lure of the sentinel who was his only advocate in the world.

Ellison put out a hand to guide Blair to his seat, the touch burning Blair through his suit like a brand. “Hey, Chief,” Ellison greeted softly, as Blair sat down. “You doing okay?

Blair could only nod nervously, hyper-aware of the sentinel’s touch. As if he knew that, Ellison kept his hand there once they were both seated; a heavy, hot weight, anchoring Blair relentlessly to the present.

Things moved fast after that, once the court was in session. The case for the prosecution was short and succinct – there was nothing additional or different from Blair’s last appearance, when he’d been found guilty of Emily Bullock’s rape and murder - which had been, effectively, an open and shut case, since he had not attempted to defend himself.

Blair knew that Ellison was appalled that he had given up so easily. But Blair recognized that, at the time, he’d not been anywhere close to his right mind, injured and in deep shock as he’d been. He’d seen a lawyer, sure; one who had been assigned to him by the State. But even she had believed him guilty, so in the end, frightened and hurting and just desperate for it all to be over, Blair had decided it wasn’t worth it. He was going to do the time anyway, if what everyone said was right – so what was the point of fighting it? Plus, there was perhaps some sense, deep down, that he deserved to be punished. Emily Bullock had been violated and killed right there beside him, and he hadn’t done a thing to stop it – no matter that he had hardly been in a position to do so at the time.

This time, just like the last, the prosecution did not even bother to call Blair to the stand, letting the evidence they presented and his lack of defense at the first trial stand for itself as an admission of guilt. And Blair’s heart sank at the feeling of déjà vu he experienced during their summing up, dreading deep down that this was all just a waste of time, and that rehashing it like this would change nothing.

But today proved to be entirely different. Once the lawyer for the prosecution concluded, Blair watched, mesmerized, as Ellison presented the case for his defense - and what a virtuoso performance it was.

The guy was a master at his craft – imposing and eloquent, with a knife-edge intellect which he knew exactly how to stick in and twist. Ellison’s sardonic smile and biting sarcasm exposed every flaw in procedure, and every bit of institutional prejudice that Blair, as an unregistered guide, had been subjected to.

Blair was portrayed as a hard-working, ethical young man, without a single blemish on his character, apart from one simple thing – the fact that he was a guide in hiding, for which he had been condemned right at the start. The lawyer called in expert witnesses who cast damning doubt on the forensic evidence which formed the core of the prosecution’s case, thoroughly discrediting the lax methods of the officers who had omitted to properly investigate the crime scene, just as soon as they discovered that the semi-conscious man beside the body of the dead girl was an unregistered guide.

When Blair finally took the stand to give his own testimony, Ellison led him through his recollection of events methodically, pushing firmly when he had to, his voice soft but his methods very, very thorough. There was hardly a sound in the packed courtroom as Blair answered Ellison’s often painful questions, feeling oddly as he focused on the face of his attorney that there was no one here but the two of them, lost together in a battle for Blair’s soul. Blair had to stop frequently, especially when Ellison touched upon what he’d witnessed at the murder scene, and what he’d gone through there himself. And on two occasions the judge actually asked him, in an incongruously kind voice, if he would like to take a recess. But Blair ploughed on regardless, desperate to get this over with once and for all.

The prosecution had no questions for him, and Blair wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He was inclined to believe the latter, because the former was simply unthinkable – optimism was a dangerous emotion, in circumstances like these.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was the inevitable wait while the jury deliberated. The last time, Blair remembered, it hadn’t taken long at all, which had proved to be a very bad sign indeed. Now, locked up alone once more back in the holding cell, Blair sweated and fidgeted, wishing they’d just get it over with and take him back to prison. Because no matter what, he could not allow himself to hope. He truly wished this whole nightmare was just over, so that he could retreat back to his familiar cell. At least in there, no-one looked at him with hate in their eyes, because with the exception of the expressionless guards who took him out once a day for his hour of exercise, no-one ever looked at him at all.

He was called back into the courtroom after just twenty minutes – which was only half the time it had taken the first jury to reach a verdict. Trembling, Blair took his place next to Ellison, starting when the attorney’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Easy, Chief,” Ellison murmured, squeezing reassuringly. “It’s gonna be okay.” But Blair failed to find comfort in the touch – a touch which, in just a few more moments, could be denied him forever.

The touch remained, nevertheless, as the jury filed back in; Ellison holding Blair firmly in his steadying grasp. His hand only fell away when Blair stood, shaking, to hear his fate.

Then Ellison’s hand returned, securing him like a lifeline, when Blair sat back down in utter shock after being found not guilty - his sentence quashed. It stayed there, holding him together when the judge apologized to him sincerely for the gross miscarriage of justice he had suffered. It kept him anchored while the judge went on to call, in the strongest possible terms, for an urgent inquiry into discriminatory police practices, which had led to an innocent victim being wrongfully convicted for the sin of being a guide who had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

By the time they exited the court by the front door, the hundreds of cameras that greeted them flashing dissonantly in an eerie counterpoint to the electrical storm which was moving in overhead, the firm grip on his shoulder was the only thing keeping Blair from dissolving into a million, fractured pieces.

***

The storm was in full flight by the time that they finally reached sanctuary, blessedly away from the crowds and the reporters and the huge, terrifyingly open sky.

Ellison’s apartment building was in a converted warehouse, a high-ceilinged loft apartment on the top floor of the complex. Passively allowing himself to be led inside, Blair tried to subdue a sense of intense loss as Ellison’s hand fell away so he could take off his coat. The other man’s almost constant touch had become a craving; awaking a frightening, desperate need in Blair that he could barely control.

Ellison was back in seconds, though; his hands divesting Blair of his suit jacket, deft fingers brushing Blair’s skin with an almost electrical current as he began to unbutton Blair’s shirt. “You denied yourself this,” Ellison murmured, his predatory face, beautiful, like an alabaster god, illuminated in intermittent flashes of lightning.

“I had no choice.” Blair was lost, consumed with need and want, shaking as, button by button, his body was revealed. “I couldn’t… I…”

Ellison moved nearer, now the shirt was undone, his hands sliding under it and around Blair’s waist, making him gasp with indescribable sensation as skin met skin. “You need this,” Ellison whispered, pulling Blair close, his crisp shirt rasping against Blair’s bare chest. A mouth, hot, wet, possessive, pressed against Blair’s throat.

“I didn’t… I was….” Words caught in his throat.

But Ellison seemed to understand. Holding Blair tightly against him, his mouth forcing bone-deep shudders from Blair as it moved against his ear and his hands like hot irons where they pressed against his back, he said, “You had to hide it. Hide that you were a guide. To subdue your own needs, to allow you to stay free.”

“Yes,” Blair whimpered. Guides needed touch – craved it, thrived from it. It was essential to their well-being; as vital as air, or water. Blair had always endeavored to control his own natural urges, using meditation and herbal suppressants to subdue it. It was a total myth that unbonded guides could not control themselves; most of the ones who had avoided the draft, like Blair, were absolutely forced to, to avoid detection.

It wasn’t just detection that guides were afraid of – it was the prejudice they inevitably faced. Negative assumptions tended to be made about the need of guides for touch. Unbonded guides were sometimes promiscuous, which laid them open to charges of perversion, as well as a common assumption that guides were sexual predators - although in reality, it was often guides themselves who were preyed upon, their involuntary responses to tactile stimulation making them vulnerable to exploitation and abuse.

That was the reason, of course, that Blair’s guilt had immediately been assumed. An unbonded guide – a pervert by nature – found beside the dead body of a violated child. What else was anyone supposed to think? The evidence that he had been violated too while he’d been unconscious had been dismissed without a second thought. He was a guide, and that was enough to make him guilty, in most people’s eyes.

Ellison moved back, the withdrawal of his touch making Blair shudder with want. But Blair held himself still, watching in tense anticipation as Ellison unbuttoned his own shirt, the hard, muscular topography of his chest standing out in relief as flashes lit the loft; the thunder rolling overhead not quite drowning out the throbbing pulse which echoed so urgently through Blair.

Once his shirt was off, Ellison’s hands moved down to his pants and paused there, his eyes asking a question – leaving Blair certain that this was not a man who would take what Blair was not willing to give. In answer, Blair reached down and unzipped his own pants; the two of them moving after that in concert to undress completely.

It only took a few seconds. Then Ellison pressed up against Blair once again, the shock of full body skin-to-skin contact making Blair cry out convulsively. It was too much… not enough... too much… it had been so long…

“They tried to take this from you,” Ellison told him, holding him through it, his skin, his voice - his understanding - balm to a body and soul severely in need. “What they did, locking you up alone, was cruel in the extreme. This is who you are, Blair. This is what you are. You need this. And now, you’ve got it. You’ve got me.”

Helpless in Ellison’s embrace, shuddering with almost unbearable sensation, Blair gasped, knowing now why bonding was the answer. This touch – a sentinel’s touch – was nothing like the sexual encounters he’d sought in the past, the ones he’d allowed himself when the meditation and the drugs were just not enough. This, instead, was everything and more; cream instead of buttermilk, platinum instead of silver.

He was barely aware of them moving, heading together up a flight of stairs to an open-plan bedroom to fall together onto a wide, soft bed. All he knew was Ellison’s skin and his firm, deft touch, as he gave Blair what he needed, what he’d been deprived of not just for the past four years, but for his entire life.

Blair cried out over and over, lost in ecstatic sensation, straining to be even closer. “Please… please…” he begged. He didn’t know what he was asking for, but Ellison held him through it, pressing him to the bed, his strength more than enough to hold Blair together, even as he felt himself flying apart.

It lasted for hours, that desperate craving to be touched and held and just – god – to have Ellison right there; breaking him apart and putting him back together time and time again. And all the way through it, the sentinel stayed with him, soothing, comforting; giving him what he needed, and taking back for himself what Blair freely offered.

By end of it, they were no longer attorney and ex-con; no longer just Ellison and Sandburg.

They were Jim and Blair; lovers.

Sentinel and guide; bonded for life.

***

Laying his briefcase on the table beside the door and hanging up his coat, Jim cast his senses around the airy loft apartment, seeking his roommate. He located him in the small bedroom under the stairs, reading a book as usual, if the sound of pages turning was anything to go by.

Jim sighed. It was nearly four months now since Blair had been freed. Despite the fact that they had shared Jim’s bed upstairs from day one – bonding by mutual consent immediately, with Blair so desperate for the comfort of touch that neither of them could wait - Blair still tended to retreat to that small, confined place when Jim was not around.

He’d left prison, but prison had still not entirely left him.

Blair was sprawled across the small futon. He looked up as Jim entered the room, startlingly blue eyes blinking owlishly from behind round-framed glasses as he surfaced from whatever weighty tome he had been lost in. “Hey,” Blair said huskily in greeting, his voice still a little hoarse from three years of disuse spent in solitary confinement, as Jim sank down beside him. “Have a good day?”

Jim leaned down to kiss Blair, breathing deeply of the guide scent he craved so much. As he did so, he felt the stress of hours in court evaporate and disappear, replaced by a rush of tenderness and love which this wounded, brave young man always inspired in him. “I won the case,” he said, pulling way from Blair’s soft, luscious mouth after a few delicious, restorative moments. “Reynolds caved under cross-examination, and Brody went home a free man.”

“You always win,” Blair said admiringly, one hand reaching up to stroke Jim’s face tenderly, his own love for Jim clear in his eyes and touch.

Truthfully, he was right – Jim had never yet lost a case. There were certain advantages to being a sentinel and practicing criminal law – there was never any doubt who was guilty and who was innocent. It was simply a matter, after that was established, of making sure the right avenues were pursued, the right questions asked and the right evidence presented.

What a waste, Jim thought bitterly, that most sentinels had been forced to use their skills to fight wars, when so many other worthwhile things – careers in law, health and a variety of other professions - could be pursued with their senses instead.

At least he’d managed to evade the draft and remain free to pursue his chosen career, no matter that he’d been forced to hide his true nature until now. Thankfully, hiding was no longer an issue. Changes in the law had recently come into force which removed the legal compulsion for sentinels and guides to enlist in the military – changes that he had been influential in getting put into place himself. Both Blair and he were now free to live openly as sentinel and guide, without having to constantly look over their shoulders for fear of being picked up and shipped off to boot camp.

Catching Blair’s hand in his own, Jim rose, and pulled his partner up with him. “Did you go out today?” he asked, hoping that Blair had managed to do so. Blair still suffered from various after-effects of his incarceration, and being outside or alone with strangers was not always easy for him.

But today, it seemed, had been a good day. Blair’s eyes sparkled. “I went over to Rainier, man. Professor Stoddard said I can start back on my anthropology degree as soon as I’m ready.”

“That’s great, Chief!” Jim was truly delighted – going back to school and reclaiming what was rightfully his, could only be good for Blair, after all that he had had taken from him.

But Blair looked nervous instead of pleased. “Um, I told him no.”

Jim wasn’t sure he heard right. “What? Why did you do that?”

“I, uh, decided on a change of direction. Hey,” Blair said, when Jim moved to interrupt. “Hear me out, man. Okay?” When Jim nodded, he carried on. “I’m your guide, right? I need to be with you, Jim. Sentinels and guides, they are meant to work together. But that’s not all.”

Blair looked at Jim earnestly. “Being in prison – it changed me, Jim. I’m not who I was back when I was an anthropologist. I can’t go back – because that is just not me any more. I need to move forward. And what I want – what I desperately need – is to make sure no one else ever goes through what I went through.”

Jim could see where this was going, but he needed to hear Blair say it. “So, what have you decided?”

“So I, uh, I transferred to the law department. The new semester starts next week.” Blair grinned. “As part of my studies, I’m gonna be looking for a little work experience at some point down the line. You, uh, you wouldn’t know of a good law firm, which might have an opening for a rookie, would you?”

Jim smiled, feeling something absolutely right click into place. Days like today, where the sights and sounds and smells of a crowded court room were only cured when he got home to his guide could, if Blair joined him in partnership, become a thing of the past. And Blair – well, Jim was sure he’d make a damned fine lawyer. Together, they could be an unbeatable team, championing the rights of sentinels and guides from within a system that still discriminated against them. The law might have changed, but there was still plenty of prejudice around.

Jim reached out, and drew Blair towards him. “I could ask around,” he teased, cupping his guide’s ass. “I might even be interested myself. It would depend on what the rookie could offer by way of incentives.”

Blair licked his lips in clear invitation. “I could think of a few things,” he said suggestively, his own hands wandering in kind. “Maybe I could, uh, give you a practical demonstration. Like, say, now?”

“That would be acceptable, I guess,” Jim conceded generously.

A little while later, Jim looked lovingly at the sated, relaxed guide in his bed, all the fear and horror of the last few years of Blair's life erased in the security of his sentinel’s arms.

Jim pressed a loving kiss to Blair’s brow. “You’re hired,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, snuggling close. “And now, the defense rests.”

“Oh, man,” Blair groaned. “You did not just say that!”

***

This room was smaller than his cell, Blair considered, as he peered around in the dim light. A different shape, of course – made for a different purpose.

He was still in the process of learning all of the closet’s detail, still memorizing its dimensions and contents. By contrast, it hadn’t taken him half as long to learn his cell intimately – if he closed his eyes, he could still clearly see every single flaw in the paintwork, the cracked surface of the sink, and the scratched initials of previous occupants in the window frame. Except during lights-out, the cell hadn’t been dim; unlike this place, which was illuminated only by the crack of light seeping in under the door. For fourteen hours of every day, his cell had been filled with harsh electric light, starkly revealing every fissure in the walls, every crack. It was no wonder that, despite having left it, he still knew its every feature almost better than he knew his own name.

Outside the door of his current bolt hole, he could hear the raised voice of the man he had run from; the big police captain, who had come, no doubt, to take him back. The man’s shouted words were muffled and indistinct, but the anger in them was clear. Relegating the sound to the back of his mind, Blair focused instead on minutiae. He noted that the mop and bucket had been used recently - it had been moved from its usual position, the smell of wet floor cleaner mingling with the fusty smell of disuse. Other than that one change, it was clear that nothing else had been touched in here since Blair’s last visit.

Blair felt some considerable satisfaction in having discovered such a secure, private place in the midst of the busy campus. Only he, it seemed, and an unknown nocturnal janitor, appeared to be aware of its existence. It was a skill Blair prided himself on - ever since his first few months in prison, he’d gotten good at finding secret hiding places.

It was just a shame that this one was destined to be so short lived.

Blair’s mind drifted inevitably back to his former residence. Absently, he wondered if, once he was put back in there, he’d be given the same, familiar cell, or if some other poor shmuck had been incarcerated in it now. He shuddered at the possibility that he might have to do another stint among the general prison population. He’d almost been killed the last time, both the crime he’d been convicted of and his outing as an un-enlisted guide making him a target; and his peaceable nature and lack of stature had ensured that he was an easy target, at that.

Hearing heavy footsteps pass close by the door, Blair shuddered. Time was almost up, he understood. He knew he should go out there and face the music, but he wanted to savor his last few moments of freedom, such as they were. And, despite everything he’d gone through, Blair had to admit that the big man who’d been waiting for him as he walked out of his lecture, flashing his badge and asking Blair to accompany him to the station, had scared the living crap out of him – when just a few short months ago, he’d been kept in his place by guys like that every single day of his life, and had simply accepted it as his due.

Blair knew that since he’d been living under Jim’s protection he’d gotten soft. And cons, like him, could never, ever afford to that. What the hell had he been thinking, to deceive himself into believing he was safe? Goddamn it, what a pathetic idiot he’d been.

He’d been trying hard, as he crouched here in the semi-dark, not to think about Jim and everything he’d be leaving behind but, suddenly, inadvertently, it was too late. And now that Jim had entered his thoughts, distracting Blair from contemplation of his dark future and his safe focus on the exact position and number of items stored on the metal shelves beside him, Blair’s heart twisted in sorrow, his eyes tearing up helplessly. “Jim,” he whispered, his throat tight, and his heart aching; rocking backwards and forwards with the pain of his loss. “Oh, Jim….”

As if his words had conjured his sentinel, Blair heard Jim’s voice raised above the other sounds outside the door. “God damn it, Banks!” Jim was shouting. “You don’t approach him other than through me, all right? I told you that on the phone. Haven’t you people persecuted him enough?”

The footsteps he’d heard, which had initially moved away, were returning; getting closer to his hiding place. Then they stopped, right outside the door, and Blair jammed a fist in his mouth to stifle the frightened sounds his body seemed to want desperately to make.

Past his own panting breaths, Blair heard the police captain – Banks – talking to Jim, his tone professional and measured. “Mr. Ellison,” he was saying, “You have my apology. The last thing I wanted to do was to scare that kid – I just want to arrange a time for him to give a statement. Since Mr. Sandburg’s acquittal, the Emily Bullock murder case has been reopened and passed to my department. We still have a killer on the loose – and your client may be the only person who can help us catch him.”

“You should have thought of asking him those questions four years ago,” Jim said angrily, “instead of scapegoating an innocent man and letting the real killer go free. And, like I said, you want to talk to Blair, you go through me, end of story. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my guide.” Jim stressed the last word, rubbing their bond in Banks’ face like a badge of pride.

The door opened suddenly, flooding the tiny closet with light from the hallway, and Blair shrank back into his oasis of darkness, a whimper escaping despite his best efforts to stuff it back down inside. “Hey, hey…” Jim’s voice was soft and, to Blair’s relief, he closed the closet door, blocking out the intrusive gaze of the police captain, before he came to crouch in front of Blair. “I’m here, Chief,” he said softly, and Blair felt his shoulders caught in a steady, reassuring grip. “You got a bad scare there, huh?”

Blair’s voice sounded small, his fortitude crumbling like mortar under fire now that his sentinel was here to take charge. “I thought he wanted to arrest me,” he confessed. A tear escaped, as Blair peered up through the gloom at his savior; his protector. “I don’t want to go back there, Jim.”

“Not going to happen, buddy,” Jim said. He shifted position, and Bair felt himself pulled close, Jim’s crisp, immaculate shirt wilting under his tears. “He’s here because they’ve reopened the case,” Jim told him, his words rumbling reassuringly through the cotton weave next to Blair’s cheek. “Finally, they’re looking for Emily Bullock’s real killer. Banks wants to talk to you about that day; to see if there’s anything you remember that might help. That’s all, Blair. You’re not a suspect – not any more. You were exonerated, remember?”

Unbidden in Blair’s mind rose images he had tried so very hard, for nearly four years to forget – yet they never left him, not really. Images of a brutalized young child, and blood, confusion and terror. “I never saw his face,” Blair said miserably. “All I can remember is something hitting me, then waking up next to… next to…” He choked on the words, remembered horror stopping his voice.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, Blair,” Jim murmured, and Blair felt himself rocked. “You don’t need to say any more. It’s over.”

“But I do need to!” Blair pushed himself away from Jim, and squinted through the gloom at the other man’s face. “And it’s not over, Jim! Because he’s still out there. For all I know,” Blair’s voice dropped to a whisper with dread of it, “he could have done it again. He could be about to do it again. And man, if there’s any chance – any chance at all – that I can help them to stop him from hurting another kid like… like he hurt Emily then… man. I’ve gotta do it.” Blair huffed a sad laugh. “I mean, I’m training to be a lawyer, right? I have to do the right thing, or I’m going into the wrong profession.”

Jim was smiling tenderly at him. “I never for a moment assumed you wouldn’t help with the enquiry, Blair,” Jim said. “And I’m proud of you for that, Chief. It’s nothing less than I’d expect of you.” A hand cupped Blair’s cheek gently, and Blair leaned into it, craving Jim’s touch as he always did. “It’s just… I don’t expect you to do it right now, okay? You’ve had enough stress for today. Let’s go home, regroup, and if you’re feeling up to it we’ll both go in to see Banks tomorrow. Together. All right?”

Suddenly, Blair was exhausted. “All right,” he agreed. He smiled sadly up at Jim, feeling more than a little embarrassed in the aftermath. “I’m sorry I freaked out. I guess… I guess I still have some baggage.”

“Don’t ever apologize for reacting to what happened to you,” Jim told him emphatically. “No one could go through what you went through, and come out unscathed. People like him,” Jim motioned toward the door, the other side of which Captain Banks was waiting, “just have to accept that. End of story.”

“Okay,” Blair agreed. And, accepting Jim’s helping hand, he stood, and the two of them stepped over toward the door.

Leaving his hidey-hole and going back out into the big, bad world wasn’t half so scary, Blair discovered, with Jim's arm laying heavy across his shoulders, pressing him protectively close to his sentinel's side. Drawing strength from the contact, Blair made himself meet the curious eyes of Captain Banks, who was watching them with interest as they emerged. Maybe, Blair supposed, he’d never seen a sentinel/guide pair up close before. Not a lot of people, outside the military, had.

Banks spoke first. “Mr. Sandburg,” he said softly. “I apologize for startling you. That was not my intent.”

Blair nodded, feeling the heat of Jim’s body spread through him like sunlight, bathing the cold, dark places within with life-giving warmth. “Jim told me why you’re here,” Blair said. His panic had evaporated, held in safety by his sentinel as he was, and he maintained eye contact with the imposing police captain determinedly. “I want to help, if I can.”

“Thank you,” Banks said graciously. Then he moved his gaze to Jim. “I’ll wait for your call, Mr. Ellison,” he said. Then with a further quizzical look at them both, he turned and strode off down the corridor.

Cocooned by Jim’s presence, Blair allowed himself to be led away in the opposite direction; heading home to bond and reaffirm their connection.

Behind them, the closet door closed with a snick.

***

Jim Ellison had many regrets about things that he’d done in his life. But right at the top of the list was that he had been utterly unable to do anything to save Blair from the horrors that three and a half years of prison had wrought.

At the time of Emily Bullock’s murder Jim had been out of the country, ostensibly on vacation in Europe, but in actuality gathering information which would help him in the concerted campaign that was being waged to abolish the compulsory draft for sentinels and guides. He’d still been in the closet, then; brazenly concealing his sentinel nature in plain sight as he worked tirelessly on behalf of sentinels and guides who had been forced into the military, as well as those politicians whose manifesto was to change the law.

When Blair had been arrested, Jim had watched the moral panic erupt on CNN, riveted to the T.V. in appalled fascination in his Parisian hotel room. He’d picked up without any effort the prejudicial nuances in the reporting of Blair’s arrest and subsequent incarceration; in particular, the explicit undercurrent that guides – and by extension, sentinels - were unclean, immoral and dangerous. And he’d observed as parade of politicians, experts and academics were wheeled out in front of the media for weeks afterward, to reaffirm the message that the only way such dangerous individuals could be controlled was in a military setting.

To sum it up, the whole case had been sensationalized in the worst way, then hijacked politically by those opposed to the repeal of the draft. Subsequently, the whole thing had set back the Abolitionist campaign that Jim had been working for by years.

As he followed coverage of the case avidly, Jim strongly felt almost from the start that Blair was most likely innocent. The guy hadn’t even availed of proper legal representation, and there were rumors among Jim’s fellow Abolitionists about medical and forensic evidence that had been suppressed at his trial – rumors which Jim found, upon investigation, to be very easy to substantiate. But unfortunately, if Jim had launched an appeal on Sandburg’s behalf before they achieved abolition of the draft, as an outted guide he would basically have been transferred from one prison to another – straight into the military, and into an involuntary bond.

So Jim had felt forced to wait; biding his time, campaigning hard alongside his colleagues for the right of sentinels and guides to remain free. Three and a half more years passed, until finally the Abolitionists achieved their goal. And on the very day the draft law had been repealed, he’d passed up the celebrations which were taking place in campaign headquarters to visit Blair Sandburg in prison instead, to find out once and for all if the guy was truly worth saving.

Jim had never honestly meant to make bonding a condition of taking the case. Having confirmed that Blair was innocent, he would have done it for nothing, simply because it was the right thing to do.

True enough, Jim’s control slipped at times. Sentinels needed guides to help them focus, to soothe senses frazzled by an overload of sensory input. Like guides, sentinels were genetically disposed to crave touch – although unlike guides, who could find comfort to various degrees in physical affection from non-sentinels, sentinels needed the touch of guides specifically, as well as their distinctive scent, the sounds they made, the taste exuded by the glands under their skin – a whole package which non-guides could not, by their different physiology, fulfill. Jim had frequently scratched that essential itch with guides who, like himself, were in hiding – men and women who had been able to give Jim the stability he needed to get by, but who were not disposed to bond permanently.

Jim had never felt any urge to bond for life with any of the guides he met casually through the underground network. But, when he walked into that prison interview room, something about Blair Sandburg and the desperate need he radiated spoke to Jim profoundly. And before he knew it, Jim had made the offer of a permanent bond, and Blair - perhaps seeing no other way out, or (so Jim hoped) equally drawn to him - had accepted.

Now, several months after he’d managed to free his guide from the unjust incarceration he’d suffered, Jim still felt guilty, no matter how irrational it was under the circumstances, that he’d had to leave Blair in prison for so long. Because it was clear that, despite all the progress his guide had made since his release, the effects and repercussions of his ordeal would be with him forever.

***

Placing a reassuring hand on Blair’s shoulder as they progressed through the lobby of Cascade’s central police headquarters, heading toward the elevator which would take them up to Major Crime to meet Captain Banks, Jim assessed for threat the curious glances which were thrown their way, monitoring the whispered words of those who recognized the high-profile sentinel and guide pair in their midst.

There were still those who believed Blair guilty, Jim knew, as he cast around his senses protectively, using them to steer clear of potential trouble by drawing a net of distance and safety around them; all of it to protect Blair from accidentally overhearing something that might hurt him. For some, Blair’s public exoneration was not enough. They needed someone to blame for Emily Bullock’s murder; someone to hate for the terrible atrocity that had been committed on a child who’d had everything to live for, but whose life had been extinguished so brutally. In the absence of the real perpetrator, Blair was still the closest thing they’d got to a target.

As for Jim, he’d heard the snide comments a million times, whispered just out of normal earshot – ‘no smoke without fire’ seemed to be a commonly expressed opinion. He also knew that Blair had been confronted directly on occasion; refused service, asked to leave, shunned and sometimes even physically threatened. But that all tended to happen when Jim wasn’t with him. Here, with his sentinel at his side, Blair’s detractors kept to the sidelines, intimidated by the aggressive, knowing looks Jim cast their way, and muttering like the cowards they were behind their hands.

Blair, Jim had to admit, as they waited for the elevator to reach the ground floor so they could board it, was holding up well, despite his freak-out of the previous day and the obvious bad associations this building held for him. He was deceptively strong, Jim had discovered. Resilient, assertive and determined. Not overly large or muscled in physical stature, he’d survived prison by virtue of his wits and courage, and was now busy surviving freedom in the same way.

The elevator reached the ground floor and emptied. Jim steered Blair on board, and held the doors for a moment - then pressed the button for floor six when it became clear that the other people who’d been waiting behind them for the elevator were not willing to share the car with them.

Jim made a disgusted noise at that, as the doors closed.

“Hey, man,” Blair’s voice was soft. “Don’t let it get to you.”

Jim was not appeased. “Bastards,” he ground out angrily.

Thankfully, the elevator made it all the way up to the sixth floor without stopping, which was just as well, because Jim’s patience with bigoted fools who were afraid of sharing space with a sentinel and guide – the latter of whom was an innocent victim of that exact same bigotry - had already run out in the lobby.

As the doors opened at Major Crime, it appeared that Banks had been informed of their arrival, since he was waiting for them right outside. Jim endured the pleasantries the captain accorded them as he steered them toward an interview room, adopting like a shield his own familiar, shark-toothed persona. He was good at this; good at hiding his anger and resentment behind a professional façade.

***

Blair knew that Jim was angry and upset at the shunning they’d encountered downstairs, despite the confidence he’d affected as soon as they’d exited the elevator on the sixth floor.

Since coming out as a sentinel several months ago, Jim had been faced, on a more or less daily basis, by hostility directed his way simply because of what he was. Jim was used to dealing with conflict – as an attorney, it was part of the job. But the unreasoning, mindless distrust he was now experiencing daily, simply because of an accident of genetics, was not something he was finding easy to take in his stride.

Blair understood that feeling very well; although, in his case, he’d had almost four years, under extraordinarily difficult circumstances, to come to terms with it.

Hoping to help, he laid a hand on Jim’s arm as they followed Captain Banks down the corridor. He felt the hard muscles under his hand bunch, then relax. Jim let out a small sigh, almost inaudibly letting out some of his tension. “Thanks, Chief,” he murmured; and Blair marveled once again at how amazing it was that someone like him was able to soothe the frazzled nerves and senses of such an incredibly strong individual with nothing more than his presence.

Once they were inside the door of the room he’d led them to, Banks left them alone for a moment, promising to return with coffee. And, for the first time, Blair tore his attention away from his sentinel, and peered around at their surroundings.

It was the same room; unless, perhaps, interrogation rooms – or interview rooms, as Banks had euphemistically called this one - were all identical. The table and chairs in the centre, the wall which concealed a one-way mirror, and an almost imperceptible miasma of despair.

As if he was watching a movie, an action replay of the past, Blair saw himself, sitting handcuffed, red-eyed and shaking at the table. He’d not slept for over a day, had not eaten. Blood still stained his clothes – some of it Emily’s, but most of it his. He was terrified, exhausted, wild-eyed with shock and horror.

Opposite him were the two cops who’d questioned him, their faces twisted by blind, unreasoning hatred. And beside him the attorney he’d been granted. “Mister Sandburg,” she was telling him, her impeccably made-up face betraying disgust only in the slight curl at the corners of her ruby-red lips. “I can enter you a plea of guilty right now, and this will all be over. But if you continue to insist on a plea of not guilty, I can’t help you…”

I can’t help you. And no-one had helped him. No one.

No one until Jim.

Jim’s voice overlaid the voice of the attorney who haunted his memory. “Hey, Chief? You okay?”

“Yeah.” Blair took a deep breath, still eyeing the tableau, frozen in time, before him. “Just a few ghosts, man.” He turned to look at Jim – his light, his life, his future. “Let’s get this done with, huh?”

Jim nodded, his eyes searching Blair’s questioningly. One long-fingered, manicured hand reached out, to palm Blair’s face gently, and Blair basked in the touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

Then, determinedly, Blair moved away, and toward the table. Ignoring the phantoms, he sat down - the present asserting dominion over the past. And he was aware of Jim sinking into the seat beside him – his strength, his compassion and his belief in Blair exorcising the shadowy, nightmarish figures as nothing else could.

Banks came back a few moments later, and sat down across from them to begin the interview. “Mister Sandburg,” he said. “Shall we get started?”

Blair met the captain’s eyes unflinchingly across the table. “What do you need to know?” he asked.

Continued in Part 2

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Conforming to Requirements 9/9 (slash)

2007-08-06T11:03:36Z

Back to Part 8

CHAPTER 27

Leguia was, by nature, a perfectionist when it came to covering his tracks. No trace would ever be found either of the ambulance, or the bodies of Gavaghan and the other two men from Guide World. And there would be no indication on the quiet country road afterwards of what had occurred there.

As the chopper lifted off, Ellison pulled the patch Naomi had given them out of his pocket, and placed it gently over the ugly tattoo on his Guide’s neck. Using medical adhesive tape, he fixed it firmly in place.

And prayed fervently that it would work.

Blair lay wrapped in blankets across the seat, his head in Ellison’s lap. He was still unconscious, the sedative effect of the Duxoxin destined to be active for several hours yet. Ellison’s hands stroked his head gently, trying to convey with his touch, the safety and reassurance he was denied from showing Blair properly through their Bond.

Ellison was fully aware, a little while later, when Leguia leaned over his seat back to look at him, although the Sentinel didn’t move his attention away from Blair. “How is he?” Leguia asked, his voice tinny through the headset Ellison wore, unfazed by the Sentinel’s failure to acknowledge him.

“He’ll be all right,” Ellison said, hoping desperately it was true.

“Good.” Leguia paused, and then said, “The other matter you mentioned? I have taken care of it.”

The ‘other matter’ concerned a certain piece of information Ellison had uncovered during his final day at Cascade PD. Hacking into the criminal database to get the lowdown on the staff at Guide World, he had, out of curiosity, looked at Blair’s computer file as well.

And he had found out the identity of the person who, last year, had betrayed Blair to the Detectors.

“Thank you,” Ellison said sincerely, looking up to meet Leguia’s gaze.

But Leguia shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I used to think I had the edge, Ellison, when it came to ruthlessness,” he said. “But I have to say, I hope I never cross you, my friend. You make a formidable enemy.”

“Anyone who hurts my Guide,” Ellison rejoined, “is my enemy.” The words were a warning, and a threat.

Leguia inclined his head in understanding. “I will protect you both with my life,” he vowed. “I will never forget what you did for me. Whatever you need – either of you – whatever is in my power to give, is yours.” Leguia turned back around, facing forward once again.

Ellison smiled a feral smile of satisfaction at the news Leguia had given him. Blair’s cousin Robbie was about to find out what happened to rogue Guides who got reported to the authorities.

Ellison had always believed the punishment should fit the crime.

***

The helicopter ride was a relatively short one, intended to get them out of the immediate vicinity of the ambush. The chopper landed forty minutes later at a small private airstrip just across the Canadian border; and Ellison, Blair and Leguia transferred to Leguia’s private jet for the journey onwards to Peru.

Leguia had arranged for his personal physician to travel with them and, in the comparative comfort of the plane, Blair’s injuries were cleaned and dressed at last, with his anxious Sentinel looking on. Afterwards, Ellison settled once again with his unconscious Guide stretched out across the seat next to him, wrapped warmly in a soft blanket; Blair’s head resting in Ellison’s lap.

Using the sophisticated equipment he had on board, Leguia was able to listen in on the channel used by the Detectors – the popular name given to the specialist law enforcement body which dealt with rogue Guides. It seemed, to Ellison’s very great relief – that the patch was working, as evidenced by the fact that the tracking devices the Detectors used – the so-called ‘sniffers’ – were unable to latch onto the signal emitted by Blair’s tattoo.

An additional boon was that the Detectors were concentrating their search for the missing Guide within the thirty-square-mile area between Cascade and the Romley Medical Institute, and had not so far alerted any Detection Departments outside of their jurisdiction about Blair’s escape – agencies which would have been in a better position to track Blair once the patch wore off during the journey south. It didn’t seem to have occurred to the Cascade Detectors at all that Ellison and Blair had even left the State, let alone that they might be currently in the process of fleeing the country by private jet.

Hours passed on board the plane. The threat of Detection became gradually more and more unlikely, with the Detectors continually barking up the wrong tree, and it finally evaporated altogether as the distance between Blair and those seeking him lengthened into impossibility. It wouldn’t matter from now on if the patch’s unpredictable effectiveness wore off – Blair was at last too far away to be ‘sniffed’ anyway.

Food was served and consumed and quiet conversation between Leguia and his staff created a comforting background buzz in the aftermath of so much anxiety and danger. And all the while, Ellison gazed tenderly down at his Guide, smoothing gentle hands over his head and body, affirming his love and Blair’s safety with tender, comforting touches.

At last, just as the plane began to lose altitude on the approach into Leguia’s home airstrip, Blair opened confused eyes, and gazed up at Ellison fearfully. “Jim?” he croaked pitifully, his hand scrabbling out to grab at Ellison in panic.

“Right here, Chief,” Ellison told him, enfolding Blair’s flailing hand in his own. Tears blurred the Sentinel’s vision, as the voice he had been longing so desperately to hear, for what felt like an eternity, reverberated in his ears at last.

It was the most beautiful sound Ellison had ever heard.

***

CHAPTER 28

Lying awake in the luxurious suite Leguia had appointed them, Ellison watched his Guide, who was sleeping peacefully beside him in the king-sized bed.

Even though their Bond was still dormant, due to the aftereffects of the drug which had been administered to Blair, the feeling of impending sensory overload for the Sentinel had receded somewhat since they had been reunited. The Duxoxin had mostly worked its way out of Blair’s system – evident in the return of his familiar scent – and though it would take a reaffirmation of their initial Bond to kick start full production of the Guide hormone again, Ellison no longer felt on the verge of the zone to end all zones.

Now, instead, he felt physically drained in a purely human – as opposed to Sentinel – way. But despite being exhausted, Ellison was finding it impossible to take his eyes off of Blair even for a second.

After waking in the plane earlier, Blair had been groggy and confused, the drug still affecting him profoundly. He’d been terrified when he’d been unable to reach out to Ellison through their Bond, certain – as the Sentinel had also initially been – that he’d undergone surgery and was no longer capable of being a Guide.

Ellison had held him in his arms, conveying as best he could that things were okay, that Blair was safe now, and that the lack of connection was temporary. But every time Blair had closed his eyes, succumbing involuntarily to the sedative effect of the narcotic and his deep exhaustion, he had jerked awake again in complete panic. “Jim,” he’d gasped helplessly. “I can’t feel you, man. I can’t feel you!”

The plane had landed shortly afterwards, and a limousine had been waiting to transport them to Leguia’s estate a short distance away. Ellison had carried his semi-conscious Guide in his arms down the aircraft steps and into the car, eschewing all offers of help, refusing to relinquish his hold on Blair for even a second. Once they had arrived at Leguia’s impressive residence, they had been ushered straight to these spacious accommodations.

The need had been growing in Ellison for some time to be alone with his Guide; to reclaim him and reconnect with him. Not necessarily in a sexual way – Blair was still half out of his mind with Duxoxin, and hurting as well, so reaffirming their Bond in that way would have to wait. But he felt a strong compulsion to wash off the stench of Blair’s ordeal, and to document in his own mind the new marks on his Guide’s body. To learn him once again.

He had been pleased therefore, to note that the suite Leguia had ushered them into had a large sunken bath as part of its en-suite facilities. After laying his once more insensible Guide on the huge, comfortable bed, Ellison had asked Leguia for the necessary supplies. “I want to bathe him. But I’ll need bandages, antiseptic, other stuff. I’ll need to re-dress his wounds afterwards.”

Leguia had lingered long enough to indicate other things in the suite that they might need. “There are clothes for both of you. I had no idea of your Guide’s size, but what is there may suffice until more appropriate attire can be provided. And in your nightstand,” Leguia grinned suggestively. “You will find other… items you might require.” The words were loaded with innuendo, and Ellison raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What?” Leguia exclaimed, mock indignantly. “You think I know nothing at all about what Sentinels and Guides get up to?”

Ellison declined to answer – he was sure that Leguia had made it his business to find out as much as he possibly could. Instead, he’d simply said, with great sincerity, “Thank you, Carlos. For everything.”

Leguia’s expression had softened, and he’d clapped Ellison on the shoulder; “Don’t mention it.” Then he’d added, “Relax, my friend. You are safe here; both of you – your American Detectors do not operate in this part of the world. After your bath, use the intercom by the bed, and food will be sent to you. Anything else you need, you have only to ask.”

Leguia had taken his leave, and Ellison had set about the task of getting himself and Blair into the bath. It wasn’t the easiest thing he’d ever done – Blair had still been mostly out of it – but eventually, they had both been both settled in the warm water, Blair leaning back against Ellison’s chest; his head resting heavily on the Sentinel’s shoulder.

It had been a little slice of paradise for the Sentinel. A warm, sensuous haven, his Guide’s wet body relaxed at last in the safety of his arms; the stench of blood, sweat, fear and the residual touch of others which had defiled Blair’s purity swirling away in the water.

Although he’d felt he could just lie there forever, holding Blair in his arms, Ellison had forced his exhausted limbs to move, using soap and shampoo to thoroughly and gently clean Blair of the taint of Guide World and everything that had happened there. Then, after Ellison had purged his Guide’s aroma of everything but clean skin and Blair’s Duxoxin-tainted scent, and carefully attended to the wounds which needed treating, he’d gotten them both into bed. And Blair, who had remained passive and semi-conscious throughout, had been asleep before Ellison had pulled the blankets over them both.

But now, hours later, sleep still eluded the Sentinel.

Watching the rise and fall of his Guide’s chest, he examined once again with anxious eyes, the cuts and bruises covering most of Blair’s body. The three days his Guide had spent in Guide World had, clearly, been very far from easy.

Bandages concealed raw skin on wrists and ankles – evidence of restraints that had been fought violently by his Guide. As well as the cuts and bruises marring his face, the distinctive weals left by a crop, covered Blair from torso to knees, front and back, in varying degrees of severity and stages of healing – the brutal residue of beating after beating.

Having seen the evidence before with his Sentinel vision, he knew that Blair had been beaten badly in the past. But for some reason, someone – presumably that late unlamented bastard Gavaghan – appeared to have been more thorough in his brutality during the three most recent days that Blair had been at his mercy, than on any other single occasion.

Gavaghan, damn his soul to everlasting hell, had done his job with consummate skill. These were not life threatening injuries, and Blair had not been permanently maimed. But at the time they were inflicted, they would have been immensely painful; and the discomfort from the residue of flogging after flogging would remain with his Guide for days as he healed.

Putting out a hand, Ellison traced, without really touching, the path of one of the angry red ridges. And he regretted deeply that he’d not had time to make Gavaghan suffer even half as much as Blair had.

Blair sighed in the next moment, and blue eyes opened to look at Ellison quizzically. “Jim?” Blair whispered. Then his Guide smiled sadly. “I’m dreaming again, huh?”

Hearing those heartrending words, Ellison shook his head slowly, trying to reassure Blair with the sincerity in his eyes. “No dream, Chief,” he told Blair softly. “It’s all over.”

Lost blue eyes gazed up at him. “Then why can’t I feel you?”

Ellison put out a hand and cupped Blair’s cheek gently. “Can you feel that?”

“Yeah,” Blair nodded, his expression doubtful. “But…”

“You were drugged,” Ellison interjected. “I told you before. Remember?”

Blair, it seemed, was more in command of his faculties than he had been earlier. “Oh,” he said, as comprehension dawned. “A… what? Dux inhibitor?”

Ellison nodded. “Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Okay.” Blair shifted, then winced. “Oh man,” he said. “I’m so sore.”

“I have no doubt.” Ellison frowned. “Do you want something for the pain?” He made as if to get up, meaning to retrieve a painkiller from the medical supplies.

But a hand on his arm, and Blair’s emphatic voice, stopped him. “No!” Ellison looked down again at Blair, whose expression had turned desperate; needy. “Please, Jim,” he begged. “I need you, man.”

“I’m right here, Chief,” Ellison comforted, reaching out to Blair once more.

But he had, apparently, missed the point. “No, man,” Blair said, his voice full of longing. “I need you! I need to feel you! Please…”

Ellison hated it that Blair was begging him for something he wanted to give to his Guide so freely. He ached to link with Blair again too, but there were other factors to consider apart from their anxiousness to renew their Bond. Running a gentle hand over Blair’s scarred back, Ellison shook his head. “Blair,” he tried to explain, “I don’t want to hurt you…”

But Blair interrupted miserably. “It hurts more on the inside,” he said, his voice rough with sorrow. “Please, Jim, I can’t stand it any longer! I keep thinking I’m still there, man. None of this seems real. I need to link with you, Jim. I need to.”

That assertion was enough to turn the tide. Blair felt so disconnected, he was afraid that this was simply a brief dreaming respite from his living nightmare; and there was no way Ellison could allow that fear to continue unchecked in his Guide. Making a decision, the Sentinel lowered his head, and pressed his lips against Blair’s, then pulled away microscopically, his mouth still in ticklish contact with his Guide’s as he spoke. “All right,” he whispered against the other man’s lips.

A sound came out of Blair then, mingled relief and misery and, in answer, Ellison’s lips pressed hard against his again, his tongue seeking entry. And Blair welcomed the assault fervently, pushing back, his taste exploding in Ellison’s mouth with incredible, addictive force.

They moved closer, arms reaching out to surround each other, the passionate kiss and the hard embrace a sensual sanctuary. It was only when Blair made a muffled sound of pain that Ellison pulled back. The Sentinel spoke quickly, to dispel the unhappy look of rejection that came over his Guide’s kiss-flushed faced. “Relax, Blair,” he said breathlessly. “Let me do this, okay? Let me take care of you.”

Blair had taken an active role in their lovemaking so far, his boundless enthusiasm ensuring he was an inventive and assertive lover. But despite his no doubt overwhelming desire to reiterate their Bond in passion right now, Blair was hurting, and that had to be taken into account, no matter his desperation. Blair blinked slowly, visibly digesting Ellison’s suggestion. And after only a few seconds, he capitulated. “Yes,” he agreed, his eyes moist.

Ellison kissed him again, gently and lovingly, his relief that Blair would allow him to do this his way almost overwhelming him. And then, he set about his task.

He intended to love Blair as gently and thoroughly as Blair had once loved him.

With gentle hands, and soft, murmured encouragement, he urged Blair onto his side facing away from him, repositioning him carefully. Blair complied passively, sighing with relief, giving himself over unconditionally to his Sentinel’s care.

Placing pillows for support, Ellison bent Blair’s uppermost leg, resting it on the soft cushions, and used other cushions to bolster and support the rest of Blair’s body to his satisfaction. He lingered over the task, not satisfied until Blair’s posture radiated comfort and relaxation, conveying all the time with his touch that Blair was safe, and that Ellison would give him what he so desperately needed.

The resulting sprawl laid bare Blair’s back and buttocks to Ellison, the weals and marks a red, black and purple tapestry of pain. Moving more carefully and precisely than he had ever moved before – his touch light in places, firm in others – Ellison kneaded, kissed and licked every inch of skin he was able to touch without hurting; beginning at the back of Blair’s neck and moving inexorably downwards.

Blair shuddered and sighed under his hands and mouth, surrendering to Ellison’s sensual worship willingly. The unmistakable tang of pheromones gradually filled the air, supplanting the aura of pain and misery that had previously so enveloped his Guide. And finally, when Ellison closed his lips over his mouth's half-hidden goal, darkly concealed between Blair’s scarred ass cheeks, it seemed as though his Guide’s pain was nothing but a dim memory, eclipsed as it was by the brilliance of his pleasure.

Holding Blair’s twitching hips steady between strong hands, Ellison devoured Blair’s sweetness relentlessly. He felt it when the tide came close for Blair, and pulled back, having a greater gift in store for his Guide. Swiftly coating his own cock with lubricant, he lined himself up with Blair’s waiting, saliva-wet hole, and smoothly pushed himself inside.
Blair was so relaxed, there was no resistance in him; no pain, just as Ellison had intended. And as Blair’s hot core closed around him like a vice, Ellison sighed with the contentment of a man coming home from exile.

It was such a wonderful feeling. Ellison held himself there deep inside for a few moments, relishing the sensation of oneness with his Guide. Then, interpreting Blair’s subtle twitches of impatience around his cock, he pulled back, unhurriedly; and powerfully pushed back all the way in with a sigh. He did it again. And again, and again. Slowly, deeply, firmly; thoroughly loving Blair with devastating care and precision.

Blair’s breathing deepened, matching his own, as Ellison relentlessly ploughed his depths, wringing almost unendurable sensation mercilessly from his Guide with every stroke. Using all his skills as a Sentinel and as a lover, Ellison watched carefully for the moment when the sun-drenched summit beckoned. And as it neared, he brought his still lube-coated hand round to take Blair’s hardness in his fingers, synchronizing his Guide’s passion with his own in a devastating, prismatic peak of exquisite, vibrant color.

And at the height of their ecstasy, their minds opened wide to each other and became one, so that Ellison saw out of Blair’s eyes, and Blair saw out of his; each feeling what the other felt, knowing love so profound that nothing else mattered.

In the aftermath, there was no longer any need for words.

***

EPILOGUE

ENQUIRI’S JOURNAL
LA MONTANA, PERU
AUGUST 1998

Today is the first anniversary of our arrival among the Chopec, and Incacha has finally judged us ready to take responsibility for our own part of the tribe. Tomorrow, we will begin the trek across the jungle northwards, to begin our appointment as Sentinel and Shaman in another village several miles from here.

As Chopec tradition dictates, the eve of a change as significant as this is a time for reflection. A time to look back over the path that has drawn us to this place and time. I have opted to document my reflection in this journal, in the language of my own people. My Guide has chosen to do the same. It is, for us, a symbolic act. Tomorrow our writings will be burned, as part of a ritual to signify that we intend to leave the past behind forever, and fully embrace our future.

Tomorrow, we truly become Chopec.

We have come a long way in the last year. Not just in miles, but in our own selves. And of the two of us, the one who has changed the most is my Guide.

Blair.

I hear his laughter as I write. The sound fills me with pleasure so great I am unable to adequately express it. Particularly as one year ago, Blair had very little to laugh about.

When we first met, Blair had survived months of hell which would have destroyed a lesser man. The very first moment I laid eyes on him, I saw his uniqueness and strength, and I knew – even though I refused to admit it to myself at first – that he was the only Guide I would ever want or need.

After a short while together, my certainty grew. I had found my partner, my soulmate; and Blair felt the same way about me. So we Bonded. One soul in two bodies – in the tradition of the Chopec. Incacha, the Shaman here in this village, told me that we were always fated to be together.
I believe he is right.

But our Bond, though a true Bond of heart and soul, was not sanctioned by our people. And during a series of events so terrible it burns like acid to remember them, my Guide was taken away from me, and forced to re-live his nightmare once again.

I took my vengeance on those who hurt him. And I got him back – but he was not the same as he had been.

Our separation, so close after Bonding, damaged my Guide profoundly – it had not been just me who had been affected by the enforced distance between us. And where before Bonding he would have conformed with what his tormentors required of him, sensibly preserving his own skin, this time, his primal Guide instincts had come to the fore, and he resisted and fought them incessantly. He was made to suffer greatly for it.

The worst of it was, that it was my well-meaning attempt to contact him through our Bond while he was in captivity which ignited his primal Guide nature; resulting in the worst of his punishment, and the eventual unmasking of our Bond. And the guilt and self-hatred I felt – and still feel – at that revelation almost took my sanity.

Where before Blair had been confident, now he was tentative. Where he had been courageous, now he was fearful. We reaffirmed our Bond, but instead of Blair standing proudly at my side as my equal afterwards, as had always been my intent, my Guide clung to me, terrified of leaving my shadow.

I was just as terrified of letting him out of my sight.

Weeks passed, both of us filled with an overwhelming dread of being separated from the other even for a moment, not trusting for one second that we were safe. Blair retreated further and further into himself, hiding behind me constantly. And I burned with rage and guilt, threatening to kill anyone who so much as looked at him; making life so difficult for our host that his previously infinite patience where I was concerned was stretched close to breaking point.

The situation was critical. It couldn’t go on, and deep down, both Blair and I knew it; although we avoided ever discussing it. We became utterly self absorbed, obsessed with each other in the most unhealthy of ways. And both of us felt ensnared in the cycle of dependence we had created. There seemed no way out of the trap we had made for ourselves.

Then, one night, two months after arriving in Peru, I had a dream. I dreamt that a Chopec warrior came to me, in the guise of a black jaguar. After morphing from beast to man, he spoke, informing me that I had to make a choice. I had to decide whether to go forward with my Guide, to fulfill our destiny as a Bonded pair by returning to the Chopec (as I had, in fact, intended all along, before inertia set in). The alternative was to remain as we were, inviting death for both of us; if not of the body (as the likelihood of Detection while in Peru under Leguia’s protection was negligible), then undoubtedly of the soul.

The vision haunted me, and the next morning I related it to Blair.

Two days later, we left Carlos’s estate, and went into the jungle. After seven days of hard traveling, all but two of them on foot, we arrived in this place – the same Chopec village which had taken me in years ago, when I had been MIA. The Shaman of the tribe, Incacha, was waiting to greet us, the Sentinel he Guided – Quauhtli – standing by his side, looking just as I remembered them.

Incacha took my damaged Guide under his wing immediately, refusing to heed my desperate plea that we remain together. Incacha’s power and standing in the tribe – as well as the threat of bodily harm from Quauhtli – gave me no choice but to obey, despite my deep misgivings at our separation.

While I was obliged to patrol the jungle by day with his Sentinel, Incacha worked to heal my Guide’s damaged psyche, teaching him the way of the Shaman in the manner of Guides of the Chopec. Gradually, Blair regained his confidence, exorcising the past as he absorbed Incacha’s teachings and learned to walk with the spirits. And he returned to me each night, to lie exhausted in my arms while we immersed ourselves deeply in our Bond.

Those first few months were not an easy time for my Guide or for me. At best, the experience was cathartic; his pain, and my guilt and fear for him, poisonous things to be wrestled with like snakes.

I’ll never forget when, after an intense day spent with Incacha, Blair managed to speak his own name for the first time since having it beaten out of him at Guide World. He threw up until there was nothing left in him but bile, then cried in my arms for hours afterwards. It was the most fundamental, the most potent psychological block Gavaghan and his sadistic cronies had placed in my Guide, and it cost him dearly to get rid of it and reclaim what was rightfully his.

His name is the one aspect of the past that my Guide has actively held on to. While I have adopted a Chopec name, as is the custom, he still insists on being known as ‘Blair’, wearing his birth name proudly as a badge of identity and survival.

There were other purgings for both of us, other demons that were faced and subdued. And even though the worst is long past, Blair isn’t done with tears yet. He still cries at times, mostly when he thinks I can’t hear him, using it as a way to cleanse himself of the memories.

I envy him the ability. I wish I could find some way to forget.

As Blair’s spirit recovered, and as he grew into a Shaman in his own right, he embraced this new life of ours with a passion. He allowed his hair to grow, so that now it is nearly as long as it was in the photograph I once saw of him in his police file. With his tanned skin and tribal markings, and the beads and feathers threaded through his curls, he looks every bit as Chopec as any man born here. There is only one incongruity, which marks his outsider origin – his eye color. The tribe often call him ‘Qhosi’ – ‘blue eyes’ – though not to his face, since he is so determined to keep his own name.

But I hear them. And the affection for him in their voices makes me smile.

I have kept my own hair short, as was always my habit; and still find it difficult to fully embrace the Chopec way of life. It troubles me sometimes, that I seem less able than my Guide to immerse myself in this new existence as completely as he has. But Blair tells me it is part of who and what I am. That a Sentinel is supposed to stand outside of the tribe. That a watchman cannot watch effectively, if he is too integrated with those he is meant to guard.

After he told me that, I felt more at ease. Blair is usually right about that kind of thing, and I trust him implicitly. There is good reason why people like him are called ‘Guides’.

Now, as I write, it is Blair’s laughter I can hear, not his tears. His rich voice, fluent in Quechua, telling tall tales to the young people who sit – enraptured by his storytelling – outside our tent. There is unbounded joy in his voice; delight in bringing happiness and knowledge to others. He is, I have learned, an exceptionally gifted teacher.

A true Shaman.

Later, he will come to me, and we will link in body and soul, seeing deep inside each other in that elemental way that almost frightens me with its intensity. We will make love, and I will take him, or he will take me; our passion magnified through the mirror of our Bond. Then, in the aftermath, we will sleep, sated and content in each other’s arms.

And we’ll wake tomorrow at dawn, ready to begin our new life.

Together.

~End

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Conforming to Requirements 8/9 (slash)

2007-08-06T11:00:33Z

Back to Part 7

CHAPTER 23

Ramirez pushed himself away from the table and stood, picking up his gun as he moved and tucking it into his shoulder holster. He turned his back on Ellison and Dave, to look towards the balcony windows; and Ellison imagined him using his enhanced sight to focus on some boat far out to sea, as Ellison himself often did.

“My senses came on-line a week before my sixteenth birthday,” Ramirez told them, his words falling into their expectant silence like a sudden shower of rain. “I’d already decided I wanted to be a cop, so everything fell neatly into place. I went to Rainier, studied Criminal Law, got my BA. While I was there,” his voice softened, became wistful, “I Bonded with Dave.”

Ellison glanced at the Guide, who was watching Ramirez raptly. “After finishing Rainier,” Ramirez went on, “I went to the Academy, graduated at the top of my class, and went straight into my first Patrol job at Cascade PD. Within two years, I made Detective.” Without a shred of conceit, he added, “I’ve been told I’m in line for a Captaincy the next time there’s a vacancy.”

He turned. “You called me a ‘Boy Scout’, Jim. That isn’t far from the truth. I have a reputation for sticking to the letter of the law and playing by the rules. ‘By the Book Benny’ – that’s what people call me, when they think my hearing is focused elsewhere, and when they’re being polite. Some of the other names are less flattering.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. I take pride in my own integrity. I have no difficulty facing myself in the mirror each morning.”

Ramirez moved over to Dave, who was watching him adoringly, the expression on the Guide’s face reminding Ellison poignantly of the way Blair looked at him. Ramirez put a hand on Dave’s shoulder, giving his Guide a smile so full of love in return that it made Ellison’s heart ache with longing.

“My record is exemplary,” Ramirez went on, glancing up from Dave to Ellison. “I’ve never had so much as a parking ticket.” He took a deep breath. “You’re asking me to disregard principles I’ve held dear all my life, Jim. To throw away the rulebook. To willfully aid you in committing a felony, because even if I were to simply turn my back on what you’ve done, it would be a crime of omission.”

Ellison struggled to find words that would convince Ramirez to do the right thing; but he was preempted by the emphatic interjection of Ramirez’s Guide. “Benny, they’re just like you and I – they’re meant to be together!” Dave’s voice was impassioned. “Now you know I’ve always supported the way you feel about the law; your principles. But Benny, this is just plain wrong.” He looked at Ramirez earnestly. “The ban on Bonding for Blair is cruel. It’s just politics, and you know it.”

“Dave…” Ramirez warned.

But again, he was interrupted by his Guide. “Blair risked his own life to save mine, Benny. He saved you too, and everybody else there that day. That has to mean something. If it doesn’t, then you’re not the honorable man I Bonded with all those years ago.”

Ramirez didn’t answer, instead closing his eyes, as if in pain, or to deny Dave’s assessment of him.

But his Guide was giving no quarter. Dave stood, moving right up into Ramirez’s space. Ellison had to nudge his hearing up a notch, to hear what he was saying – and what he heard moved him deeply. “Please,” Dave whispered. “If for no other reason, do this for me, Benny. Please. I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, but I’m begging you for this.”

Ramirez didn’t move, as he considered his decision. Then he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Gazing at his Guide, he said softly, “Okay.”

And as the other Sentinel and his Guide embraced, Ellison laid his head down on the table in utter, exhausted relief.

Ellison’s head was pounding again, now that the crisis had passed. It hadn’t really ever stopped pounding, but his attention had been diverted away from his discomfort by far more important issues. Now that was all over, and Ramirez had agreed not to turn them in, his aches and pains came back to the fore with a vengeance.

He breathed deeply, his head touching the cool surface of the table, longing desperately for the touch of his own Guide to take the pain away.

Instead, he got Ramirez’s. “Sentinel?” Dave said tentatively from close by. “Let me help.” A hand touched his back, and Dave’s voice crooned in his ear. “Relax, Sentinel. Bring everything back to normal; just let your senses settle.”

After a few moments of the Guide’s attention, Jim managed to lift his head. Dave was kneeling beside him, and Ramirez was again sitting opposite, watching Ellison with sympathy. “Sorry about that,” Ellison said. “I think I’m coming down with the ‘flu or something.”

“It’s not the ‘flu, Jim,” Ramirez told him. “You’re Bonded now. Prolonged periods away from your Guide cause a disorder called ‘P.S.O.’ – Post Separation Overload. Your Guide released a hormone when you Bonded which you now need regular exposure to. Put in layman’s terms, Jim, since you Bonded, you’re addicted to your Guide; and because he’s not here, you’re going through withdrawal.”

***

Regular exposure to Dave, it seemed, would help as a stopgap measure until Ellison was reunited with Blair. Dave emphatically wasn’t Blair, but as a short-term substitute, he would be able to alleviate the worst effects of Ellison’s separation from his rightful Guide. It was like the difference between taking methadone or going cold turkey.

Ramirez’s Guide spent the next couple of hours, therefore, Guiding Ellison in healing meditation, maintaining physical contact with a hand on his back or arm and talking to him quietly. Ramirez hovered quietly in the background, letting Dave work without interruption. Ellison found Dave to be surprisingly good company, quietly competent, and with a wry sense of humor under his normally shy exterior.

Ellison was feeling much better finally, and was prompted to ask a question which had been lurking at the back of his mind, while Ramirez was off taking a bathroom break. “I was wondering,” he said, “why you chose ‘Dave’ as your name? Benny told me it was from a TV show.”

Dave colored in embarrassment. “You’ll laugh,” he said.

Ellison smiled. “Try me,” he said.

“I was sixteen,” Dave said. “I thought it was really neat that I was Bonded to someone who was going to be a cop.” He chuckled. “I had a pretty romantic view of it all back then, like kids do. Benny used to let me watch TV while he was at Rainier, and I got a little addicted. I especially loved cop shows.”

“Don’t tell me,” Ellison said. “Starzyk and Hall, right? You named yourself after Dave Starzyk.”

“Got it in one, Sentinel,” Dave admitted. “They had such an incredible partnership. Not only that, they were equals, working together almost symbiotically, willing to die for each other. I liked imagining that we’d be like that – cop partners, taking down the bad guys together.” He shrugged, his voice a little wistful. “The reality wasn’t quite how I imagined it was going to be.”

“So why Starzyk, and not Hall?” Ellison asked, trying to divert Dave’s thoughts from the slightly maudlin track they had begun to head down.

Dave smiled. “Dave sounds more macho, somehow, than Ken,” he said. “But that wasn’t the only reason.” When Ellison raised his eyebrows expectantly, Dave grinned widely. “Come on, Sentinel, it’s obvious! Starzyk was the one who got the really cool car!”

***

Before leaving Ellison to his own devices, Ramirez sat down with him once again at the table. The other Sentinel seemed anxious to clarify his boundaries. “I won’t turn you in,” he reaffirmed, “And I won’t notify the authorities about Blair.”

“Thank you,” Ellison said sincerely.

Ramirez took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, while Dave was working on your senses with you. When I first agreed to turn a blind eye, it was as far as I was willing to go. But now I’ve considered it, there are one or two other things I feel I might be able to offer.”

This was a surprise. “Oh,” Ellison said. “Like what?”

“First of all, I need you to give me some reassurance,” Ramirez said. “Two issues are troubling me. You ‘fessed up that you were planning to run with Blair. But what about his Guide tattoo? You know, I hope, that it is a tracking device? The minute he is reported missing, the Detectors will go after him. He’ll show up on their sniffers like a poppy in a field of snow.”

No way could Ellison tell Ramirez the whole truth – but he could maybe tell him enough to satisfy him. “I have it covered, Benny. I can’t tell you how, because it would get someone else in trouble. But I assure you, the tattoo will not be an issue.”

Ramirez looked like he wanted to press for more details; but to Ellison’s relief, he let it go. Instead, he changed the subject. “The other thing, Jim, is there is no way you and Blair can get out of the country. Even with the tattoo taken care of, you’d both need false documentation of incredibly high quality to get through security at any airport or port. I can’t tell you what a long shot that is. I’d hate to see you get Blair out, only to be arrested the minute you try to leave.”

“Benny,” Ellison said, “I have that aspect covered as well. I don’t want to say anything incriminating, but I’m not alone in this. The transport issue – and where I plan to go – is a wrap.”

Ramirez nodded. “Okay. Okay, Jim. I have to trust that you know what you’re doing.” He paused, then said, “How are you going to get Blair out?”

Ellison looked at him pleadingly. “That,” he said, “is where I could do with some help.”

Ramirez bit his lip. “Jim,” he said warningly. “I’m prepared, given my debt to Blair, to do whatever I can. But it has to be within certain bounds. It can’t have any repercussions for my career, and definitely not for Dave. I’m at a loss to know how I could help you with that, without risking destroying our lives in the process.”

“Intelligence gathering would help,” Ellison said, seeing a solution to his earlier dilemma and grasping at it eagerly. “There’s stuff I need to know about Guide World; information I can’t find out myself without raising suspicion.” Still embarrassed by his earlier impulsive visit to Guide World, he added, “Especially since I’ve already expressed too much of an interest in Blair in that place already.”

Ramirez looked at him thoughtfully. Finally, he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me what you need to know, and I’ll do what I can.”

***

Lying in bed later that night, Ellison knew he should feel satisfied at how things had gone. He had two more vital allies in Ramirez and Dave. The wheels of his escape plan were in motion, and Leguia was on call, ready to move as soon as Ellison found a way to get Blair out.

His feeling of sickness had passed, smoothed out by Dave’s sure touch. He was tired now, relatively relaxed after the long, stressful day.

But he still couldn’t sleep.

Every time Ellison closed his eyes, he saw Blair’s frightened face, and felt his desperation and helplessness. He remembered what it had been like when Gavaghan had beaten Blair, then forced him to do the same; ultimately traumatizing Blair so much he had gone into a state of what could only be described as shock.

And he thought back on two words that Reynolds had said earlier, which now haunted him.

Compulsory re-training.

With a sigh, he turned over in the empty bed.

And he wept.

***

CHAPTER 24

Ellison went back to the PD the next day, going through the motions as though in a waking dream.

Or, to be more accurate, a nightmare.

What little sleep he’d managed to get the night before had been filled with an ominous sense of foreboding and weird, formless horror. This morning, in the aftermath, his senses were once more verging on overload, and his head ached with tiredness.

He found himself, quite early in the day, stoically enduring Simon Banks’s chewing out about the visit he had made to Guide World. “When the hell did you decide to get a Bond Guide, Jim? You told me you would only consider rentals. When did this change of heart take place? And why the hell didn’t you let me know?”

“It was a sudden thing, Captain,” Ellison hedged wearily.

“Well,” said Simon, chewing on his unlit cigar, “You’d better make your mind up which one to get soon. Reynolds was concerned you might be close to a fatal zone out, since it happened so close to all those Guides.”

“I will, sir,” Ellison agreed absently. But his gut clenched in dread, guessing that it would only be only a matter of time before Reynolds or one of his colleagues put two and two together, and worked out what had really happened.

He bumped into Ramirez and his Guide a short while later. As Dave fell gracefully to his knees behind him, Ramirez greeted, “Christ, Ellison. You look like hell.”

Ellison ran an exhausted hand over his face. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep,” he muttered.

“You don’t say,” Ramirez quipped, apparently understanding that Ellison was suffering from more than tiredness. “Listen, I need you to do me a favor, Jim,” he said pointedly. “I have some… information to gather. Could you take care of my Guide for me while I’m gone?”

So Ellison had spent the rest of the morning writing up his report on the Maxwell Crane bust, all the while with Dave kneeling beside his desk, one sure fingered hand resting at the small of the Sentinel’s back to keep him grounded. Dave’s surreptitious support of Ellison’s senses was definitely a boon, but writing an impersonal account of his last few moments with Blair was a torture almost beyond endurance.

It was almost noon when Ramirez returned. He came straight over to Ellison where he still sat at his desk. “Hey, Jim.”

Ellison nodded tiredly.

Ramirez carried on. “I need another favor. You got a clean sweatshirt down in your locker? I’d like to borrow it, if that’s okay.”

Ellison heard something else beneath Ramirez’s innocuous words. “Sure,” he agreed, fishing in his pocket for the key, and throwing it at the other Sentinel.

Later, after Ramirez had returned the key and taken back custody of Dave, Ellison found an opportunity to visit the locker room during a time that no-one else was in there. He opened his locker to find a thick sheaf of architect plans of the Guide World complex, a file containing personnel records, and a photocopied sheet of paper detailing the current shift rotation at the facility. And for the first time since he had woken up in the hospital, he actually felt positive. He had no idea how Ramirez had managed it, but he thanked god that he had the other Sentinel on his side.

***

The worst thing about the entire day was the waiting around; the un-channeled adrenaline and fever of anticipation. Ellison had always been a man of action, so this forced inaction was utter agony. He found himself unable to eat anything beyond a few bites, his stomach churning with acid every time he thought of what Blair was being put through while he did meaningless, mind-numbing paperwork.

But finally, thankfully the interminable day passed; and Ellison was able, at long last, to go home.

The loft was just as empty as it had been yesterday, the poignant reminders of Blair’s presence everywhere; in the books Ellison had bought for him, and the clothes lying around haphazardly in the room under the stairs.

There was more: awful microscopic and sensory reminders that only a Sentinel could perceive. The fine, molted curly hairs on the upholstery, the familiar fingerprints on almost every surface. The faint, distinctive body odor exuding from personal items and worn clothing.

All of it, exquisite torture.

Picking up a sweatshirt Blair had worn just three days before, Ellison raised it to his nose and breathed deeply. The resulting heady aroma was drawn deep inside of him, creating a sense memory so vivid he could almost touch it. Blair standing in front of him, pushing the sleeves of the too-big shirt up his arms, laughing at something Ellison had said, his blue eyes crinkling just so.

It brought tears to Ellison’s eyes once again. He didn’t imagine that Blair had much to laugh about right now.

Impulsively, he pulled the sweatshirt over his own head, wrapping Blair’s scent around himself like an embrace. He breathed it in, forcing himself to find his balance. And wearing Blair’s aromatic residue as proudly as a knight’s token, he picked up the papers Ramirez had gotten for him.

It was time to get busy.

***

Ellison had earlier done a search of the PD database, using a fake username to cover his tracks. He therefore had information on every member of staff with a criminal record at Guide World. Combining that knowledge with the information Ramirez supplied, he searched diligently for a weak spot he could use.

It was discouraging to see that so many of the guards in the facility had past convictions for violent misdemeanors. Discouraging – for the sake of the Guides they had dominion over – but encouraging in other ways. Men without scruples, as many of these seemed to be, could sometimes be bought. There were undoubtedly those among them who were not above accepting monetary inducements for looking the other way.

The schematic of the building was useful also. While security systems were in place, it was clear that the designers of the complex had never envisaged that a serious breakout was a possibility. After all, who would ever try to rescue a Guide? That blind overconfidence could be made to work in Ellison’s favor. There were any number of methods of getting in and out of the part of the building where Blair was being held.

Sure that he had enough of a plan to present to Leguia, he picked up his cell phone. But it rang before he had a chance to dial. Looking at the display, he saw that the number was withheld.

“Ellison,” he said cautiously.

“Jim.” It was Ramirez. “You have to get out now! The uniforms are on the way to pick you up.”

“Benny, what’s going on?”

“They found out,” Ramirez said, and Ellison’s blood ran cold. “Blair’s Bond has been discovered. There’s a warrant out for your arrest. You have to get out now, Jim!”

The phone went dead. And Ellison stared at it stupidly for a moment.

Then he moved.

***

If he was arrested, Ellison would most likely be charged with a Class C Misdemeanor. He would be released pending a hearing, and suspended from work until the matter could be brought before a judge. The ultimate conceivable penalty for Bonding without sanction would be a fine, a black mark on his record, demotion to a lower rank, and compulsory medical treatment to cure him of his addiction to Blair.

He knew all of this because, earlier at the PD, he had finally taken his head out of his ass and done some research.

Blair, on the other hand, would (as Ramirez had warned him) be forced to undergo a medical procedure which would not only rob him of his ability to be a Guide, but also a large portion of his conscious mind as well. Subsequently, as a convicted felon who was no more use to anyone, he would be placed in a regular jail for a minimum twenty-five year term (minus time already served); where in his damaged and confused state he would be vulnerable to every brutality imaginable.
It was not fear for himself, therefore, which prompted Ellison to go on the run.

Before fleeing the loft, he paused only long enough to snatch up the papers he had been perusing; and to remove his passport, his stash of emergency cash and the Guide tattoo patch from the concealed safe in his bedroom.

There wasn’t time to grab much of anything else, because he could hear the cops already entering his apartment building. He made a swift exit down the fire escape just as they knocked at his front door.

Once he got outside, he headed straight for the shadows in the nearest alleyway and, meandering through the maze of dumpsters, walked swiftly away. As soon as he was a safe distance from Prospect, and certain that he hadn’t been followed, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Leguia.

***

An hour later, ensconced at Leguia’s current residence, Ellison paced, too wound up to sit down. “I don’t know how long we have,” he was saying. “My contact said that the people holding Blair knew about our Bond, but that’s all.” Panic hit him in the gut then. “God, Carlos,” he said breathlessly, “they could have already done it. He could already be…” His voice broke. “Carlos,” he pleaded with the other man, his voice anguished. “You’ve got to help me. We have to move now!”

Leguia was leaning back in his chair, watching him seriously. The paperwork Ellison had brought with him was spread out on the table in front of him. Leguia gestured towards it. “There is room for maneuver here, Ellison,” he said. “Or at least there would be if it wasn’t already too late. There is a warrant out for your arrest, and the authorities at Guide World will know that by now. Whatever security was in place around Blair will have already been reinforced, because they will surely predict that a Sentinel must go after his Guide when there is such a serious threat to that Guide’s well being.”

Ellison’s heart sank at Leguia’s apparent reluctance. “What are you saying?” he asked, his desperation almost choking him.

“I’m saying,” Leguia said, “that this plan you have supplied is no longer of any use. The circumstances have changed. Getting Blair out is contingent on moving covertly, getting in and out of the complex without anyone knowing, to give us a chance to get in the air and out of US air space before the tattoo patch wears off. They will be watching for you now, and even if by some miracle we could get in, we’d never get back out and would have no chance of getting away.”

Ellison felt Leguia’s every word like a physical blow.

There was only one thing left to do. In one fluid movement Ellison snatched up the papers from the table and turned towards the door. If Leguia wouldn’t help him, he’d just have to get Blair out by himself.

Or die trying.

“Wait!” Leguia’s emphatic command halted him, just as Ellison opened the door. “Ellison, come back here! I didn’t say I wouldn’t do this; just that we need a different approach.” Ellison paused in the doorway, still oddly willing to grasp at Leguia’s lifeline despite his urgency. The Peruvian’s voice softened. “I already told you, Ellison, that I won’t abandon you. Like you didn’t abandon me, even though it meant carrying my dead weight for miles, across enemy infested jungle. This time let me carry you.”

Ellison turned, and met Leguia’s gaze. He had no words to express his desperation.

But Leguia understood. “Trust me,” he said.

***

CHAPTER 25

More waiting. More interminable, unendurable time to kill, dreading, during each and every agonizing moment what might be happening to his Guide.

Constantly, Ellison paced. Back and forth, prowling like an animal in a cage, sick with the need to move, to rush to Blair’s rescue, to do something.

Leguia had insisted that Ellison should lie low, while he made some inquiries of his own. It was now the early hours of the morning, and the time it was taking for Leguia to do so, chafed painfully, allowing constant, dreadful fantasies of Blair’s predicament to be played out in Ellison’s head in glorious technicolor.

Blair’s faint scent, which infused the sweatshirt Ellison still wore, was his only solace. The Sentinel was once again on the edge of overload, the headache that had never quite gone away pounding once again behind his eyes. He knew he should contact Ramirez, and try to get Dave over here to help. But stubbornly he clung to Blair’s scent instead, allowing himself only that one small comfort; not wanting to sully Blair’s precious aroma by the touch of another Guide.

Especially as it might be the last of Blair’s scent he would ever experience.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity in hell, the door opened, and Leguia burst in. “Ellison!” he greeted, smiling broadly.

“I hope you have good news,” Ellison said, his spirits lifting despite himself at Leguia’s jubilant expression. “I’m going out of my mind, here.”

“Not only good news, my friend,” Leguia told him. “But a plan. A plan that will work.”

Ellison raised an eyebrow, and Leguia held up the document in his hand – the printout Ellison had obtained, showing the criminal records of the guards at Guide World. “I thought,” Leguia said, “that one of these names was familiar. I checked with a couple of my men, and sure enough, this guard – Howard Phillips – is known to me. He was on my payroll at one time.”

Ellison took the paper from Leguia, and looked at the entry by Howard Phillips’s name. Convictions for petty theft and assault. Arrested, but not charged, in connection with two murders and a string of burglaries. “A regular Robin Hood,” Ellison said dryly.

Leguia snorted. “Hardly that. This man has no scruples, taking only for himself. As a matter of fact, he once stole from me, long ago. I tried to track him down immediately afterwards, but to no avail, and then other matters intervened.” He shrugged, the words ominous. “Imagine my surprise, to find him here in this time and place. One would almost conclude that it was fate.”

“So this man, Phillips,” Ellison asked. “Where is he now?”

“Now,” Leguia said, with a feral smile, “He is enjoying my… hospitality. We have been having a little reminiscence about old times. He was quite eager to give me the information I sought.”

Ellison shuddered inwardly, knowing from his association with this man in Peru exactly what kind of ‘hospitality’ Leguia was capable of offering. For someone who had once been tortured himself, Leguia wasn't hesitant on occasion about doling out similar treatment to others. “What information?”

“It seems,” Leguia said, “that the Guide World complex does not have suitable facilities to perform the kind of brain surgery Blair is to have. Your Guide is scheduled to be moved, by road, to a medical complex thirty miles north of the city, late tomorrow afternoon.”

“Shit.” Blair, he knew, would be terrified by the prospect. Looking at Leguia, he said urgently, “We have to get him out now.”

Leguia shook his head. “Impossible.”

At the end of his patience, Ellison sprang forward, grabbing Leguia by the lapels. “Carlos,” he hissed. “I need to get to my Guide now!”

Leguia’s face hardened. “Ellison,” he said dangerously. “Take your hands off me.”

Their furious staring impasse, neither giving ground, continued for several seconds. Then, as if remembering where he was and exactly who he was manhandling – as well as what was at stake – Ellison took a breath and stepped back, letting go.

“I’m sorry,” he said shakily.

Leguia smiled, but his eyes maintained a dangerous glint. “I will forgive you, my friend, since I know you are upset.” But Ellison could hear the unspoken words – this time – at the end.

And Ellison understood that, debt or no debt, Leguia was not a man to cross.

Leguia was also a master of the quick recovery. As if Ellison’s display of temper had not occurred, he went on evenly, “The good Mister Phillips was to have been on Guard detail during the journey to the medical facility. As he is unfortunately… indisposed, I have been able to provide a replacement. A man who will ensure your Guide is safe when the van he is being transported in is brought to a halt.”

Ellison could see where this was going. “Because it’s easier to hijack a convoy on an open road, than break Blair out of Guide World, right?”

Leguia grinned. “I see you have not lost your powers of deduction.”

Ellison closed his eyes in relief. This could work. It had to work. Taking a breath, he looked back at Leguia. “Thank you,” he said in sincere gratitude.

But Leguia just clapped him on the back. “Thank me when we are in the air, my friend, and on the way to Peru.”

***

Leguia’s house was a hive of activity. Men had arrived during the night, obediently following their leader’s call to arms. Weapons were being distributed, and Leguia’s dining room had been turned into an operations center, with maps and flight plans laid out on the table. The phone was in constant operation.

Ellison knew he shouldn’t be surprised by now at the means Leguia had at his disposal. When he had first met the enigmatic Peruvian officer, on a joint mission between the Rangers and their counterparts in the Peruvian military, rumors had abounded about Captain Leguia’s aristocratic background, influential contacts and vast wealth.

Later, Ellison had found out that the rumors were nowhere near as extreme as the truth.

Ellison and Leguia had led several missions together, taking the war to the concealed rebel camps in the jungle by the use of stealth and guerrilla tactics. A growing mutual respect between the two commanding officers developed into an unlikely friendship. At the same time, their team earned an almost legendary reputation, when successful mission followed successful mission.

But then, one day, it had all fallen apart.

While deep in the jungle, their team had been ambushed, and the other four men had been killed. Ellison was knocked unconscious in the fight and left for dead; and Leguia had been taken alive, back to one of the rebel camps, for interrogation.

When Ellison had finally come to, he had stayed to bury their men and mark the spot so that their bodies could be recovered later. Then he had used all his skills as a tracker to follow their attackers back to their camp.

Once he got there, he had been forced to listen helplessly from the shadows beneath the trees as Leguia had been tortured. The Peruvian’s screams had echoed through the night and, horribly outnumbered, Ellison had been unable to do a goddamned thing about it.

But somewhere along the way during that terrible night, Ellison’s horror and fury at what he was hearing, and his growing and desperate compulsion to put a stop to it, had overwhelmed him. Utterly unable to stand idly by any longer, he had engaged in what he fully expected to be an act of suicide – striding into the camp with his gun blazing.

The rebels were totally taken by surprise. None of them had predicted that they would all be taken out by a single, reckless man engaged in a full-frontal assault in the middle of the night, and their understandable complacency about such a possibility had been their downfall. After decimating the camp, Ellison had rescued Leguia, and had gotten him safely back to civilization, painstakingly keeping the wounded man’s broken body and shattered spirit together during the arduous journey through the jungle.

Ellison now recognized that the whole experience – the bizarre act of violent retribution, coupled with his extreme need to protect – had been a precursor of his Sentinel abilities coming on-line.

Donning camouflage gear in Leguia’s Cascade residence, and selecting an automatic weapon from the impressive arsenal, Ellison tried to ignore the tremors in his hands and the sick headache which tormented him; the evidence that he was on the very edge of overload. He could, he knew, contact Ramirez, and ask Ramirez’s Guide to help stabilize his senses before he went into battle. But, perversely, he continued to deny himself the comfort.

He would touch no other Guide, he vowed, until Blair was back in his arms.

***

Exactly how Leguia had done it, Ellison really didn’t want to know. The Sentinel was still – technically – a police officer, after all. But whatever the legality of his methods, Leguia had managed to ascertain the exact route that would be used to transport Blair to the medical facility. Blair’s jailers had opted to take the back roads rather than the freeway, presumably to negate the unlikely possibility of Blair’s fugitive Sentinel following them.

While it was known that a Sentinel would usually do anything to protect his Bonded Guide, no one had ever actually made an attempt to break a Guide out of custody before. It was clear, therefore, despite the minor precaution of taking an indirect route, that the potential threat posed by Ellison was not really being taken seriously after all.

That complacency was demonstrated by the fact that a low-key method of transportation, with minimum security, was being used to move Blair to the medical facility. Instead of a cavalcade, with patrol cars in front and behind, Blair was being transported in a single, presumably armored, vehicle. He would be accompanied by his trainer, a medic, and two Guards, one of whom would be driving, the other – being Leguia’s man on the inside – riding inside the back of the van.

Of course, the powers-that-be at Guide World had absolutely no idea of the resources that Ellison – through his friend, Carlos Leguia – had at his disposal. If they had, they would surely never have left themselves so exposed.

Ellison was infinitely relieved that there would be no cops involved. He would have felt extremely guilty if any of his brothers in blue had been hurt or killed during the operation to free Blair. But he would have gone along with it nevertheless, if it had been unavoidable; right now, the only person whose life he truly cared about was his Guide’s.

Now, as he waited in concealment on the empty road along with Leguia and his men, Ellison tried hard not to think of everything that could go wrong. But he really couldn’t help himself. The intelligence Leguia had gotten might be incorrect. The route could have been altered. The false guard could have been unmasked…

A radio crackled, a disembodied voice relaying a heads up, and Leguia hissed at Ellison, “They’re coming! Stay alert.”

As if he needed the advice.

Ellison longed to extend his eyesight down the road, and his hearing inside the approaching van to seek out his Guide’s heartbeat; but he didn’t dare, being this close to the risk of overload. A zone right now would take him out of the game – and this was a game he intended to win. It was enough of an effort to focus without overextending his senses, and to keep his pounding head from overwhelming him altogether.

No, to hold himself together long enough to fight this fight, he would have to put his Sentinel abilities to one side, and operate like a regular human being. Not a problem. He and Leguia had been in situations like this before, long before Ellison’s senses came on-line. Once, they had been an unbeatable team. And the odds, this time, were emphatically on their side.

That’s what Ellison told himself, anyway, as the engine noise of the approaching van became perceptible to normal ears.

***

As was often the case in combat situations as tightly run as this one, it was all over surprisingly quickly. The van pulled up short of the roadblock just as planned and, within seconds, was surrounded by Leguia’s armed men. To Ellison’s surprise, the vehicle was actually an ambulance, and not the prisoner transport bus he had expected.

The choice of vehicle both puzzled and worried him; but his attention was diverted when the two people in the front of the ambulance were ordered out at gunpoint. Ellison’s blood ran cold when he recognized the man exiting the passenger side.

Gavaghan.

Moving over to Leguia, he hissed, “The trainer. He’s mine”

Leguia nodded his assent. Then directed, “Go get your Guide, Ellison.”

Ellison didn’t need to be told twice. The back of the ambulance was already open; Leguia’s fake guard having unlocked it as soon as it had stopped moving. Climbing swiftly inside, he took in the scene.

Leguia’s man, holding a gun on a terrified medic.

And Blair…

Strapped down to a gurney, wearing nothing but a thin hospital gown; apparently unconscious.

***

CHAPTER 26

“Get out. Take him with you.”

Ellison’s harsh command was directed to Leguia’s man, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Blair for a second. Ignoring the sound of the other man curtly ushering the medic out of the ambulance, Ellison ran an eye over his Guide’s supine form.

The bastards hadn’t even covered him with a blanket, so the evidence of abuse was clear even without Sentinel vision. Bruises could be seen on Blair’s upper arms, some in the shape of finger marks, as though he had been forcibly restrained. His face was cut in several places, one cheek swollen all the way up to his closed eye; and Ellison recognized the telltale evidence of a crop. He had no doubt that his Guide’s skin under the gown would be similarly marked.

He put a hand out, and touched the un-swollen side of Blair’s cold face. Blair flinched at the touch, but his eyes didn’t open. “Hey, easy, buddy,” Ellison said softly, trying to reassure him, even as his other hand began to peel open the Velcro fastenings holding the restraints on Blair’s wrists shut. “Blair, it’s me. I’m here. I’m…” Ellison faltered, his relief at finding his Guide again so profound. Then his voice firmed, extending comfort. “I’m here to take you with me. We’re going somewhere safe now, Blair.”

Other than the one involuntary movement when Ellison had first touched him, Blair didn’t react at all to Ellison’s voice or hands. Moving downwards, Ellison freed Blair’s ankles too, and only then did the Sentinel allow himself to do what he’d wanted to do ever since he’d woken in the hospital after the explosion.

He slid his hands beneath Blair’s body and pulled him up into his arms.

There was no resistance, Blair’s helpless form flopping like a doll. But there was obviously some level of consciousness; his Guide emitting a strangled groan as he was moved. “Easy, Blair,” Ellison whispered, feeling beneath the gown with careful fingers the telltale ridges of traumatized tissue indicative of the beatings his Guide had been subjected to.

Trying to keep his murderous anger at this additional, clear evidence of abuse from spilling over to Blair, he tried to project reassurance through their Bond as he cradled his Guide, attempting to connect.

Nothing.

Frowning, he prepared to try again. Perhaps the fact that he had gotten so close to overload was preventing him from focusing. Burying his face in Blair’s hair, he inhaled, seeking the hormone-laden scent that would give him what he needed to find his control. He breathed in deeply when he found it, filling his lungs.

But it was different. Odd. Still Blair, but somehow… other. The sweetness soured; salt where he expected to find nectar.

And a blank wall where their Bond had once existed.

Then he knew.

He was too late.

Oh dear god, no.

His heart breaking, Ellison pulled back from Blair, and lowered him carefully back down on the gurney. With one trembling hand, he stroked Blair’s face tenderly. Then, shrugging off his jacket, he used it to cover his Gui…

No. No longer his Guide.

His friend. His lover. His partner. Because, even without their Bond, Ellison still loved Blair with all his heart. The Sentinel would care for him as best he could, until the inevitable fatal zone ended his own life.

No matter that Blair would most likely not even remember him.

***

Jumping down from the back of the ambulance, Ellison’s sight zeroed on the three kneeling figures, surrounded by gunmen. And on one in particular.

Gavaghan.

And his rage and grief found its focus.

Leguia’s men parted as Ellison strode through them, his whole body radiating aggression. He came to a stop right in front of Blair’s tormentor. Without a word, he backhanded the defiantly glaring man savagely across the face. Gavaghan toppled with the force of the blow, one hand lifting to his cheek.

The vision of Blair’s beautiful body, under the sadistic dominion of this sorry excuse for a man, was all that Ellison could see through the red filter of his rage. It was that memory – of Gavaghan’s awful visit to his loft – which inspired the shape that Ellison’s revenge would take. No one else moved or reacted as Ellison ordered, in a voice heavy with menace, “Take your clothes off.”

Gavaghan’s hands trembled minutely as he complied, apparently understanding that to refuse would gain him nothing. He flushed hotly, avoiding meeting Ellison’s piercing gaze as he disrobed. When he delayed over removing his pants, the nearest gunman prodded him meaningfully with his weapon, causing Gavaghan to frantically renew his efforts. As soon as the trainer was completely naked, Ellison barked, “On your knees, asshole!”

Gavaghan seemed determined, now he was undressed, to brazen it out. He moved to his knees as ordered, but shot a smug look at Ellison as he said, “I should warn you, Sentinel. If we don’t arrive at Romley on schedule, the Detectors will be out in force. You have absolutely no chance of getting away with the Guide. I would give up this farce now, if I were you.”

Ellison said nothing in reply. But the Sentinel enjoyed watching Gavaghan’s face blanch as he pulled a knife out of the sheath on his belt. The sun glinted off the polished steel as he held it up. “A crop is not my style,” he said evenly. “But I think it’s only fair that you find out what a Guide feels like when you beat him. In some ways, using a sharp knife like this one is more humane. Doesn’t bruise the skin in the same way.” He grinned nastily. “All in all,” he said, “you’re getting off pretty lightly.”

It was immensely satisfying to see Gavaghan’s bravado evaporate. “Sentinel, please,” he whispered desperately, watching Ellison with dread. “Don’t do this.”

Ellison shrugged. “You’ve had this coming a long time, Gavaghan,” he said. “Your fate was sealed the first time you brutalized my Guide, and every time you touched him since. You want mercy?” He shook his head. “I’m going to show you the same mercy you showed Blair when you took away his Guide abilities and robbed us of our Bond.” The knife flashed, in a swift downward arc, opening Gavaghan’s face from temple to jaw.

As Gavaghan toppled, then writhed on the ground in agony, Ellison stepped closer, preparing to cut him again. But an urgent voice halted him. “Sentinel! Please, stop!” The kneeling medic was emphatic, despite the warning jab from a gunman; horror at what Ellison had done on his face. “You’ve got it wrong. Your Guide isn’t damaged! Please, listen to me!”

Halting his next cut just before it sliced into Gavaghan’s despicable skin, Ellison turned to look at the medic incredulously. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The medic alternated his panicked gaze between the menacing Sentinel and his downed colleague, who lay beside him whimpering in fear and pain. “You couldn’t connect, right?” he said breathlessly. “You thought he’d had the duxectomy already. Well, he hasn’t! That’s what we’re going to Romley to get done.”

“You liar!” The knife now found another target, its point pressing into the medic’s throat. “He’s different! His scent is wrong, and there’s no link.”

The medic was clearly terrified, faced with a murderous Sentinel as he was, but he was obviously together enough to realize his life was in imminent danger of ending there and then, if he didn’t make himself clear. “Your Guide was given a drug called Duxoxin,” the medic told him urgently. “It’s a pre-op med; a combined sedative and hormone inhibitor. It’s usually administered several hours before the operation, to stop production of duxomone – the Guide hormone – before removal of the gland. Its effects are completely reversible.”

Ellison felt his heart stop. “Reversible?” he echoed.

The medic nodded, then thought better of the movement as the point of the knife cut into his neck. “Yes,” he whispered painfully. “Completely. He should wake in several hours, then you just need to reaffirm your Bond. Once you’ve done that, everything should be back to normal.”

Hope, shock and relief warred for precedence at the revelation. Blair wasn’t lost to him. They could still get out of this, and be everything that they were meant to be to each other.

Together. Sentinel and Guide.

Holding the medic’s eyes, his knife still at the man’s throat, Ellison growled, “You’d better not be lying about this. Because if you are, I’ll cut off your balls and stuff them up your backside.”

The medic looked like he was going to pass out. “It’s the truth!” he squeaked. “I swear it! Look, if he’d had brain surgery, you’d see the incision. There’s no incision, right?”

Ellison realized that he hadn’t noticed one, sure enough. The only visible marks on Blair’s head were the ones on his face, inflicted by fists and a crop.

Ellison watched the medic for a moment longer, but he saw no signs of deception. Eventually he nodded. “All right,” he said. He stood, and the medic swayed with relief as the sharp edged threat receded.

A hand fell on the Sentinel’s shoulder. “Ellison,” Leguia muttered. “We are out of time. The chopper is on the way, and we need to finish up and clear the road. It’s time to get you and your Guide out of here, my friend.”

Ellison nodded. Given the emotional wringer he had just been through, and the revelation that Blair would, after all, be all right, his intense desire for violent revenge had receded. Gavaghan and the others were no longer important – not when his Guide needed him. “Okay,” he agreed, turning his back on them. “I’ll go get Blair.”

Putting all other thoughts but Blair out of his mind, Ellison climbed back into the back of the ambulance, leaving everything else in Leguia’s capable hands. And as he once again held his insensible Guide in his arms, he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of regret when three gunshots rang out, ending the lives of the only witnesses to their escape.

Leguia, as he well knew, had never been a man to take prisoners.

Concluded in Part 9

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Conforming to Requirements 7/9 (slash)

2007-08-06T10:57:27Z

Back to Part 6

CHAPTER 19

Sheer agony. That was the first thing Ellison knew, when he swam laboriously back to consciousness. The pain encompassed him, wrapping him in an iron maiden’s exquisite embrace.

Gradually, far too slowly, the agonizing hell receded, and his hearing finally kicked back in. He grasped at the sounds around him desperately, trying to anchor himself and pull himself out of the mire that kept him immobilized. Recognizing the buzz of voices, he strained to understand the meaning of the words; but none of it made sense. “I knew it would fall into my trap,” someone was saying. An unfamiliar voice, a man. “I knew Daraha’s mistake was waiting for darkness. The third sacrifice can be averted this time, because I have him now. I have them both – the lalého and his kin. I can end it forever.”

The next voice soothed through Ellison like a healing balm, clearing his mind like sunlight through mist. “You’re wrong, Trent. These men are not lalého. They’re Sentinels.”

“Yes, they are!” The shout made Ellison wince. “They fell when the light touched them, just as it was prophesied! Now, they will die in my fire, and the curse will be broken forever. Not just my curse, but yours as well. Can’t you see?”

“Trent,” came the soothing voice again – Blair. “If you do this, if you set that bomb off, they won’t be the only ones who’ll die. We’ll all die, man. You, me, my friends. And this innocent girl, the girl you said you wanted to spare. You’ll kill us all, man.”

Marveling that his Guide could manage such a calm tone, when his heart seemed about to pound right out of its chest, Ellison moved cautiously, trying not to give away the fact that he had woken. He was still lying on the floor, but his arms and legs were bound tightly. The dryness of his mouth was largely due to the cloth stuffed in it as a gag. Opening his eyes, he saw that Maxwell Crane was standing in between him and Blair, his back to the Sentinel; his posture indicating that he was armed and pointing his weapon at Blair. “Your deaths, and mine,” Crane was saying, “are regrettable. But our sacrifice is necessary, if it will rid the world of the lalého.”

His Guide was standing by the far wall, hands raised in an unthreatening pose. He appeared unhurt, though pale. Behind him on the floor, freed of her restraints, the girl crouched, hiding in his shadow, weeping softly. “Look, said Blair, “this is not the way to get rid of the demon, okay? It won’t work. You’re going about it all the wrong way.”

Raising his head, Ellison saw Dave slumped by the wall to one side of him, holding his head in one hand. Ramirez’s Guide was bleeding from a gash on the temple, his other hand resting on the bound and unconscious form of Ramirez, who was trussed up just the same as Ellison. Dave’s eyes rose to Ellison’s fearfully, and Ellison nodded encouragement back at him.

Crane was speaking again as Ellison looked back over. “What do you mean, the wrong way?” he snorted incredulously. “What do you know?”

Blair’s voice didn’t waver. “I know everything,” he asserted, his pale eyes fixed on Crane. To Ellison’s astute vision Blair looked scared to death, but combined with the intensity with which he was regarding Maxwell Crane, his fear gave him an air of something otherworldly. “I am Pengajar.”

“You… Shaman?” breathed Crane. Then he shook his head. “No. No, that can’t be right. I would have seen it. I would have seen that you’d be here.”

“It wasn’t given to you to see,” Blair asserted simply.

Itching for a gun in his hand, unable to move or speak and still groggy from whatever had hit him, Ellison had no choice but to watch Blair spin his magic web, and hope beyond hope that his Guide knew what he was doing. He didn’t dare to reach out to him through their Bond, in case it distracted Blair from whatever he had planned. And Blair certainly seemed to have caught Crane’s attention. “What should I do?” Crane pleaded. “Tell me what to do.”

Outside, Ellison could hear Banks give the order to move in. He had no idea how much time had passed since the four of them had entered the warehouse, but they had certainly been in here far longer than was expected. Frantically, he cast his eyes around, looking for the communicators he and Ramirez had been wearing, to no avail. Blair had said there was a bomb. Banks had to be warned, or they could all die, not just those of them in this room.

Crane was oblivious to the activity outside, enthralled by Blair’s compelling deception. “You have to let the false lalého and his brother go,” Blair was telling him. “If the false lalého is here when the real demon comes, he won’t fall into your trap.”

Crane pondered for a second. Then nodded. “I will need bait,” he said. Behind Blair, the terrified girl still sobbed pitifully.

Blair smiled grimly. “Let the others go,” he said. “I will be your bait.”

***

Ellison had no idea how much time was left before the bomb Crane had placed would explode. He had no way of knowing if it had been set to go off at a certain time, or if Crane had a remote detonator in his possession. Whatever the case, the approaching posse had begun to make their way stealthily into the building. The situation, therefore, was now ultra critical.

Blair’s words to Crane had chilled Ellison to the bone. The very suggestion of his Guide offering himself up for sacrifice had almost endowed the Sentinel with the feral strength to break out of the ropes confining him.

Almost.

But the rational cop inside of Ellison had forced him to stay put, and he silently applauded Blair’s brilliant manipulation of Crane’s psychosis. To get the rest of them – including the two bound Sentinels – out of here, Crane would most likely be forced to untie the rope confining their legs, at the very least. It was possible he might untie their hands as well, if it looked like they both needed to be carried out. And that would be all that Ellison would need to take him down.

Blair stayed in place, using his body to shield the traumatized girl who had been intended as Crane’s next victim. He glanced once at Ellison as Crane began to turn away, and the eyes of Sentinel and Guide met for a split second in shared understanding before Ellison closed his eyes. And as Crane walked over towards him, Ellison was feigning unconsciousness, keeping on high alert and ready to move the second he got his chance.

Keeping careful tabs on Crane’s movement, Ellison was aware of the man walking around his prone body, and the sound of the fabric of Crane’s trousers bunching as he squatted by Ramirez and Dave. More sound, as the unconscious Sentinel was untied – feet, and as he had hoped, hands. “You,” said Crane, apparently addressing Dave, “can take this one, and go.”

“I can’t lift him by myself.” Ellison realized absently that he either hadn’t heard or hadn’t paid attention to Dave’s voice before now. “Blair? Please help me.”

“No,” Crane’s voice interjected, forestalling whatever movement Blair had made. “Not you. Her.”

More movement. Panting and grunting; the sound of something heavy being moved. Ellison could see in his mind’s eye the exhausted girl and Dave hoisting the arms of the insensible Sentinel over their shoulders, and dragging him out between them, bowed under his weight. The noise of their retreat disappeared off into the huge building, and Ellison knew the moment the threesome were sighted by the approaching cops when he heard Banks call out, “Hold your fire! It’s Ramirez.” Ellison hoped fervently that Dave would have the presence of mind to tell Banks about the bomb, and urge him to pull everyone as far back as he could.

At last, Ellison heard Crane move again, and could feel a slight disturbance of the air as the guy crouched beside him. To his shock, he felt the barrel of the gun Crane was carrying touch the side of his face in a terrible caress. “What,” Crane mused, “are we going to do with you?”

“Let him go, man,” Blair said, his voice shaking. “You promised, remember? If the lalého comes, he can’t find this false lalého here. He won’t fall for it if he’s here, man. Let him go, all right?””

“Are you really Pengajar?” asked Crane suddenly. “Because, you see, I have to be sure. I’ve been planning this a really long time, and I can’t risk being wrong.”

Ellison heard Blair swallow. “Yeah,” he lied flatly. “I’m Pengajar.”

“See,” Crane said, the gun still stroking Ellison’s face obscenely, “If you are Pengajar, the great shaman, you can’t be the sacrifice. You have to supply the sacrifice.” He laughed shortly. “I guess you did.”

Ellison could feel Blair’s shock all the way across the room at Crane’s words. So when his Guide found his voice, he managed to impress Ellison all the more with his quick thinking. “That’s true, man, I did. I was just testing you before.”

“So,” Crane stopped stroking, the gun a steady threat at Ellison’s temple, “let’s do it.”

“Not like that!” Blair was still holding it together, much to Ellison’s relief, but his firm rebuttal of Crane’s threat was tinged with panic, nevertheless. “If he’s going to be the sacrifice,” he said urgently, “you have to do it right. Do it like the others, like it’s always been done. You can’t use the gun, man. You have to tie him like the girl was tied, up against the wall.” Blair faltered, but steadied himself. “Do it right, Trent, or you’ll fail, and the lalého will win.”

The pressure of the gun disappeared, and Ellison wanted to cheer at Blair’s ability to get to the heart of Crane’s fantasy and influence him. “You’re right,” Crane said. “Of course. You know about these things.”

Hands touched Ellison, untying first his ankles, then… oh thank god, then his wrists. Both of Crane’s hands were engaged in the unraveling of knots, the gun placed down on the ground beside him as he worked.

The last knot confining the Sentinel’s hands came free.

Ellison moved.

His legs swung out, catching the kneeling man off balance. A single chop to the neck crushed his windpipe. And in one final, fluid maneuver, Ellison snatched the gun off the floor and put Trent Pearson, who called himself Maxwell Crane, out of his misery.

It was so easy, it would have been an anticlimax – if only Ellison hadn’t heard the detonator in the corpse’s pocket get depressed the moment the body hit the floor.

“Bomb!” Ellison yelled. “Run!” He sprang towards Blair and, grabbing his shocked Guide by the shirt-front, hauled him bodily towards the door. Blair didn’t need to be told twice – he moved fast.

No time to wonder how long the delay was; no time for anything. Just time to run, and run, and run.

Spurred on by adrenaline and fear, expecting at any moment to be blown sky high, they made the exit (Ellison found out later) in exactly twenty-nine seconds.

One second later, the bomb went off.

***

CHAPTER 20

The darkness cocooned him. Comforting, nurturing, healing. Ellison would have liked to stay within its womb-like embrace forever, comfortable and secure – if only the feeling that he’d forgotten to do something vitally important wouldn’t keep prodding him towards awareness. Every time he began to drift back into blissful oblivion, the imperative demand needled him, recurring with the regularity of contractions. Gradually it forced him inexorably out of his sanctuary and towards the light in a painful, shocking rebirth.

He emerged into the world sobbing, unable to stand the agonizing stimulation. The light seared his eyes even though they were closed; the sudden overwhelming intensity of sound and painful sensation in every part of his body almost robbing him of sanity. He cried out in desperate fear, terrified of the overload – utterly out of control.

But a rich, warm voice called him back from the knife’s edge, soothing, calming, resetting the parameters. A gentle hand, draining away his pain with a touch. “Easy, Sentinel. That’s it. Everything is all right. Just rest.”

Guide, his mind supplied gratefully, as the pain and discomfort receded, replaced by a comfortable lassitude. And, knowing he was safe, that his Guide was looking out for him, he sank gratefully back into the darkness.

***

The next time he woke up, opening his eyes to a nondescript hospital room, he found Simon Banks sitting beside his bed. Spotting Ellison’s movement, the Captain smiled, and remarked, “Good to have you back with us, Jim. You had me worried there for a while.”

Shifting position experimentally, and relieved to find all his body parts apparently in working order, if a little sore, Ellison prompted hoarsely, “A while, sir?”

Reaching for a tumbler and filling it with water from the jug on the nightstand, Banks clarified, “You’ve been out of it for nearly two days, all told.” He offered the water to the Sentinel.

“Thanks.” Ellison took the tumbler, and drank gratefully, easing his parched throat with relief. Dropping his head back on the pillows tiredly when he was done, still gripping the empty tumbler in his hand, he considered what Simon had just told him. So, he’d apparently been unconscious for the past two days. Something about that figure disturbed Ellison deeply. It was the same feeling he recognized from nightmares, when he’d dreamed himself late for an appointment or school test. But whatever had sparked his formless worry this time, he couldn’t consciously bring it to mind.

Ellison’s memory of what had led to him being here was fuzzy, so he asked, “Simon, what the hell happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Ellison shook his head, but even as Banks told him, giving him a précis of the operation to take down Maxwell Crane and its aftermath, the Sentinel’s memory began to click back into place. “You are one lucky son of a bitch, Detective,” the Captain finished up admiringly. “You were blown twenty feet into the air, and all you have to show for it are a few minor bruises and cuts. Hell, the only reason you’re still in here is because your Sentinel senses were overloaded in the blast. The Doc thought it was a good idea to keep you under observation until you were ready to wake up.”

The bomb. Oh god. It all came back in a rush – those final terrifying seconds when he and his Guide had literally run for their lives. “Blair?” Ellison said urgently. At Simon’s blank look, he clarified, “My Guide, Simon. Was he hurt?”

Banks shook his head, chuckling. “Damnedest thing,” he said. “Apart from a minor concussion and a few scrapes, he walked away from it as well. Between the two of you, Ellison, you have more lives than a damned cat.”

Ellison grinned back in return, his relief profound. Blair was all right. They were both all right. Together, they could deal with what came next.

Simon stood. “I’m glad to see you back in the land of the living, Detective. As soon as the Guide gets back, I’m out of here.”

Ellison breathed even easier as another memory returned. He could remember it now – the soothing voice and hand, taking away the pain and allowing him to rest. Blair had been here all along – he’d had no reason to worry about his Guide after all. Impatient to see Blair for himself, and assure himself of his Guide's safety, Ellison asked, “Where is he?”

Simon gestured towards the door. “I sent him down to get some food in the cafeteria. He needed a break. Ah,” he interrupted himself as the door opened, “here he is. Guess I’ll get off back to the PD now, Jim. Take it easy.”

As the figure moved into the room, Ellison’s heart turned to ice. It was a Guide, all right.

But not his Guide.

“What the hell…” Jim began. Dave’s eyes were averted, as though he wished himself anywhere but here. “Simon,” Ellison said urgently, halting the Captain’s progress toward the door. “Hang on.” Dreading the answer, Ellison forced himself to ask the question he desperately needed to ask, nevertheless. “Where’s Blair?”

“Blair?” The Captain looked puzzled for a moment, then comprehension dawned. “Oh, your rogue. I keep forgetting that’s what you call him.” He shrugged. “I sent him back to Guide World. Like Ramirez said, you were getting way too attached to him. As soon as Benny recovered and left the hospital, he agreed to let his Guide, here, stay with you until you were up and about.” He looked at Ellison pointedly. “The offer from the Feds still stands, Jim, so now you’re Guideless again, I expect you to get over to their Guide facility as soon as you’re fit, to choose a new one.”

Ellison couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Whatever else Simon said in farewell was lost in the dissonant, cacophonous death throes of the end of the world.

***

Ellison was hardly aware of the doctor’s visit, or of being declared fit to leave the hospital. He dressed mechanically, and made his way down to the parking lot on his own two feet. It was only when the shadowing Guide’s hand touched him on the back as he unlocked the truck door that he felt anything at all, and that was incandescent, lethal rage. “Don’t touch me!” he snarled, whirling around and getting right up into Dave’s face. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me!”

If there had been space for Ramirez’s Guide to fall to his knees right then and there, Ellison was sure he would have done so, if the fear stench infusing his scent was anything to go by. But Ellison effectively had him pinned up against the side of the truck, and to drop down would involve Dave’s body brushing against his, in stark contravention of the Sentinel’s express order not to touch. So the Guide obediently stayed put, fear pouring off him in waves, as Ellison moved away and got in the truck, slamming the door after him.

If Ellison had ever scared Blair like that, he knew he would have felt abject shame. But for Ramirez’s soft Guide, he felt nothing. Dave had been bred to this life. He’d never known any other, and Ramirez had pampered him for twenty years. He’d let him choose his own name, never beating him, treating him with kid gloves. Indulging him.

Blair, his beautiful, brilliant, courageous Blair, had never been one fraction so fortunate.

Dave would go back to Ramirez soon, and the Sentinel would run his hands caressingly over his Guide’s head, calming his fears and reassuring him that he was treasured. And later Ramirez would take him home, and reaffirm their Bond by making love to him, their emotions opening wide to each other in their ecstasy.

Blair would be alone in a cell, on his knees. But only if he was lucky, and his ‘trainer’ decided to leave him alone.

“Damn it!” Ellison’s fists pounded the steering wheel, once, twice. Again, a third time. His hands stung at the impact, but the pain was good. It helped him focus, helped him begin to decide what to do.

And God help him, there was no way he would sit back and do nothing.

Snapping open his cell phone, he was relieved to see that the battery still had some charge left after two days of being left unattended. He speed dialed Leguia’s number without hesitation.

“Leguia.”

“Carlos. It’s Ellison.”

“Ellison? How are you, my friend? I saw on the news that the valiant Cascade cop, Detective Ellison, had been injured taking down a madman.”

He had no time for small talk. “Carlos, they have him. They have Blair.”

A pause. “Blair is your Guide, yes?”

“Yes. They took him while I was unconscious.” Ellison wondered if the excuse sounded as lame to Leguia as it did to him. “I couldn’t stop them.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Carlos, look, buddy, I need your help. Please. You’ve got to help me get him out of there. I… I can’t do it alone.”

He could hear the sincere regret in Leguia’s voice when he spoke. “Arranging travel, transporting you both incognito, that I can do. But a rescue? From a heavily guarded Guide facility? Even if we managed to get your Guide out, we’d never leave U.S. airspace, let alone reach our destination.”

“C’mon, Carlos.” Ellison could feel his last hope slipping away in the face of the other man’s not unpredictable reluctance. He knew what a long shot this was – what an impossible task he was proposing – but he had to ask. He had to. “I… I’m begging here. I need your help, Carlos. There’s no one else I can turn to…”

“Stop.” The quiet word interrupted Ellison’s desperate pleading. “I didn’t say that I wouldn’t help, just that certain things are… tricky.” Leguia paused, then said, “Get me more information. Where he is being held, the layout, the staff, his schedule. Maybe there is a weakness, something we can exploit.”

Ellison’s despair lifted a little. “I can do that,” he said.

“I won’t promise, Ellison,” Leguia said. “You know the odds are against the success of something like this. But I won’t abandon you, my friend. I will do what I can. Get me what I need, and I’ll consider it then.”

Hope blossomed. Surely, between them, they would find a way. “Thank you,” Ellison said sincerely.

“Keep breathing,” Leguia quipped. “As a wise man once said to me when I most needed to hear it.”

Ellison ended the call, moved as he always was by Leguia’s dedication to him. The Peruvian was a good man to have on your side.

Especially since he made a deadly enemy.

It was time, then, to do some reconnaissance. To gather the necessary intelligence. But first, he needed to ditch Ramirez’s Guide.

At the thought of the other pair, Ellison’s smoldering rage ignited again. He remembered the promise Ramirez had given him – that he would intervene with Simon to allow Ellison one more night with Blair.

What would it have cost Ramirez, he wondered furiously, to convince the Captain that Blair should stay at liberty a little longer; at the very least, until his Sentinel had recovered? Ramirez could have done it, Ellison had no doubt – Simon took the senior Sentinel’s advice seriously when it came to Sentinel/Guide matters. Ellison gritted his teeth in disgust. He could only assume that the other Sentinel had not cared enough about Blair to even try.

Both Sentinels’ lives, as well as the lives of their Guides and an innocent young woman, had all been spared due to Blair’s quick thinking and his actions in the warehouse. A madman would kill no more, because of Blair’s extraordinary insight. And yet at the culmination of it all, Ramirez had gone back on his word, and stood aside while Simon had cast Blair away like a used tool, as though the Guide’s courage and cleverness, as well as his critical input into the case, were worth less than nothing.

It made him want to pound Ramirez’s smug face into the wall.

He wound the window down, and shouted, “Guide? Get in here. Now!”

Not sparing a glance for the man, who rounded the front of the truck and slid in alongside him – onto the seat that should rightfully be Blair’s – Ellison started the engine and pulled out.

Heading straight for the PD.

***

Ellison pulled up outside PD headquarters a short while later and, without turning to look at Dave, ordered, “Get out. Go back to your Sentinel.”

During the ride, the guy had apparently found some measure of pluck. “Sentinel, I’m not your enemy.”

It was the first time, other than when the Sentinel had been in the depths of sensory overload, that Dave had ever spoken to him directly. It was sufficiently unusual to get Ellison’s attention. “What did you say?”

“You heard. People like you have very good hearing.” Ellison looked at Dave quizzically. The Guide was watching him a little warily, but seemed composed. His tone was unmistakably bitter, though. “If you think for one moment,” he went on, “that I’m happy about what happened to Blair, then…” He shook his head incredulously. “I’m not, okay? It was wrong.”

“Tell that to your Sentinel,” Ellison said coldly.

Dave shook his head in apparent frustration. He looked about to speak again, but Ellison forestalled him. He needed this guy out of his truck now – his bleeding heart was none of Ellison’s concern. “Get the hell out. And tell Ramirez – he and I will have our day.”

Dave looked at him sadly and, without another word, he opened the truck door and got out. As soon as the door was slammed shut, Ellison pulled out into traffic, and took the turn that would take him back to where this all started.

***

CHAPTER 21

It was with an understandable sense of déjà vu that Ellison one again found himself ensconced in the waiting room at Guide World. Blair was somewhere in this place; and Ellison could no more keep away than he could prevent the sun from rising.

Blair had been ripped away from Ellison’s protection, and thrown back into his worst nightmare. Ellison had to see him, if only for a moment, to assure him that things would be all right, and that he was working on a way of getting Blair out of here.

He had to give him hope.

Eschewing the uncomfortable plastic chairs, he prowled to and fro, seething at being made to wait when his gut was churning with urgency and need. Thankfully, despite the lack of a prior appointment – which he had been warned by the officious bimbo at the desk was not SOP for these idiots – the receptionist came back for him quickly. “Sentinel, Mister Reynolds will see you now.”

Treading the path of a memory, Ellison followed her into the salesman’s office, absently shaking Reynolds’s hand as the man rose in greeting, and taking a seat where indicated. Then he got straight to the point. “My Guide,” he said. “The one I rented. I need to see him.”

Reynolds’s smile didn’t falter. “That won’t be possible.”

“Why not?” Even as he spoke, Ellison was sending out sensory tendrils into the building, seeking his Guide instinctively, only to come up against a barrier of white noise. It seemed Guides in this facility were kept insulated even from the questing senses of visiting Sentinels. But if only he could get closer to Blair’s position, he might be able to use their Bond to push through to him.

“Because,” Reynolds was saying, in answer to his question, “in cases such as this, we believe it is better to make a clean break. Your rental contract was terminated as soon as 96-234 was returned to us. Maintaining informal links with him would not be in your best interest, Sentinel. Trust me on this.”

Maintaining his composure with an effort, Ellison said, “What if I wanted to hire him again?”

Reynolds nodded thoughtfully. “It is an option, if you are still set on having a rental Guide. However, it won’t be possible right away. Our rules prevent re-rental for a period of three months after the expiry of a contract, to allow for compulsory re-training.” He looked at Ellison hopefully. “Perhaps, now that you are in the market again, you would be interested in considering one of our Police Guides instead? Now you’ve had a taste of what having a Guide is like, I’m sure you’ll agree that Bonding is the way to go.”

“Sure. Why not? Bring ‘em on.” If looking at a few Guides would get him closer to where Blair was being held, he would play along, despite his almost uncontrollable urge to rip this slimy bastard’s head off when he blithely mentioned re-training.

He wondered how well Reynolds would perform with a regulation crop in his face.

It took a few moments for the salesman to make the appropriate arrangements. Then, following Reynolds once again to the viewing room where he had first seen Blair, Ellison went through the motions of pretending interest in the Police Guides arranged for his perusal. But behind his expression of feigned attention, his senses were reaching out, seeking. His soul, stirring; longing for its mate.

The white noise barrier remained impassable – he couldn’t penetrate it with his hearing. But, surely, he could find Blair through anything using their Bond. Extending his longing, his desperation, his overwhelming love, he sought relentlessly. And something, a shining beacon, drew his awareness. He zeroed in, getting closer.

Almost there…

Almost there…

Almost… there!

Despair… Jim… fear… need… Jim… surprise! Elation! Jim!

“Sentinel!”

Ellison rocked back on his heels, his mind torn from Blair’s, Reynolds’s shout and a hand on his arm bringing him abruptly back to the viewing room. He looked down at the fingers that gripped him, and followed the arm with his gaze to its owner’s face. Brown eyes looked back at him nervously a moment, before they dropped in perfect submission – the eyes of a young, captive-reared man, who a moment before had been one of the Police Guide candidates the Sentinel had been viewing through the one-way glass.

With an involuntary surge of revulsion at the unwelcome touch of a Guide who was emphatically not his own, he dislodged the touch and shoved, pushing the young man gently but firmly away from him. Beside him, Reynolds was still panicking. “Sentinel! Are you all right? Please, sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”

Ellison waved off Reynolds’s concern. “I’m all right.”

Reynolds was not convinced. “Sentinel, that was a serious zone. If something like that happens when you’re working – well, you don’t need me to point out that the results could be fatal. I had to get 80-754 here to bring you out – you were that far gone, you couldn’t even hear my voice!”

Hadn’t that been a blessed relief? Ellison turned towards the exit. He’d only managed a split second of contact with Blair, but he’d done what he came here to do. Blair would surely infer from their brief rapport that his Sentinel had not forsaken him. It was time, now, to put this farce to an end. “Goodbye, Reynolds,” Ellison said, as he opened the door.

“Sentinel Ellison?” Reynolds said plaintively, clearly unhappy at the way his business had concluded.

But Ellison ignored him. And as he left the facility, he hoarded close to his heart the brief, shining moment he and Blair had been one.

***

The memory of Blair’s touch in his mind kept Ellison’s spirits aloft during the whole drive home. The vibrant, essential essence of his Guide filled Ellison to the brim with its memory, making him breathe easier as he basked in its brilliance.

It was essential that he focus on the positive. Blair was alive. He was – quite understandably – scared and unhappy; but was relatively unhurt, if Ellison had read the overtones of his emotions correctly. And Blair still wanted Ellison – that much was clear. Ellison had strongly felt Blair’s longing and desperate desire for him – a desire which was the mirror of his own.

They might only have been in contact for a fleeting second, but he was confident that Blair had been convinced, nevertheless, of Ellison’s love and devotion in return. And hopefully that brief reassurance would sustain his Guide until he could be rescued.

Ellison’s euphoria was wearing off by the time he parked up outside his apartment building on Prospect. He sat there for a moment after cutting the engine, looking up at his third-floor windows. This, he realized, was the first time that he would go home without his Guide since their first meeting. Depression was too mundane a word to describe his reaction to that, as the dregs of his elation fled and a dark cloud descended.

His steps were leaden as he left the truck and moved inside, climbing the three flights to the third-floor apartment – wishing desperately with every step to hear his Guide’s footfalls three feet behind, and to feel a familiar, steadying hand on his back.

It seemed like forever since Ellison had last been home. Like it had been in another life – a life full of richness and color. As he entered the apartment, throwing his keys absently in the basket on the table by the door, he was faced with the sheer emptiness of it all – the sparse barrenness of it, echoing the yearning hole in his soul.

The normally comforting ambience of the loft had fled since he had last been here. The emptiness mocked him and, without his Guide’s soothing presence there for him to latch onto, the whir of the kitchen fan jarred his ears, and the smell of the dirty laundry in the basket just inside the bathroom offended his nose. The dust motes dancing in the waning sunlight through the balcony windows flickered, making his head ache like a rotten tooth.

He moved into the kitchen, only to see that the breakfast dishes from two days ago were still on the drainer. And, looking at the two upended mugs and two plates, the memory of that final breakfast came back to Ellison with the clarity of a flashback. Blair, teasing him gently about cholesterol. Blair laughing. Blair kissing him passionately before they went out to face the day…

Without conscious volition, his arm swung out in an arc, sweeping them all onto the floor with a violent crash. The plates and one of the mugs disintegrated into jagged shards on impact, a second mug bouncing and remaining mostly whole, just its handle sheered off.

Breathing heavily in the aftermath of his impulsive, destructive act, Ellison’s grief and rage almost choked him. At last, he finally admitted to the other, less positive emotions Blair had emitted when their minds had touched. He’d felt Blair’s profound sense of abandonment and agonized desperation. He’d felt the constant fear that Blair could not hope to conceal within the enforced honesty of their Bond. And he acknowledged that unless Leguia could find a way to get them both out of this, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about any of it.

He had never, in his entire life, felt as helpless as he did at this moment.

Ellison rubbed shaking hands over his face, and tried to breathe deep in the way that Blair had taught him during their brief time together. He had to gather his wits and get with the program. Losing it like this wouldn’t help Blair – and he now realized he’d come perilously close to giving the game away when he’d gone to Guide World, operating on a knife edge of rationality as he had been. He could only hope that Reynolds would continue to believe he had simply zoned, and would not suspect that he had been trying to reach his Guide through their Bond.

Please god, he prayed fervently, let no one find out that they were Bonded.

Ellison walked away from the broken crockery – the jagged evidence of his lack of control – and attempted once more to focus, to push his disorientation and discomfort to one side. He thought back with an effort to what Leguia had said: Get me more information. Where he is being held, the layout, the staff, his schedule.

Number one on that list was already covered. He knew where Blair was, and even had a good idea, thanks to his visit just now of exactly where in the facility his Guide was being held. But the rest of it? He needed to obtain plans of the building, names of and details about the staff, information about shift changes, a timetable of the routine that Blair was being subjected to…

How the hell was he going to get hold of all of that without raising suspicion?

Right now, he was finding it hard even to think straight. His head pounded and his throat hurt, as though he was coming down with something – and the very last thing he needed right now was to fall ill. He needed a clear head and all of his strength if he was to have any chance at all of effecting Blair’s rescue.

Failure, he told himself firmly, was not an option.

It was a measure of how bad he was feeling, and how out of whack his senses were that the knock at the door – when it came – took him utterly by surprise. As the familiar tingle in his spine gripped him in the next moment, he knew that it was another Sentinel standing on his threshold. But not just any Sentinel.

Ramirez.

His fury at Ramirez’s betrayal, and at the other Sentinel’s callous disregard of Blair’s courage and quick thinking, rose up in him like bile. All the pent up helplessness and rage he had not adequately been able to express finally burst free, as he strode over to the door and flung it open.

Ellison wanted to rip Ramirez’s head from his shoulders. He wanted to beat him to within an inch of his life; making him suffer like Blair was being forced to suffer.

He was so blinded by fury and hatred, his senses so messed up, that it was his cop instinct for self-preservation, rather than any actual sensing of the threat, which forced him to pull up short in the open doorway.

An inch away from the barrel of Ramirez’s gun.

***

CHAPTER 22

Ramirez spoke, not for a second taking his eyes away from Ellison. “Move inside, Jim. You don’t want your neighbors to hear what we have to say to each other.”

Ellison raised his hands in surrender and backed up, his gut churning suddenly in utter panic. There was only one reason Ramirez would come here like this, holding a gun on him – the other Sentinel was here to arrest him.

Ramirez knew. He fucking knew.

It was all over.

Oh god, Blair.

Ellison was barely aware of Dave slipping into the apartment behind Ramirez and closing the door. All he could see was the terrible truth in Ramirez’s eyes, and Blair’s face twisting in terror at the hands of his tormentors as his mind was ripped from him.

Ramirez was speaking, but lost in horrific fantasy as Ellison was, it took a moment before the other man’s words registered. “I said, are we going to have a problem here, Jim? Because I’d hate to have to shoot you.”

Gathering his wits with an effort, Ellison asked, “You taking me in?”

Ramirez shrugged. “I’m here to talk. For now.”

The hell he was. “So why the gun, Benny?”

Ramirez smiled. “What kind of idiot would I be, Jim, if I walked into another Sentinel’s territory unarmed? Especially when that Sentinel has just been separated from his Bonded Guide.”

So there it was, out in the open between them at last.

“It was you who separated us,” Ellison accused bitterly, now that there was no more need for secrecy or denial. “After everything that Blair did – giving us the break we needed, keeping us alive, saving all of us in that damned warehouse. You promised me, Benny, you promised you’d intervene with Simon. That you’d give us a little more time.” He laughed shortly, without mirth. “Empty words, huh? Guides are nothing to you. It doesn’t matter that Blair saved your life, does it? He’s not a human being as far as you’re concerned – he’s a tool, nothing more. You didn’t even give us the chance to say goodbye.”

“And what would you have done,” Ramirez threw back, “with your ‘little more time’? I don’t think saying goodbye was ever on your agenda. Where exactly were you planning to run to, Jim?” His tone indicated that he was quite sure that was exactly what Ellison had planned to do.

“Somewhere we’d be safe,” Ellison admitted, knowing there was no point in denying it. “But thanks to you, that’s all over now. Did it feel good, huh, Benny? Did it make you feel powerful, sending Blair back to that hellhole, after he saved your worthless hide?” He snorted derisively. “But for you, he would have had a chance with me. A chance at a new life and some dignity. You stole that from him.”

Ramirez shook his head. “You got yourself into this mess, Ellison – I warned you about the consequences right at the start. You think you care so much for Blair, don’t you? So tell me this – why the hell did you Bond with him anyway, when you knew what would happen to him when he was taken back? What in hell possessed you to put him in this position?”

“He wouldn’t be in this position,” Ellison shouted, “If you’d done what you promised! We’d have been far away from here by now, starting a new life together. It would have hurt no one, Benny. A victimless crime. It would have given the finest man I’ve ever met, a fraction of what he deserves – the closest thing to freedom I could deliver. But no, Boy Scout Ramirez had to play it by the book, never mind that the only reason you weren’t blown into a million little pieces was because of Blair…”

“Give it a rest, both of you!” Dave appeared from nowhere at Ramirez’s elbow, and glared at his Sentinel. “Benny, you know as well as I do that he’s right. I told you a little of what happened – but for Blair, we’d both be dead. We owe him, Benny. This is all wrong.”

It was a bizarre display – Ellison had hardly ever heard Dave utter two words before now, and here he was berating his Sentinel in front of an audience, acting as confident as a regular citizen. Ramirez shifted his focus to Dave, looking almost as incredulous as Ellison felt. “Guide,” he warned, “get back to your place.”

Dave shook his head. “Not this time.” He held his Sentinel’s eyes, not backing down for an instant. “I need to tell you the rest, Benny. Everything that happened in that warehouse. Then you’ll see why we have to help them. Why we have to help Blair.”

***

An odd truce pertained as the three of them sat at the table, Dave’s hands clasped before him in a nervous knot. Ramirez hadn’t holstered his gun – instead, he’d placed it on the tabletop near his hand – in clear warning that his business with Ellison wasn’t over; merely postponed. And, sitting there tensely across from Ramirez, Ellison’s own claws were only partially sheathed.

Ellison felt as though he was in some surreal courtroom, in which the ultimate fate of his Guide would be judged. Ramirez had the law on his side – he was totally within his rights to arrest Ellison here and now, and notify the authorities about their Bond. The fact that he had so far hesitated to do so gave Ellison hope that it might be possible to sway him to their cause – if only Dave’s testimony was convincing enough.

“The guy used a flashing light,” Dave was telling them. “It was really bright, and pulsed irregularly – some kind of strobe, I think. It went off as soon as we were all inside the room, as though it was set off by a motion sensor or tripwire or something. Whatever it was, it hit you two right away – your senses were instantly overloaded, and you were knocked cold.”

Dave took a breath, the memory obviously a painful one. “Blair and I tried to go to you both, but the guy had a gun. He threatened to shoot us if we moved, so we had to stay put.”

“Dave,” Ramirez put in gently, “there wasn’t anything else you could have done.”

But Dave didn’t seem to want comfort. “Just let me finish, all right Benny?”

“Okay.”

Dave took a breath. “The guy – Crane – moved over to where you were both lying. He pulled a weird looking knife from his belt, and started talking about how you were both some kind of demon, how you’d fallen into his trap. How he was going to finish it now, before the darkness came. He put it to your throat, Benny. I…I did something stupid then. I was scared he was going to kill you; I’ve never been more scared in my life.” Dave looked stricken.

“Go on,” Ramirez said encouragingly.

Dave nodded unhappily. “I fell to my knees, begged him not to touch you. I was crying, shaking – I really lost it.” He didn’t look at either of the Sentinels, as though ashamed at the admission. “I guess I made too much noise, annoyed him. He left you alone, and came straight for me. He hit me.” Dave’s hand ghosted over his temple, the one Ellison remembered he had been bleeding from when he had come to in the warehouse. “He was leaning over me – I knew he was going to kill me. But Blair…” He raised his eyes. “Blair stopped him.”

“How?” Ramirez’s voice was a whisper.

“He moved over. He put himself in between us, shielded me with his body. The guy’s knife was pressed to his chest, but Blair was really calm – I remember being amazed by how calm he was, almost like a cop would be. He spoke to the guy. I can’t honestly remember what he said – most of it I didn’t understand. Something about demons,” he glanced at Ellison, “the same kind of stuff he talked about afterwards, when you heard him.”

Ellison nodded his understanding. “What happened after that?” he prompted.

“Blair persuaded Crane to back off,” Dave went on. “He kept right on talking to him, and somehow convinced him to release the girl. He was amazing,” Dave added, admiration in his voice. “Crane told the two of us to get her down from the wall, and while we did, he tied both of you up. He let me go to you then, Benny. But Blair chose to stay near the girl – she was in a bad way, and I guess he wanted to try and stop the guy from touching her again.”

Ellison knew the rest, but he felt strongly that Ramirez needed to hear it too. “And then?”

Dave looked down at his hands. “Blair carried on talking to the guy. He understood what made him tick, used it to get him to agree to let us… ” He glanced at his Sentinel, “you, me and the girl, that is, Benny – to let us go. He volunteered to stay as the guy’s hostage – ‘bait’ he called it.”

“And then,” Ellison took up the tale, “after you’d been released, Blair kept me alive, Benny. Crane was going to shoot me, but Blair talked him out of it. He’d seen that I was conscious, and he tricked the guy into untying me. The second he did, I got the drop on him. The bomb was triggered when Crane fell, and we ran for our lives. The rest you know.”

Silence descended, as Ramirez absorbed what he had heard. After a moment, he said, “Jim, I didn’t know about any of this until Dave started to tell me on the way over here.”

That made no sense. “How the hell can that be true?” Ellison gestured towards Dave. “He must have told you before now.”

“I never had a chance, Sentinel,” Dave said. “Benny was still unconscious when the explosion happened. He was closer to the strobe than you were, and it really messed with his senses. The two of you were taken to the ER, and as soon as Benny woke up and his senses stabilized, I was sent over to stay with you. Then when I got back to him at the PD just now, we didn’t get much chance to talk. Nowhere private, you know? I just started to tell him in the car on the way over here.”

“What about Blair?” Ellison insisted, looking back at Ramirez. “Didn’t he give a statement?”
Ramirez laughed, shortly. “You’re joking, right? Jim, there were two Sentinels in that warehouse, both of whom survived. No one was interested in taking a statement from a couple of Guides. The word of a Guide, as you well know, is only taken into consideration if there are no other witnesses.”

The knowledge stung, biting into Ellison’s intense pride at his Guide’s heroism. But despite Ramirez’s former ignorance at the extent to which Blair had been instrumental in the bust, the matter still remained that he had gone back on his word. “Tell me one thing, Benny,” Ellison said. “If you’d known all this before, would you have kept your promise? Would you have spoken to Simon about letting us have more time together?”

“Sentinel.” Dave’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Benny had nothing to do with Blair being taken away. Captain Banks gave the order, while my Sentinel was still unconscious.”

Oh.

Crap.

He should probably apologize for making that particular assumption, Ellison knew, but it could wait until he knew for sure where they were headed with this. And something else was puzzling him right now. “Tell me one thing,” he said. “What made you so sure Blair and I are Bonded?”

Ramirez and his Guide exchanged a look. “That was me, Sentinel,” Dave admitted, a little fearfully. “I’m sorry. I could feel your link when you were in the hospital, when I was trying to help re-calibrate your senses.”

Before Ellison had a chance to jump on Dave’s disclosure of his secret to Ramirez, the other Sentinel spoke up, his voice sarcastic. “Yeah, Jim; that, and the fact that Guide World called Simon Banks a half an hour ago, worried about the Sentinel who zoned viewing their Police Guides.” Ramirez shook his head incredulously. “You stupid shit,” he said. “What the hell did you do that for? You may as well hang out a neon sign with the words ‘Bonded Sentinel’ on it. What the hell were you thinking, trying to contact Blair that way? Do you want them to find out?”

Ellison put his head in his hands. He’d realized, as soon as he’d got home, that it had been a stupid and potentially lethal thing to do. But he hadn’t seemed to be able to stop himself at the time, or control his desperate urge to get close to Blair somehow. Not only that – he’d wanted Blair to know he hadn’t been forgotten, that he wasn’t alone. Raising his head, he said wearily to Ramirez, “What would you have done, huh? If it had been Dave taken from you like that, not knowing if he’d ever see you again, wouldn’t you try to get close to him? I mean, c’mon. My back’s against the wall, here.”

Ramirez leaned forward, looking him in the eye. “News flash, Ellison. That will never be an issue for me. Nothing like this would ever happen to Dave, because our Bond is legal. Yours is not. Blair is a Rogue. You Bonded with him, you broke the law.”

“So,” Ellison said recklessly, staring challengingly back, “what are you gonna do about it, Benny? You’re an officer of the law, as you keep reminding me. Are you gonna arrest me? You gonna tell those sadistic bastards about Blair’s Bond with me? Or are you going to help me save his life the way he saved yours and your Guide’s?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Jim,” Ramirez answered seriously, his expression grave. “And that’s the truth.”

Continued in Part 8

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Conforming to Requirements 6/9 (slash)

2007-08-06T10:54:46Z

Back to Part 5

CHAPTER 17

Ellison was a couple of minutes late arriving at Starbucks, so he was unsurprised to see that his contact had already arrived. Carlos Leguia had always been, in any case, a punctual man. It was one of the distinctive aspects of his character that had kept him alive in difficult circumstances during the time that Jim had known him.

All except for one occasion.

Leguia looked up as Ellison approached, a broad smile suffusing his swarthy features. “Ellison!” he exclaimed, as though their running into each other was an accident. Standing, he thrust out a hand, which Ellison shook warmly.

“Carlos, good to see you,” Ellison offered, just as warmly. “You’re looking well.”

Leguia waved him to the seat opposite. “Thanks to you, my friend. Always, thanks to you.”

Ellison shrugged off the effusive flattery. “Forget it. I told you before, Carlos. You would have done the same for me.”

“But you did it for me, my friend. And that is what counts.” Leguia slid a cup across to Ellison as he seated himself. “Double espresso,” he said. “Still your caffeine of choice, yes?”

Ellison smiled warmly at his friend as he took the cup. “Yes.”

Leguia gestured around as he took a sip of his drink. “So here I am, drinking mocha latte in Cascade once again with you. Something, at one time, I thought I would never do again. You made this possible, Ellison. I’m in your debt. Whatever you want, ask, and it is yours.”

Ellison shook his head. “You know,” he said, “that I never intended to take you up on your offer. I never wanted payment. That’s not what any of it was about.”

“I know that,” Leguia conceded sincerely. “To you, you simply did your job. But to me, Ellison, to me, you saved not only my life, but my sanity.” Leguia looked earnestly into Ellison’s eyes, the faint scars running in pale lines over his face standing out against his dark complexion. “Another day;” he went on, “no, another hour in that camp and I would have lost my mind. I couldn’t stand the pain any longer, Ellison. I’d reached my limits; lost my faith. You showed up in the nick of time, like an avenging angel. Then, when you carried me across the jungle, tending my wounds as you went, cleaning up my shit and wiping my tears, you gave me back my belief in humanity. I can never repay you for what you did.”

Embarrassed by the other man’s heartfelt assessment of him, Ellison nevertheless was moved by Leguia’s words. “Whatever, Carlos, I’m pleased to see you. And I’m happy to see you doing well.”

Leguia winced a little. “Oh, I still hurt a little, in cold and wet weather.” He grinned. “One reason I don’t visit Cascade all that often. I need to go back for more plastic surgery soon, but that will be in LA. I prefer the sun!”

They both laughed a little, the intensity of their interaction defused by recourse to small talk about the weather. Then Ellison sobered. “Carlos,” he said. “My situation is desperate. Otherwise I would never ask for your help.”

Leguia nodded, all seriousness. “I told you before,” he said again. “Ask, and it is yours.”

“This may be too much.”

Leguia smiled. “There is no such situation. Try me,” he said.

Ellison took a sip of coffee, then placed the cup down. Folding both hands before him on the table, he looked into Leguia’s eyes. “I am a Sentinel,” he said. “My senses came on-line after I was rescued from Peru.”

Leguia nodded. “I am not surprised, it makes sense. You are a protector, after all. To myself, in fact, it is what I call you,” he admitted, with a rueful chuckle. “My ‘blessed protector’. From an old Chinese proverb.” He shrugged. “Whatever. But I can see how it must be so that you are a Sentinel.”

“Yeah, well,” Ellison said. “It’s what I am.” He took a deep breath. “And yesterday, I Bonded to a Guide.”

“Congratulations,” Leguia said sincerely.

“Thank you.”

When the pause after Ellison had spoken went on for a few uneasy moments, Leguia ventured, “So, I am guessing that this aid you require, it is to do with this Guide, yes?”

Ellison nodded. “You guess right.”

“This Guide, he is unsuitable?”

Ellison shook his head. “Just the opposite. More than suitable, at least as far as he and I are concerned. But our Bond is illegal. My Guide is… unique. He was rogue until last year. He was a professor at Rainier until he was confiscated. He’s not a regular Guide, and he’s not allowed to Bond. It’s part of his sentence for being rogue.”

“If that is the case, how is it that you are together?”

“I rented him. I never intended to Bond with anyone, until he came along. Something… bad happened. And we ended up Bonding by accident.” Ellison shrugged. “I don’t regret it. But now we’re in trouble.”

Leguia was looking thoughtful. “You say it is illegal, this Bond. What will happen if you get found out?”

“They’ll hurt him. Probably kill him. But whatever happens, I only have him for a short while longer before he’s recalled.” Ellison’s voice became impassioned, his desperation clear. “And I can’t let him go back to that, Carlos. His life there is brutal. I can’t let them take him away from me.”

Leguia was regarding him thoughtfully, chewing on his bottom lip. After a moment, he stated, “You want me to get you away. You and your Guide.”

“Yes.” Ellison looked across the room, his eyes unfocused on the distance, dreading Leguia’s refusal. “I know that what I’m asking is a lot. The penalty of getting caught, for you as well as us, the risks… It’s dangerous. But Carlos,” his voice reduced to a whisper, “you’re my only hope. Our only hope.”

A hand reached over and enveloped his where it rested on the tabletop. Looking back at the other man, he saw Leguia’s brown eyes watching him with compassion. “Once,” Leguia said quietly, “you were my only hope. This, I will do. For you, my friend. For you.”

Despite the lump in his throat, Ellison found his voice. “Thank you.”

***

As he ascended towards the sixth floor of the PD in the elevator, Ellison was breathing a little easier. Carlos would come through for them – the Sentinel had no doubt. The details still had to be worked out; arrangements for something like this took time and organization. It wouldn’t happen overnight. But it would happen.

Assuming nothing went down in the meantime to disrupt their plans.

Lost in thought, he failed to extend his senses ahead into the bullpen. So the sight that met his eyes when the elevator doors opened took him completely by surprise.

Uniforms, SWAT, detectives; all donning Kevlar and readying weapons in a pre-battle frenzy.

And no sign of Ramirez or the two Guides.

“What the hell…” Ellison said as the elevator doors closed behind him. The last time he had seen this much activity in the bullpen, it had been in preparation for the bust of the century – taking down an arsonist who had killed four people and destroyed property in two States. There was nothing else that big planned to go down, as far as he knew at the moment.

Nothing, that is except, for his own case – the serial murders.

As if on cue, Simon Banks appeared in his office doorway. “Ellison!” he bellowed. “Get in here!”

Striding through the melee, Ellison anxiously cast his senses around, seeking his Guide. Their Bond kicked in as he approached Simon’s office and, to his surprise, Blair was projecting satisfaction, happiness, busyness; an emphatically positive set of emotions. That fact reduced the Sentinel’s anxiety levels considerably, but it still failed to adequately prepare him for what he found when he entered the Captain’s office.

Blair, sitting at Simon’s computer, sipping coffee. Dave, hovering over him, watching the screen, both of them acting like regular citizens. Ramirez, unconcerned at either Guide’s breach of etiquette, perusing a file at the meeting table in the center of the office.

Ellison felt like he had entered some weird, alternate reality.

Ramirez looked up as Ellison and Simon entered. “Jim,” he greeted.

Cued by Ramirez’s acknowledgement of Ellison’s presence, both Guides stopped what they were doing – Dave dropping to his knees, and Blair sliding off the chair to do the same. Looking at the two Guides quizzically, Ellison directed his query to Ramirez and Simon. “What the hell is going on?”

Ramirez stood and looked over to the Guides. “Carry on with what you were doing,” he directed, and Dave stood up obediently. Blair, however, simply glanced expectantly at Ellison, looking to his own Sentinel for a cue.

Ellison nodded, meeting Blair’s hopeful gaze. “Do as he says,” he confirmed and, with a small smile of gratitude, Blair maneuvered himself back into the chair, turning once again to the PC.

Banks was watching the interaction between Sentinels and Guides, an unreadable expression on his face. He turned to Ellison. “It seems,” he said, “that your Guide has certain expertise which has blown your case wide open, Ellison. Detective Ramirez, here, is convinced that your Guide knows what he’s talking about. Not only that, but they’ve both managed to convince me. The raid on our suspect is going down in one hour.”

The raid had been scheduled to take place in two days’ time, in accord with the pattern that Ellison had determined, which linked the previous killings in Clayton Falls and Seattle. In both of the previous sets of double murders, the first victim had been killed on the night of the full moon, and the second victim had been killed exactly sixteen days later. It had been the only consistency discovered. It was hoped that apprehending the suspect on Friday would catch him, effectively, in the act, in possession of incriminating evidence, and averting the second murder before it happened.

“What expertise?” Ellison asked, aware of Blair’s attention to their conversation, despite his Guide appearing to be engrossed once again in the computer screen.

Ramirez stepped in. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” He gestured at Blair, who had turned just his head to look at them. “Guide, come over here a minute.”

After a glance at Ellison for approval, Blair did just that, sinking to his knees at Ellison’s feet. But Ellison leant over and urged him up. “Take a seat, Chief,” he said, daring Ramirez and Simon with a glance to make something of it. But they said nothing; instead merely sitting down themselves. As soon as Blair was seated, Ellison pulled over a chair and sat in front of his Guide. “Blair?” he prompted.

Blair looked at him. “You know I used to be an anthropologist, right?”

Ellison nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Blair carried on, “Sentinel Ramirez allowed me to look over the file on this guy, the suspect, Maxwell Crane. And I realized that he used to live in Irian Jaya, in Papua New Guinea. He used to be married to a woman from there, in fact.” Blair shrugged. “Whatever. But the thing is, he worked as a tour guide, taking tourists on anthropology tours into the jungle.”

Jim shook his head in puzzlement. “What has that got to do with the murders?”

“It’s like this,” Blair said. “There are tribes of native people there, the Kombai. They’re a fascinating phenomenon, Jim. They live in houses hundreds of feet in the air, high up in the trees…” Sensing Ellison’s impatience for him to get to the point, he got back to the matter in hand. “The thing is, there is one particular tribe there, which has a legend. It goes like this.”

Blair’s voice took on the hypnotic cadence of a storyteller, unintentionally captivating his audience. “A warrior returning home from battle was plagued by a demon from deep in the jungle. It plagued him for ten days and ten nights, obscuring his path and causing him to go round and round in circles. He could not find his way home, no matter how hard he tried. Game ran from his spear, and evaded his traps, so that he became weak with hunger. Water that he tried to drink was fouled, tasting like the blood of his enemies, so that he suffered greatly from thirst.

“Eventually, on the eleventh day, weak and dying from hunger and thirst, and longing for his home, he stumbled upon a clearing. And in the clearing was a shaman.

“Now the shaman told him he had been cursed in the battle with his enemies. That the demon which tormented him was a lalého, an evil spirit which would never relent until he was dead. That the warrior would never find his way home, would never eat again, never drink again, and that he would eventually waste away and die in agony far from his loved ones.”

Unaware of the spell he had cast over his listeners, Blair continued to weave his tale. “The warrior asked for help from the shaman. And in reply, the shaman told him there was only one way to make the evil spirit relent. The warrior must perform a series of offerings to it, to appease its dark soul. The first offering should be made immediately. The shaman would provide the sacrifice, since the curse prevented the warrior from catching game. This first sacrifice would allow the warrior to return home at last, but in order to prevent the demon from returning to torture him once its hunger was slaked, the ritual had to be performed again at a series of intervals.

“Sixteen days after the first sacrifice, the warrior was to go alone into the jungle, and kill a pig when the moon was dawning with new light.” Blair paused, looking around the room. Encouraged by the rapt faces of the others, he carried on, “After five moons had passed, the ritual had to be repeated again, with the first sacrifice on the night of the next full moon, and the second sacrifice falling again sixteen days later, when the light was just beginning to return after the dark of the moon.”

“Chief,” Ellison interrupted. “I got the sixteen day intervals. That’s why the raid is planned for two days time – exactly sixteen days after the first murder. It follows the same pattern as the other two sets of murders. It was the only similarity between the cases we could find, remember?”

“Jim,” Ramirez, interjected. “Just listen to him. There’s more.”

Blair shot Ramirez a grateful look, and Ellison nodded for him to continue. “The thing is,” Blair went on, “The warrior was doomed to perform the ritual until the end of his days, without end, if he was to prevent the demon from coming back to torment him again. The shaman told him that there was only one way to break the cycle and finish it. On the third repetition of the ritual, he would have to trick the demon, to free himself and bring his ordeal to an end.”

Blair took a breath and, as he did, Ellison considered wistfully that he was seeing a glimpse of this man as he must once have been – the gifted professor, captivating students with his words. But he cast the sad thought to the back of his mind as Blair carried on with his recitation. “The third ritual,” he said, “had to take place after six moons had passed. The first sacrifice, as before, was to take place on the night of the full moon. But the second sacrifice, Jim, the second, should be performed exactly fourteen days later – not sixteen – on the night the moon was hidden in the darkness, to conceal the deed from the demon. The night of the new moon. The demon would not then perceive the killing, and two days later it would find the carcass and devour the spoiled meat. The carrion would poison it, and render it senseless. The warrior did as the shaman told him, and so two days after his final sacrifice, he emerged from hiding when the demon fell, to hack off its head, killing it and finally freeing himself from the curse.”

The silence after Blair finished his tale was deafening. Breaking the spell reluctantly, his voice sounding outlandishly loud in the quiet room, Ellison said, “Okay, I get that Crane lived in New Guinea. Apart from that, what makes you think that these murders and this legend are connected?”

“Because,” said Blair, “I heard it from him.” He pointed towards the file Ramirez had been reading. “From Maxwell Crane. Only when I last saw him, he went by the name of Pearson. Trent Pearson.” He shrugged. “I spent a summer in Irian Jaya, just before I started my Masters’ degree. I was there on an anthropology expedition. He was the one who took me and the others into the jungle.”

Tearing his eyes away from Blair’s earnest face, Ellison looked at the others. Ramirez and Simon were regarding him, their faces serious. “Well,” said Simon, “It works for me. We’re mobilized, Jim. ETA to departure…” he glanced at his watch, “thirty-four minutes.” He looked back at Jim. “You weren’t here, Detective. But it’s your case. Did we make the right call?”

Ellison looked back at Blair, whose open expression wasn’t the only giveaway to his emotions. He could feel Blair’s desperate need for approval – his approval – through their Bond. Allowing his pride in Blair’s intelligence and resourcefulness to transfer back across to his Guide, he confirmed, “Yeah, Simon. We’re good.” Looking back at Blair, he added, “Good work, Chief.”

Blair positively glowed with happiness. “Thanks, man.”

***

CHAPTER 18

The significance of what he had done seemed to have escaped Blair. Maybe it was that Ellison hadn’t made the threat they faced sufficiently clear to him, hoping to spare his Guide the worry. But Blair’s well-meaning detective work had effectively signed their death warrant as Sentinel and Guide – because the only reason Ramirez was with them, was to ensure that Ellison relinquished his Guide the moment the bust had been made.

While Ellison donned his Kevlar vest, he could hear Sandburg across the room, chatting quietly to Ramirez’s Guide, quiet pleasure in his voice. “I knew, man, that there was something familiar about the sequence,” he was saying. “But Dave, it wasn’t until your Sentinel allowed me to look at the file, and I realized I knew that guy, that it clicked into place. If we’d waited another two days, the next victim would already be dead.”

Why the hell, Ellison berated himself for the thousandth time, hadn’t he been the one to allow Sandburg access to the documentation on the case? If he had, then maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess. There was no way that Carlos Leguia could make the arrangements for their escape on notice as short as this – he had indicated it would be a couple of days, which would have fitted in with their original time scale. As it stood, Ramirez would insist on Blair going back to Guide World later tonight. Going on the run would avail them nothing, if they couldn’t get out of town right away, because the tattoo patch was only good for a couple of hours. The Detectors would be on their heels within hours unless they were in the air heading out of the country.

There was only one thing he could do right now. He could hope that Benny’s apparent compassion for his own Guide, and the respect he had demonstrated for Blair’s knowledge and experience, would facilitate an appeal to his better nature.

Ramirez walked past, wearing Kevlar himself, and Ellison halted him. “Benny,” he said. “Can I have a word?”

Ramirez nodded. “Sure,” he said. “What is it, Jim?”

Ellison gestured out into the bullpen. “Not here,” he said. “Somewhere private.”

Ramirez called across to his own Guide. “Hey, Dave. I’m heading out for a minute to talk to Ellison. Help Blair on with his vest, would you?” His Guide nodded an acknowledgement, and Blair looked over quizzically. But Ellison could do no more than spare him a glance before Ramirez ushered him out. “Come on,” he said. “We don’t have long.”

The frenzied activity in the bullpen had given way to an air of tense anticipation, the team Simon had hastily assembled standing around talking in groups while waiting for the order to head out. Ellison nodded at several of them, approving of their quick response, and more than a few called out bullshit born of battle-ready bravado to him and Ramirez as they passed.

The break-room was an oasis of quiet in the eye of the storm. It was as private a place as they would get right now. Wasting no time on pleasantries, Ellison looked Ramirez in the eye. “Benny,” he said. “I’m begging you. Give me one more night with Blair. I swear I’ll let him go back tomorrow. But just give me one more night.”

Ramirez’s face was expressionless. “Captain Banks has ordered that I oversee Blair’s removal back to Guide World as soon as the suspect is in custody, Jim.”

That was no surprise, to be sure. But hearing it spoken filled Ellison’s gut with ice. His internal devastation must have shown on his face as well, because Ramirez laid a hand on his arm. “Look, Jim,” he said gently. “I know you care for Blair. And I’ve got to admit he’s a great kid. He’d make a great police Guide, if circumstances were different. But the fact is, they’re not. I’m under orders, and I take my role as a law enforcement officer very seriously. I have no choice.”

Maybe it was time to try a different tack. God knows, Ellison wouldn’t give up until he had tried every way of getting through to Ramirez he could think of. “Look,” he said. “I’m not asking this for me, Benny. I’m asking for him.” Ellison fixed the other Sentinel with an earnest gaze. “He put himself forward to solve this case, Benny. Because of him, some woman will live instead of die tonight. Now you send him back to Guide World, and he’ll be restrained, beaten, treated like less than an animal until he’s rented out again. Does that seem fair to you? That his reward for saving a life is incarceration right afterwards?”

“Jim,” Ramirez said, “it’s going to happen whether you or I like it or not. He’s a rogue. You know what his sentence is.”

“It’s going to happen, I know,” Ellison said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “So let’s give him one more night of peace, huh? One more night. Where’s the harm in that?”

Ramirez took a deep breath, looking off into space. Ellison knew he had him when he looked back and said, “What the hell am I going to tell Simon, Jim?”

Ellison smiled, his relief profound. “You’ll think of something,” he said.

“Yeah, right,” Ramirez snorted, as if unconvinced. Then he froze, listening to the distance, and Ellison’s hearing extended as well. “Two minutes, people,” they heard Simon announce.

The Sentinels exchanged a look, and headed out without another word to collect their Guides.

***

Driving in his truck towards the location of their suspect a short while later, Ellison’s mind was racing. They had one night’s grace, if all went to plan. The question was, would it be long enough for Leguia to arrange transport out for them?

“Chief,” he said to his Guide, who was sitting nervously beside him, looking pale against the black of the Kevlar vest he wore. “Open the glove box, will you? Get the white noise generator out.”

Blair complied without question, and Ellison snapped open his cell phone one handed as he steered the truck, pressing speed dial as he did. “Turn it on, Chief,” he directed, and Blair flicked the switch just as the numbers were dialed.

No way could Ellison risk the chance of Ramirez overhearing this conversation. If the other Sentinel did try to listen, but came up against the white noise barrier, hopefully he would just assume that Ellison wanted a private moment with Blair before his first – and last – major bust.

“Leguia,” came the voice.

“Carlos, I need help,” Ellison said.

A pause. “You’re taking a risk,” Leguia said. “I can’t guarantee this line is secure.”

“I have no choice, Carlos. Listen up,” Ellison said, moving the phone into the crook of his shoulder and neck as he turned the steering wheel hard left. “We need out tonight; early tomorrow at the latest.”

“I don’t know if that will be possible. The wheels are in motion, but these things take time,” Leguia said.

“Look, Carlos, I’m desperate here. The situation is critical.”

“Leave it with me. I will do the best I can. No promises, but I will try. I’ll be in touch, Ellison.”

“That’s all I ask. Thanks, Carlos.” Ellison rang off, and shot a look at Blair.

Blair was breathing shallowly, fear souring his scent. “What’s going on, man?” he demanded, stress evident in his voice. “You’ve closed yourself off from me ever since you went off with Ramirez before. I can’t feel what’s going on with you! And what was that call about? Jim, man, I gotta know!”

“Chief,” Ellison said forcefully, “don’t ask.” Blair didn’t answer, and Ellison looked at him again. Sandburg’s eyes were wide, his body tense. “Hey,” Ellison said gently. “Trust me, Blair. Okay?”

After a moment, Blair took a breath and looked away, visibly trying to make himself relax. “I do,” he said.

“Good.” Ellison gestured towards the white-noise generator. “You can turn that thing off now.”

Blair did as he was asked, and placed it back in the glove compartment. After a moment, he spoke again, bringing his focus back to the matter at hand, no doubt to help keep his fears at bay. “What I don’t understand,” he asked, “is why this raid still has to happen, Jim. I mean, we have the forensic evidence, right? And now we have the stuff I told you about as well – the ritual, Crane’s real name, Irian Jaya, all of that. Why don’t you just pull the guy in? Faced with that, he’s got to confess.”

“The forensic evidence is pretty weak, Chief. On its own, it’s not enough to secure a conviction,” Ellison said. He glanced at Blair; his Guide wasn’t going to like this. “The rest of it – you’re a Guide, Blair. First off, we can’t arrest him on the word of a Guide, and second, your testimony wouldn’t stand up in court unless we have real physical evidence to back it up. Our best chance is to catch the guy getting ready to do it, with incriminating evidence in his possession.”

“Oh.”

Ellison glanced at him again, and reached out a hand to enfold Blair’s. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, man,” Blair said. Ellison hated hearing the weariness in his voice. “I’m used to it.”

There really was no answer to that.

They were almost there, when Banks’s voice came over the radio. “Our suspect is on the move,” he said. “All units, proceed north toward Union and Seaward. Proceed with caution. Suspect is driving a late model Ford Expedition…”

Ellison swung the truck around, following Simon’s order immediately as the Captain’s disembodied voice continued to give out directions, and Blair gripped the handle above the doorframe as the centrifugal force forced him to keel over. “Sorry,” Ellison threw across at him, as he straightened the wheel.

“No problem,” Blair rejoined, pulling himself upright by brute force. As soon as he was able to let go, he patted the dashboard approvingly. “This baby has some sweet moves, man.”

“Oh yeah.” Jim grinned in pride.

Shame he’d have to leave ‘this baby’ behind when they got out of Dodge. But he was taking what was really important, and that was what counted.

***

To Ellison’s dismay, there were two heartbeats in the abandoned warehouse – one belonging to the man calling himself Maxwell Crane, and the other belonging to a woman who constantly cried and begged to be let go.

From their vantage point a short distance away, both Ramirez and Ellison kept their senses tuned on the building, leaving Banks to ream out the surveillance team for, quite obviously, screwing up big time. Until this moment, no one had known that Crane had already selected and abducted his latest victim.

Blair’s hand on Ellison’s back, and his Guide’s barely perceptible crooning voice in his ear, allowed the Sentinel to fine tune his senses to an incredible level of accuracy. It was almost as if he was in the warehouse with Crane and the woman he was terrorizing. The sick bastard was apparently waiting for nightfall before he killed her, going by his audible ravings about hiding from the ‘demon’ in the darkness. It seemed that Blair’s deductions had been absolutely on the ball.

They had more than enough evidence to bring in their perp right now. The problem was that this was now a hostage situation rather than a straightforward arrest. It was crucial that the team move cautiously from here on in, if they were to have a chance of getting the un-named woman out alive.

The woman’s screams for help were becoming frantic. There was pain in the sound, suggesting that she was being confined in a way that hurt. Both Ellison and Ramirez winced before looking at each other urgently. “We have to get in there now,” Ellison said, and Ramirez nodded his agreement.

It took all of two minutes to get Captain Banks’s approval. And, shortly after that, with SWAT and the rest of the team in place around the building, the two Sentinels – followed closely by their Guides – made their way stealthily towards the killer’s lair.

***

“Stay behind me, Chief,” Ellison shot back over his shoulder as they entered the warehouse. A hand on his back was the only response, Blair having slipped back into obedient-Guide mode the moment they had emerged from the truck.

Ramirez had gone around the back of the building, while Ellison had entered the front. It was standard operating procedure for a Sentinel to take point in an operation like this. A Sentinel’s extraordinary senses ensured that hazards could be identified and neutralized before the bulk of the team went in, thus minimizing the danger of injury and loss of life to his colleagues. It was an effective strategy when it worked, and the involvement of two Sentinels in this operation should, in theory, ensure even greater success.

The moment Ellison and Sandburg had entered the building, the voice of Crane’s victim had become audible to normal senses; and Ellison could sense Blair’s flinch every time she screamed. The Sentinel ached to comfort his Guide – Blair wasn’t used to this, and was also under phenomenal pressure right now with their impending escape – but until this operation was over, there would be little opportunity to offer reassurance. Even then, time would be of the essence. The best the Sentinel could hope for was to get this over with as quickly as possible, so they could get back to the loft to pack up what they were going to need when they were on the run. Despite Leguia’s misgivings, he had faith that his friend would come through for them.

Once they were finally in the air, there would be time for the two of them to re-connect.

They were getting close to the epicenter of activity. Senses extended, his Guide’s rapport ensuring extreme sensory effectiveness, Ellison moved upstairs towards the dilapidated office space where Crane and his victim appeared to be located. Motioning Blair to stay put, he emerged stealthily, gun drawn. He was aware of Ramirez advancing towards the far entrance to the room, the layout allowing them both to spring their ambush simultaneously from two different directions. Ellison smiled confidently – this bust was going to be a cinch.

The sight that met his eyes inside the room filled him with pity and rage, although he swiftly pushed the distracting emotions aside to deal with later. A terrified young woman, no more than twenty years old, was chained up against the far wall, her arms extended high above her head. She was whimpering in despair, eyes wide with fear as she watched her tormentor move about the room. Her captor – Trent Pearson, AKA Maxwell Crane – was watching her raptly as he moved to and fro, prowling his territory restlessly. He did not appear to have noticed the approach of the two Sentinels, who, attuned to each other’s whereabouts, moved in simultaneously, their Guides following at their backs. The Sentinels closed on Crane rapidly, intent upon their quarry.

Neither of them realized their danger until it was too late.

No sooner were all four of them inside the room, than agonizing pain blasted Ellison without warning; a deafening, blinding, overwhelming assault, which spiraled him immediately into oblivion.

Continued in Part 7

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