It was three o’clock in the morning when Jim arrived in Cascade, just off the Vancouver red-eye. Deplaning alone, he found the airport harshly lit, so bright it made his eyes throb and the headache he had been fighting for days flared up again with a vengeance. He closed his eyes and felt the floor start to spin out from under him so he snapped them right back open again.

He wanted nothing more then to be home. He was so tired that breathing seemed complicated. He ached all over. His senses were raw and open, torturing him with every sound and color, every current of air. He needed to have his dials talked down so badly that his hands shook.

Exhausted but frantic, he headed straight for the unloading zone and hailed the first cab he saw, glowing glossy-yellow under the florescent outdoor lights. He forced himself to speak through gritted teeth and recite his home address, then he slumped back against the rear seat of the cab and ordered himself breathe. Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out, hold. . .

The cab seemed to creep along, ferrying him at a low speed through the subdued streets of Cascade. When it finally rolled to a stop in front of his building, Jim had breathed himself into light zone but he snapped right out of it and went back to feeling like a junkie needing a fix. It took him so long to pay the cabbie, fingers trembling while he fumbled around for American money, that he almost just gave up and handed over his whole wallet.

“You don’t look so hot,” the cabbie said mildly, but Jim ignored him, too focused on the Herculean task of dragging his duffle bag out of the back seat and shutting the car door behind him. God, he hurt. His head was splitting, the street noises around him-- the swish of tires and the hiss of brakes, the tap of a horn-- sounded like they were being blasted at top volume from a gigantic boom box and, instead of getting better the closer he came to the loft, the worse he felt. Because he was close, with only three flights of stairs to climb. The end was near, relief was coming, and the anticipation of that was making everything skyrocket.

Almost home, almost there, Jim chanted to himself as he trudged up the stairs, hauling on the railing. At his doorstep he dropped his keys, picked them up, and then promptly dropped them again. Tears of pain and utter frustration stung his eyes, and feeling completely defeated, he leaned against the door.

“Blair," he whispered helplessly.

But Blair didn’t miraculously appear to open the door for him and haul his ass inside. And eventually, Jim found the right key and wrestled his way into the loft. He dropped his duffle bag on the floor and then cringed at the resounding thud it made, raising his hands to cover his ears. The loft was blessedly dark. Glancing around and forcing himself to listen to the air around him, Jim heard the soft, even sounds of Blair’s breathing and heartbeat. Relief flooded over him in a blissful rush that was so strong he had to brace himself against the door with one hand. Leaning against it, ducking his head down, Jim breathed until he felt like he could stand on his own again.

In the doorway, his hand hovering over the light switch, he hesitated for just a moment before snapping it on. It was selfish of him to wake Blair up in the middle of the night but he just couldn’t help himself. A warm yellow glow lit the room and Blair groaned, murmuring a wordless protest. The light made Jim’s eyes water and he rubbed at the pain, but he forced himself to focus on Blair, cataloging everything from the drool on his pillow, to the fact that was wearing only one sock.

Thank God, Jim thought gratefully, he’s whole, he’s healthy, he’s safe.

Blair, drew in a rousing breath and opened his eyes. He squinted against the light, blinked a few times, then he caught sight of Jim standing in the doorway and came instantly awake.

“Jim,” he gasped in surprise, “Oh, my God.” Then he was scrambling to free himself from his bedcovers and get to his feet.

“Are you all right?” he demanded. His eyes raked over Jim as though he was searching for open wounds and Jim wondered what he looked like standing there, still wearing his fatigues, combat boots, and dog tags. He nodded before taking two steps forward to haul Blair into a rough hug. I am now, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t seem to make his voice work.

After a beat Blair let out a pent-up breath and hugged him back, hard. “You’re home,” he said, sounding nothing but relieved. “Jesus. Thank God.”

Then he pulled away, looked Jim in the eye and said:

“And you’re a fucking asshole.”

Jim nodded jerkily, glanced away, tried to shrug.

Blair’s eyes searched him again even more thoroughly.

“Hey. How are your senses? They’re all fucked up aren’t they? That’s what you get for going off to play Rambo in some third-world country without me. Where are your dials?”

“They’re, uh--,” Jim croaked, but then without thinking, he grabbed a handful of Blair’s hair, stepped forward, and buried his face in the crook of Blair’s neck, breathing in sharply, desperate for relief.

“Easy,” Blair said, urgent but unfazed, as though this was expected behavior. “Okay,” he said, reaching up to press his palms to Jim’s back, holding him close instead of pushing him away. “Just take it slow. Yeah, go ahead and breathe.”

Jim could feel Blair nodding encouragingly as the warmth of his hands seeped in though the fabric of his shirt. And Blair’s heartbeat was warm too, just as steady as his hands. After a moment the pain started to ease and some of the tension slipped out of his body so that he wasn’t quite so coiled-- not so high-strung.

“That’s it,” Blair breathed, relief gentle in his voice. He rubbed Jim’s back, one hand coming up to cradle his neck, “It's okay.”

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” Jim finally rumbled, before pulling gingerly back to look at Blair’s face. The pain swelled again as he moved, but then settled. He was mostly in control again, he thought. For now, at least. “I just-- Sorry. It’s nearly oh-four-hundred. You should go back to sleep.”

Blair raised both his eyebrows incredulously, holding Jim’s shoulders. Then he just shook his head.

“You’re some piece of work,” he said, “I couldn’t go back to sleep now if my life depended on it, four in the morning or not. Those dials are better but you think I can’t still see that you have a headache the size of Texas? You’re dead on your feet. When was the last time you slept?”

Jim just shrugged. He honestly couldn’t remember.

“That’s what I thought. Shit, Jim. Come on, let’s go into the living room. I’ve got something that’ll bring you down a little.”

Jim watched mutely as Blair pulled on a pair of sweat pants, fished his other sock out from under the bedcovers and put it on too. Then he followed him into the living room.

Blair pointed at the couch.

“Sit,” he said, sounding somehow both pissed-off and concerned at the same time. Jim sat.

“Why don’t you take those boots off. They look like they weigh fifty pounds each.”

Obediently, Jim leaned over and started pulling at the laces but by the time Blair had made a pot of tea and brought a cup over to set on the coffee table, he had only managed to wrench off one of the boots.

“It’s knotted on,” he mumbled wearily. His eyes stung suddenly. He was so fucking tired.

Without saying anything, Blair crouched down at Jim’s feet and started undoing the knots in his laces. He made quick work of it, moving deftly until he had hauled the boot off. Jim was suddenly rocked by the sour smell of his own foot-odor. He coughed and gagged until Blair talked his dials down again, using that voice that could always make Jim focus no matter how tired he was, no matter how lost.

Blair pulled off Jim’s socks and looked carefully at his feet, checking for blisters, but finding only a few raw spots.

“Thanks,” was all Jim could manage to say, before he leaned heavily back against the couch cushions.

He closed his eyes and saw himself aiming his M24 at some hostile’s forehead-- just a kid, God, hardly more than fourteen, hoping he wouldn’t have to pull the trigger but knowing that he would if the boy went for his own weapon. “Just don’t move,” he said fervently under his breath, “don’t make me--” But then training and reflex kicked in and he pulled the trigger. Just a twitch of his finger, a soft whoosh of air, and the kid went down.

A hand touched his shoulder and Jim flinched, his eyes flying open.

“Hey,” Blair breathed, pulling his hand back and eyeing Jim carefully, “Easy. . . You okay?”

For a moment, Jim couldn’t talk, he could only watch Blair, part of him unable to believe what he was seeing. Then, he ran a hand over his face and he nodded.

Not entirely convinced, Blair nodded back and then glanced at the coffee table.

“Yeah. Why don’t you drink some of that tea? It’ll help you relax.”

Blair started to back away but Jim caught his wrist.

“I didn’t want to kill anybody,” Jim said, looking Blair straight in the eye, his voice so raw he sounded hoarse. “But I wouldn’tve gotten away if I hadn’t taken kill-shots-- not that Tommy still didn’t-- and I almost didn’t get outta that Goddamn Red-Cross field hospital, surrounded by hostiles with no transport options-- .”

Blair blinked, startled.

“Okay,” he said, nodding slowly, then he looked pointedly at his wrist which Jim was still holding, hard enough to hurt. Jim let go like he’d been shocked.

“Sorry--” he muttered, averting his gaze, “sorry.”

Catching sight of his mug of tea, Jim picked it up, but his hand shook badly and he set it right back down again, sloshing tea over onto the coffee table. Blair reached out and covered Jim’s hand with his own

“Whoa,” he said softly “Okay. It’s okay. Just relax.”

“Relax,” Jim scoffed, pulling away. He leaned back heavily against the couch again and rubbed his face with both hands. “Yeah, right. Relax.”

Blair got up and went into the kitchen for a towel.

“Hospital, Jim?” he said carefully when he came back, lifting Jim’s cup and sopping up the tea.

Jim nodded without looking at him.

“But you’re not-- hurt-- right?”

“I’m fine,” Jim shook his head dismissively.

Blair’s shoulders eased with relief.

“And Tommy,” Blair went on softly, even more carefully, “he was one of your men?”

Jim started to nod, then he grimaced fiercely and shook his head.

“No. I can’t have this conversation. I’ve said too much already. I can’t fucking talk about it.”

Finally, he did look at Blair with hard, weary eyes. “I just wanted you to know -- what I said-- about killing.”

Blair held his gaze and nodded. “Okay,” he said softly, steadily. “I hear you.”

Jim closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” Blair breathed, “you’re dead on your feet. Do you think you can sleep?”

Jim quirked a wry smile, “Without the soothing patter of machine gun fire and Claymores going off? I doubt it, Chief.”

Blair didn’t smile back.

“You really should drink this tea.” He picked it up and held it out for Jim who reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at it. He sat up and took a sip. This time when his hand shook, Blair steadied it with his own.

“Adrenaline,” Jim grunted, almost summoning enough energy to sound embarrassed.

“Yeah, I figured that. Just drink,” Blair said gently.

After days of planning, holed up at base camp in a UN issue tent just outside the Syrian border pouring over maps and hashing out extraction scenarios, Ellison was stationed on the south side of a dust-covered washout about two klicks away from the Iraqi observation post, waiting for his scouts to report. His radio cracked and hissed as the wind gusted up. The wind was astonishingly hot, scalding like a blast from a furnace. His radioman reported the temperature at 103 degrees, wind speed only six knots westerly, humidity negligible.

Ellison hunkered down even further behind a large sun-bleached rock and checked the scope of his bolt-action M-88. The rifle had a range of 2,000 meters but he could see much farther than that. He could see his target standing perched up on the post, smoking cigarettes more than half a mile out of his range. He was going to have to move in closer to neutralize but he waited for his scouts to tell him that.

Sweat rolled down his temples, sand-fleas crawled in the hairs of his arms beneath the sleeves of his shirt. He had his sense of touch dialed way down but still his skin felt like it was on fire. He took a deep breath, hearing Blair’s voice count to five inside his head, then he exhaled. Finally his radio hissed again and his scouts reported.

“They left him on the perch, Cap’m. He’s just up there smoking cigs.”

“What does he have?” Ellison asked even though he already knew.

“A radio and a Kalashnikov.”

“Roger that, I’m moving in.”


In place, finally, with the rifle propped up on its bipod and the switches flipped on the scope that released the lens covers, Ellison leveled the weapon and took another look at his target. Closer now. He didn’t need to use the range finder or adjust the split image focus. Hell, he didn’t need to use the scope at all. He had a clear view and decided to take a chest shot, from sternum to spine. He was using a ballistic that needed to make contact with a sturdy bone structure, otherwise he’d go for a brain stem shot. If he’d had his choice he would have used a lighter weapon and a less destructive bullet but convincing his team that he could be that accurate would have been next to impossible.

With the target sighted, Ellison realized that he had stopped sweating. In the distance a heat mirage wavered. Reading a mirage was tricky, especially in the late afternoon when all the desert’s stored up heat was released. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a case containing earplugs. The shot from his end was going to be loud as hell, though his target wouldn’t hear it-- the bullet was going to be traveling at twice the speed of sound. He put the plugs in and then supported the rifle butt with his left hand. Before touching the trigger, Ellison took time to watch the mirage. It was shaking to the left which meant the wind was blowing from that direction, from south to north at about seven knots. Adjusting his aim, Ellison finally rested his finger over the trigger and concentrated. He reached out with his mind to the target and a calm emptiness washed over him. The world around him fell away. He thought of nothing but the shot. He inhaled, exhaled, took another breath, then let out half of it before he paused, held perfectly still, and pulled the smooth, single-step trigger.

A moment later Ellison’s radio sputtered yet again and it was Manny congratulating him on having successfully splashed his target. He used the word “splash” because the kind of bullet Jim was using had the velocity to make the target’s chest explode outward. It was a real mess. He hated using armor-piercing DUs.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said bluntly. Only the first phase of the operation was complete. Ellison snapped the lens covers back down on his scope and pulled his ear plugs out, putting them back into their case. He knew that the first phase was easy compared to what was coming up next.

K and R rescues were usually one-strike missions that hinged critically on the element of surprise. When his team moved in for the actual assault they would have to be swift and silent. As soon as a soldier took his silencer off and went loud he was working with only a brief window of time and there was virtually no margin for error. Ideally he never had to go loud at all. Ideally he could retrieve his cargo and get the hell out of dodge having only ever drawn his knife.

* * *

It was ten days earlier that Blair walked into the loft and his backpack slid slowly down to the floor as he stared at Jim with a half-stunned, “Whatthefuck?” look on his face. Jim sat across the living room and met his gaze gravely. Blair looked at Jim face, blinked, and then his eyes traveled down to the duffle bag at Jim’s feet, taking in the sight of his dog tags, desert fatigues, and combat boots.

“Uhh, what’s this?” He finally asked, gesturing at the clothes. Jim glanced down at himself, then back up.

“Yeah,” he said, “I had to pull it all out of storage.”

“Oh yeah?” Blair raised his eyebrows, “Halloween’s not for another three weeks, man.”

Jim chucked darkly, ducking his head to smile down at the floor. “Halloween. That’s a good one, Chief.”

Blair finally shut the front door behind him, with a bang. And when Jim looked up again he saw smoldering anger in Blair’s eyes. Anger mixed with fear.

“All right, enough bullshitting. Tell me what the hell is going on. Why are you dressed like that?”

It was Jim’s turn to blink. The reined-in panic in Blair’s eyes made what he had to do a thousand times harder. He fished out a thick, yellow envelope from the front pocket of the duffel bag, and stood up, holding it out. Blair eyed it warily, as though it had teeth.

“What’s this?” he asked, not reaching for it.

“I shouldn’t be gone for more than a week at the most,” Jim said carefully, “but these are some things-- papers, my safety deposit box key-- that I’d like to give you just in case. . .“

Blair’s eyes filled with quick-dawning horror.

“In case what? In case you don’t-- come back?”

“I’ll come back,” Jim said without hesitation, but Blair wasn’t listening. He raised his hands and backed away from the envelope, shaking his head.

“No, huh-uh, you can’t give me that, Jim. I can’t take that.”

“There are just some things that you need to know-- that I want you to know--”

“No! Shut up. Stop talking like that! What kind of copout are you trying to pull here, Jim? I come home to find you all packed up and ready to ship out to God knows where-- God knows what war-- with your last will and testament in your hand-- a fucking death letter? No. You got something to say to me, say it to my face!”

Jim looked away and tossed the envelope down onto the coffee table that stood between them.

“I’ll just leave it there,” he said, “so you’ll know where it is.”

But Blair didn’t even look at it, his eyes were locked on Jim’s face.

“When are you leaving?” he asked, the slightest tremor in his voice.

“Soon. Now.”

“Are you going to tell me where you’re going-- and why?”

“I can’t.”

“Are you going to tell me anything?”

The frustration and hurt in his eyes was like a stab in Jim’s gut, but he held Blair’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, Chief.”

Slowly, he reached down and picked up his duffle bag, hefting it onto his shoulder. He took a step toward the door, but Blair stepped in towards him, and they both stopped.

“Jim,” Blair started, glancing away, then back. “Please, man. Please don’t do this.”

Jim felt something tighten painfully in his chest and he wanted to reach out and pull Blair into a hug. He hated to leave. Blair had to know that, but Jim didn’t have the right words to explain what he was doing-- what he had no choice but to do-- so he just shook his head and made another move towards the door. Blair grabbed his arm. Then, before Jim knew what he was doing, he crushed Blair to his chest, one arm hooked hard around his neck, and he held onto him like it was the last time he ever would-- because, maybe it was.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I’ll be careful. I’ll come back.”

“You better,” Blair gasped, his voice muffled against Jim’s shirt. Jim pulled back reluctantly and looked at him. Blair’s eyes were raw with unshed tears but there was a steeliness in them that showed he meant exactly what he said.

Jim felt such a dept of love for him then, it was overwhelming, insuppressible. He reached up, gripped the back of Blair’s head, and pulled him in to kiss his forehead.

“You take care of yourself,” he said roughly, speaking into Blair’s ear, and then before Blair could say anything else, or try to stop him again, Jim spun away and left the loft. He was out the door and halfway down the first flight of stairs when he heard Blair say softly: “Just get your ass back safe, Jim Ellison, or I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

* * *

Squinting against the harsh desert sun, Jim watched Abrahim get out of his Land Rover and walk across the tarmac to meet him near the steps of the small chartered airplane that Jim had flown in on. Abrahim was a short, compact man who looked like he couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. He stuck out his hand for Jim to shake, grinning.

Jim couldn’t bring himself to smile back even though he shook the offered hand readily enough.

“You are an ambitious man, Captain Ellison,” Abrahim said in exaggerated English, “Freeing three American P.O.Ws from a stronghold in the heart of the Iraqi desert. . . Manny said you were the best. You will have to be. Does your government even know that you are here?”

Jim pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on. The light here was brutal. Already his head was pounding.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asked, and the little man grinned even broader. Nobody smiled at you like desert men, they were the ultimate brothers. They hugged each other openly, they held hands, they lounged around with their arms draped over each other’s thighs like lions in a pride.

Chuckling, Abrahim gestured towards his Land Rover.

“Come. I will take you to the tents.”

* * *

Stooping to step inside the tent, Jim saw Manny standing bent over a map that was laid out on a fold-out card table. He was studying it intently but he looked up when Jim entered and flashed him a grin.

“Ellison! Damned if you don’t look like shit warmed over.” He grabbed Jim’s hand and pulled him into a bear hug, pounding his back.

“Look who’s talking, Lieutenant,” Jim said.

Manny laughed and then walked over to a cooler, fished out a plastic bottle of water and tossed it to Jim who caught it gratefully and unscrewed the cap.

“I’d offer you beer but I had to “barter” for these maps.”

“What the fuck have you gotten me into?” Jim asked, glancing at the map on the table before tilting his head back and taking a long drink.

“Nothing you haven’t done a hundred times before in a hundred different places, Jimbo, my man. This’ll be just like old times. Right, Abrahim?”

Manny looked over Jim’s shoulder at the small man who’d just entered the tent.

“You are both crazy if you ask me,” Abrahim said.

And Jim was inclined to agree.

* * *

Ellison sent his team on up the hill ahead of him to make sure that the parameter was secure and get in place for the ambush. They had orders to do visual recon sweeps but to lie low until night fall. There would be no strike without cover of darkness. Already the light was growing long and reddening the ridgeline below the western hills at the far end of the stronghold. Ellison found the word “stronghold” to be a bit of an overstatement when it described a dilapidated compound of three outbuildings sectioned off from a tiny village that wasn’t even populated enough to be labeled on most maps.

After packing up his gear, he hiked out to meet his men. As he walked the sun went down and, with a suddenness that was breathtaking, a million stars dropped out of the sky and hovered, so close, right above his face. He felt like he could reach out and touch them. The air smelled clean, the cold crept in. It was fucking beautiful.

His team put on night vision Cyclops gear and Ellison split them up into three smaller teams, each responsible for retrieving one prisoner. He had counted only fourteen guards total in the compound, six were crowded under a make-shift canvas overhang playing poker for cigarettes. Two had gone off together to grump, and the other six were stationed in pairs out of sight in each of the three buildings. According to Manny’s intel, there was also a P.O.W. detained in each building. Tommy was in the one farthest to the right.

“All right. Listen up ladies,” Ellison spoke into his headset, “I want this to be quick and clean. I want those bastards down there to still be dealing hands long after we’ve pulled out with our cargo. Got it? No mistakes.”

* * *

“What’d you think of the SEAL team?” Manny asked Jim as they were drinking some of the strong, black tea Abrahim had made. The people here were all about drinking tea. “That’s a real group of bad-asses, Jim, let me tell ya.”

“They’re too damn young,” Jim heard himself say.

“No, you’re too damn old. I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you and I? We’re bona fide dinosaurs, man.”

Jim looked Manny squarely in the eye, pinned him with his gaze.

“I’m not doing this again, Jacobs,” He said, “Don’t call me again. After tomorrow it’s over, do you hear me?”

“I hear ya,” Manny said, raising his hands, “I hear ya. No more Ops. After this, you’re closing the book.”

* * *

Manny signaled that he’d spotted both guards at the end the narrow, dimly lit hallway, but Ellison had already marked them. They were in luck. Each guard was sitting with his back facing the rear entrance. To Ellison it appeared as though they were hunched over a tiny hand-held t.v. set. From the sound of it they were watching a soccer game. Their American-made M-60 machine guns were both propped up harmlessly against either wall.

Without making a sound Ellison drew his hunting knife. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Manny do the same thing. With a sign from Ellison they advanced together, creeping up behind the two guards.

It was over fast. Clamping his hand over his target’s mouth, Ellison gave one quick yank and slit his throat. He felt the thick warmth of blood spilling over his gloved fingers. Manny’s target gave a startled kick but died seconds later. The only sound made was the dull thump of the little t.v. falling from slack hands to the dirt floor.

Lt. Thomas Reilly was alive and in relatively good shape. He was malnourished and pretty beat up but he could run well enough. Ellison slung one arm around his waist and they hauled-ass back up into the east hills with Manny taking up the rear. The rest of the operation went off without a hitch and in less than fifteen minutes the whole team and all three P.O.Ws were cutting a fast retreat by Land Rover back to base camp. They had almost made it there when the Rover ahead of Ellison’s ran over a trip-mine and lit up the night sky with a huge ball of fire. . . .

“I still don’t think I can sleep,” Jim grumbled, when he’d finally managed to finish the tea. Blair pulled the blanket off the couch and shook it out.

“Yeah, well, just try,” he said. “Lie down. Rest your eyes at least.”

Jim consented to stretch out on the couch and let Blair drape the blanket over him.

“It really is quiet in here,” he mumbled as he shut his eyes, “your heartbeat’s loud.”

“So count my heartbeats instead of sheep. Or, on second thought, don’t. Counting is stimulating.”

“Still better than Claymores.”

“Shhh. I bet.”

Blair turned off the lamp on the end table, plunging the living room into darkness. He went to his bedroom, but only to grab a blanket and a pillow. Then he came back and claimed a seat across from the couch. He sat for a long time watching Jim, before he finally dozed off.

* * *

Jim dreamed of driving an open Land Rover down a washboard track lined with oil drums. The Rover was about as open as it could get, not having a windshield or doors. It didn’t even have a speedometer. He drove with a screaming man in the backseat, a man who’d been shot in the knee. They were too exposed, Jim knew, drawing too much attention to themselves. At any moment he was going to hear the clatter of machine gun fire, the Solarian guerrillas were going to make an ambush and then they wouldn’t make their rendezvous point-- and they had to make their point because-- Blair-- Blair was in trouble.

The ambush came from all sides. Suddenly there were armed soldiers everywhere, brandishing Kalashnikovs, shouting for Jim to get out of his vehicle. His brakes screeched, the engine idled loudly. With his hands raised, Jim slipped out of the Rover in time to see a gap in the offensive line open up to reveal a man kneeling on the ground with his hands bound behind his back and a black sack tied over his bowed head. He looked familiar but it wasn’t until the sack was yanked off and he raised his head to look at Jim that---

Oh, Jesus. It was Blair.

His stomach dropped and Jim felt sick, dizzy with fear. Terrified, he started to stammer: “No, no, please don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want just don’t-- “

One of the guerrillas trained a pistol at the back of Blair’s head, and pulling off his own hooded mask, and Jim saw that he was Abrahim-- grinning. He raised his hand in a thumbs-up sign just before he pulled the trigger.

With a bellow of sheer, outraged horror, Jim rushed forward--

--but someone grabbed his wrist in a strong grip and a hand pressed hard on his chest keeping him from rearing up off the couch in a blind panic.

“Jim! Jim. Easy. Take it easy!”

Jim blinked and nearly cried out in surprise when he saw Blair’s face above his own. He shuddered and then, struck by shock, he froze and lay still, moving only enough to gulp convulsively for air. Blair, whose eyes blazed with concern, slowly let go off Jim’s wrist and laid a hand on the side of his neck, a gesture that was unexpected and amazingly calming.

“Easy,” he said again in a softer tone, his voice low, “It’s okay. It was just a dream, Jim. Everything’s okay now.”

“I saw him shoot you,” Jim confessed helplessly, his voice cracking, “I couldn’t do anything.”

“No. It wasn’t real. That didn’t happen.”

Jim blinked a few more times because his eyes were blurry-- wet. But the horror of the dream was slowly fading, all except for the sick feeling in his stomach. Jim raised a hand to cover his mouth and then, moving reflexively, he sat up and rolled, deflecting Blair’s hands so that he sat hunched over on the couch, wondering if he was going to puke. Dog tags-- not one, but two pairs of dog tags-- dangled down in front of him and clinked lightly together. Blair stood up and took a step away but Jim lashed out and caught his arm staring up at him with nakedly pleading eyes.

“I’m just going into the kitchen to get you a glass of water,” Blair said carefully, and after a long moment of struggling with himself, Jim managed to loosen his grip and let go. When Blair came back he handed Jim the water, and as he drank, Jim searched Blair’s face. Blair held his gaze, moving only far enough away to sit down on the coffee table. He touched Jim’s knee.

“Okay? You with me?” he asked, taking the glass out of Jim’s hand when he lowered it from his lips, and setting it aside. But suddenly, Jim couldn’t look at him so he stared at the now empty glass instead. A bead of water was trailing slowly down the side, glinting brightly, filled with so much light. Blair gave his knee a squeeze, demanding his attention, and Jim finally looked up. Before, when he’d come back from an Op there’d been no one to greet him, no one to bring him glasses of water, no one he had to look in the eye.

“No,” Jim finally admitted, glancing away again. “I, uh. I need a shower.”

“Okay,” Blair nodded, “Sure. Go ahead and use all the hot water you want. I know how good that feels after you’ve been roughing it. I’ll put on some coffee. And how ‘bout eggs for breakfast? Bacon?”

Jim couldn’t respond. Instead he just got up and walked to the bathroom without looking back.

* * *

“Jim?”

The water had been running for nearly forty-five minutes and Blair was starting to get worried. He knocked on the door but there was no response from Jim. Not even a grunt. Blair blinked, frowned, then knocked again.

“Jim? Hey man, you okay in there?”

Still no response-- and Blair turned the knob, swinging the door open. He could see Jim’s murky silhouette through the shower door. He was standing up on his own two feet, but he was still-- too still.

“Jim?”

Blair walked over, pushed back the shower door, and saw Jim leaning on one outstretched arm, poised, statue-still with his head bowed and water pelting roughly over his neck and shoulders.

“Hey,” Blair touched Jim’s arm--

--only to find himself, in the very next instant, slammed up hard against the slick tile wall of the shower with Jim’s hand clamped rock-like around his throat. Too shocked to even try to speak, Blair just gaped and drew in a harsh, wheezing breath. Two seconds later Jim blinked, shuddered and let him go.

“Blair?” He coughed, sounding nauseated. “Shit-- what the hell?”

Blair coughed too, a few times, gasping and touching his throat. He looked up at Jim from a half stooped-over position, shock lingering palpably in his eyes.

“I thought you’d zoned,” he croaked. He glanced down at his sweatpants which were soaked and flapping under the jagged spray of the shower. Jim grabbed Blair’s arms and manhandled him out of the tub before shutting off the water and wrapping a towel around his own waist. He thrust a towel at Blair as he backed him over to sit on the toilet.

“Jesus. Did I hurt you?”

Blair coughed again, fingering his throat.

“No. I don’t think so. Though, I’m sure you could have snapped my neck if--.”

“Damnit, God, Chief, no. Don’t even say that. What the hell were you doing sneaking up on me, anyway?”

Jim crouched down and lifted Blair’s chin with sudden gentleness, running his fingers through Blair’s hair to expose his throat which he inspected carefully.

“Who sneaks up on you, Jim?” Blair asked in a voice that was, very and abruptly sober.

Jim sighed and ducked his head.

“Shit.” He looked up again, his eyes brimming with concern. “Does it hurt when you breathe?”

“No.” Blair shook his head. “I’m-- I think I’m fine.”

“Fine, my ass,” Jim spat, his voice low and furious, “ Damnit. Jesus.”

Blair reached out and touched his shoulder.

“Jim, hey, no man, I’m fine. And you’re right. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”

Jim surged to his feet, turned his back on Blair, and ran a hand roughly over his short-cropped hair.

“You should stay away from me,” he said, speaking in a rumble, as though to himself. “At least until I get my head screwed back on straight.”

When he turned around he saw that Blair was standing up and there was a hard flinch of shock in his eyes-- like he’d been slapped.

“Blair?” Jim stepped forward, and then he saw that Blair was staring his chest-- at the raw, pink marks that crossed his skin like crude art.

“Jim,” Blair croaked, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes that fell when he blinked. He raised his palm to his mouth, nauseated. “What-- what happened to you?”

Jim’s lungs locked and it was as if someone had a hand clamped around his throat. He turned away from Blair but there were even more wounds on his back

“Oh, God,” Blair coughed, “Jim--.”

“I’m all right.”

“Like hell,” Blair’s voice grated like a rusty hinge. He came forward and his hands ghosted over Jim’s back, trembling but not touching. “Who did this to you, Jim? Who--?”

But Jim suddenly spun around and grabbed Blair’s face in his hands, hard, impulsively and he saw the tears glistening in Blair’s eyes, streaking down his cheeks and he wanted to put a stop to that because things could be done to him-- had been done to him-- and he could survive that--he could fucking endure that but what he couldn’t deal with was this pain in Blair’s eyes.

“Stop,” he heard himself demand, his face twisting up with anguish, his own eyes burning, “Don’t. They’re not allowed to hurt you too. Goddamnit. I won’t allow it--.”

Then he plunged in and kissed Blair’s mouth, desperately claiming, tasting salt and fear and sharp, fresh grief. Blair moaned, his hands came up in surprise-- but then he was kissing back with burning intensity. His hands hovered as though he wanted to touch Jim, but he didn’t know where to put his hands without hurting him.

“Who did this to you?” He kept gasping between hot, frantic kisses, finally palming Jim’s face like it was the only safe place-- the only place where cruelty and hate wasn’t written brutally across Jim’s body-- his sensitive skin.

“Shut up,” Jim growled back sounding more desperate than angry.

Jim’s hand slid down below the waist-band of Blair’s sweatpants and he grabbed Blair’s cock. Blair was instantly hard and he cried out, arching just as Jim caught him with one arm and pulled, lowering him to the bathroom floor, sliding one hand roughly up under Blair’s shirt, and coursing his fingers through the hair on Blair’s chest. Blair’s breath hitched, matching the rhythm of Jim’s other hand which was pumping now, hard, jerking him off with a deftness of physical skill that was-- like he had a weapon in his hand that he was wielding. Jim felt his blood surge, heard his heartbeat thundering in his ears, heard Blair grunting with rough, almost brutal pleasure-- and then Jim was kissing Blair as he came, stealing his air, making him burn. Blair shuddered and bucked, riding a wave of ecstasy that bordered on panic. Then Jim finally ripped his mouth away and wrapped Blair up in the fierce strength of his arms, and Blair could only pant noisily, moaning as his climax ebbed and then he lay spent in Jim’s arms.

* * *

It was a long time before Blair realized that Jim was the one who was panicking, shaking with tension, holding Blair hard, pinned to his chest.

“Jim,” he gasped when he was finally able to speak. And Jim was rocking him. Rocking. And something about that made the deep, warm pleasure, just born inside Blair, seep helplessly away. Something was suddenly wrong. Jim wasn’t with him anymore. He was somewhere else and that was very wrong.

“Jim?” Blair spoke again, louder this time.

“I’m sorry,” Jim croaked, and Blair couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see tears streaming down his cheeks, but he could feel sorrow raging like a storm through Jim’s body.

“Hey. There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Blair rasped, but Jim didn’t seem to hear him. He pulled back enough to look down at Blair’s face and in an instant, Blair knew that Jim was seeing someone else.

“You hang on,” Jim seethed, his voice shaking, his eyes so bright they screamed, “Don’t you fucking die on me. Don’t you dare.”

Jim fisted Blair’s shirt at the collar and shook him, “Evac’s on the way. You hear me? You hang on!”

“Jim.” Blair shook his head, tears back in his eyes, torn by the knowledge that Jim was reliving someone else’s death, “No. I’m okay. I’m not dying.”

“Damn right you’re not,” Jim croaked, “not on my watch. Not now. Not like this.”

“Jim, you’re having a flashback. I’m not dying,” Blair insisted, “Jim--.” He reached up and cupped Jim’s cheek, just as Jim’s eyes widened in a terrible mask of horror.

“No! Don’t you dare!” Jim yelled, shaking Blair again, “Don’t you fucking die!”

And then he slumped forward so that his forehead was pressed to Blair’s and he shook with an awful strain. An unbearable keening sound pushed out of his mouth with each breath. Desperately, Blair reached up and wrapped his arms around Jim, holding him-- not knowing what else to do, just holding on. And Jim sagged even further against him, surrendering to his embrace.

“It’s a flashback,” Blair said over and over again, “it’s not happening now. It’s over. You’re home now and I’m fine and you’re fine. Oh, God, Jim. Can you hear me? Are you listening to me?”

Blair kneaded Jim’s neck, still afraid to touch his wounded skin but needing so badly to touch him, to get Jim to respond, to ground him.

“You’re home,” he said again, and then he moved, pushing Jim back very carefully and pushing himself up, rolling Jim over to lie down on his back. Jim was eerily pliant, moving unresistingly under Blair’s hands-- and when Blair looked down at his face, he saw that Jim’s eyes were open but blank, staring blindly up at the ceiling. Icy terror flashed in Blair’s stomach and he reached out to press the pulse-point on Jim’s neck, letting out a pent-up breath of relief when he felt the heartbeat strong under his fingertips.

“Jim,” he called, reaching down to take Jim’s face firmly with both hands. Jim didn’t even blink and Blair closed his eyes in a fierce attempt to stay calm. This wasn’t a zone. It looked like one but it didn’t feel like one. Blair reached down and clutched Jim’s hand, squeezing it hard. Belatedly, weakly, Jim squeezed back and Blair gasped, dizzy with relief.

“Yeah,” he rasped shakily, “that’s it, Jim. Come back to me now. Can you hear me?”

Another squeeze and then suddenly, Jim shuddered, roughly, once, and blinked.

“Blair?” He gasped, startled, and Blair watched as fear quickly filled his eyes like water rising in a glass.

“No,” he said, rushing to reassure him, cupping his cheek, “no, don’t be scared. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Jim’s eyes darted around, taking in the sight of the bathroom, the white walls, and Blair’s flushed face.

“What-- happened?” he stammered.

“Shhhh,” Blair palmed Jim’s forehead soothingly, “You had a-- some kind of a flashback. Do you remember--?”

“I-- I remember-- we-- you and me. We--.”

“Yeah,” Blair nodded, managing a tremulous smile, “yeah-- that was-- that part was good. Really good. But then you-- you went somewhere else.”

Jim blinked and his eyes were shimmering, wet.

“Are you okay?” Jim whispered, “Did I--?”

“No,” Blair shook his head emphatically, “No, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.”

“A flashback?”

“Yeah.” Blair unconsciously stroked Jim’s cheek, “do you remember any of it?”

Jim went still, staring up at Blair for a long time, and then he blinked and tears spilled over. Wordlessly, he nodded.

“Okay,” Blair whispered, “okay, we don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

Barely moving, Jim shook his head.

“Okay,” Blair sighed tenderly, nodding, “that’s fine.”

He stroked Jim’s cheek again and then glanced up.

“Uh, okay, so why don’t we get up off this floor. You need to rest.”

He looked back down at Jim and felt a painful tightness in his throat.

“You’re so exhausted.”

Jim just nodded as though he didn’t have the strength to speak. Blair took his hand.

“Do you think you can stand up?”

Jim was still, then he nodded again but didn’t otherwise move.

“Okay. We’ll go slow. Let me help you.”

Blair slipped an arm under Jim’s shoulders and helped pull him up into a sitting position, then, using the toilet seat as leverage, Jim pushed himself to his feet only to stagger as dizziness crashed over him. Blair hooked his arm around Jim’s waist to steady him, and it was a slow, very careful journey back into the living room and up the stairs to the bedroom. Jim was still naked when Blair helped him lie down, lifting his legs because Jim was too tired to do that himself, and pulling the comforter up to cover him.

Jim turned over onto his side, let out a long breath, and fell asleep almost instantly.

Blair sat beside him on the edge of the bed for a long time, just watching him sleep.

Blair sat on a log and watched Jim make camp as if it were an efficiency contest, driving in tent stakes with smooth precision (one, two, three), moving in a strangely calm but coiled way that looked predatory and spoke of combat training. There was an unmistakably physical “cocked-and-ready” poise that, even two weeks after his return, was still strong in Jim’s body. He had slept little since he’d been back, and spoken even less. The only positive change in him (but it was a doosy) was that they’d made love. Ever since then, Blair had enjoyed a back-stage pass into Jim’s personal space. It was by unvoiced consensus that Blair now slept in Jim’s bed and they orbited each other with the sober familiarity of lovers. Jim’s form of intimacy was impulsive and tender. Despite how tense he was now-- how raw-- he would sometimes look at Blair as though he couldn’t believe who he was seeing, grab him by the back of the neck, draw him in, and kiss him like he was a thirsty desert wanderer and Blair was a cool drink of water.

It was Jim who rolled over and fucked him fervently in the middle of the night (wordlessly, panting, touching his face) like it was an act of contrition.

The camping trip had been Blair’s idea. He could see, all too clearly, how much Jim needed a physical outlet for his anger, his-- guilt. The five days Jim had spent back at work had been disastrous with Jim snapping at everybody who came within three feet of him, and prowling around like a caged animal, unable to concentrate on any task long enough to finish it.

He was still high on battle stress. There was actual body chemistry involved. There were elevated hormone levels. And Jim needed to talk. God, did he ever need to talk. Blair could only hope that this was the place to do it.

“You look like a poster-boy for Boy Scouts of America,” he smiled, watching Jim crouch down and start to make a little teepee of fire-wood with uncanny adeptness, like he’d been making camp fires everyday of his life. Jim glanced at him and smiled back, fractionally. Then he struck a match.

The fire bloomed up, easy as you please, and, almost as an afterthought, Jim built it up with some larger sticks before he wiped his hands on his jeans and stood. He glanced up at the sky and Blair watched him scent the air.

Easy, he thought gently, there’s no threat here. You gotta let yourself relax.

All in good time.

This was a long distance run, not a sprint.

Jim looked at Blair then, like he could read his mind. Blair stood up and walked over to him, holding eye-contact, feeling Jim catch his hips in strong hands. The fire cracked. The air smelled of cool evening, fresh smoke and pine trees. Jim’s mouth was warm, delicious, aching. Blair laid his hand on Jim’s cheek while they kissed as if to say: “stay”. As if to say: “I’m here.” And then Jim pulled him into his arms, sighing against his hair and just holding him. Holding on.

Blair could feel the pent-up, accumulated tension in Jim’s muscles and he rubbed his back slowly trying to ease some of it.

“Talk to me,” he whispered very gently. “Just a little. Just a few words.”

Jim went still and utterly silent for a plummeting moment and then he reached up and cupped the nape of Blair’s neck.

“It’s. Not easy.”

Blair nodded, swallowed.

“Yeah. I know. But you’ve already lived through the really hard stuff.”

That seemed to surprise Jim because he froze and then, after a beat, relaxed a little. That’s it. You know I’m right, at least on one level.

“I’ll try. But not right now,” Jim whispered back.

* * *

Night was just about to fall and Blair was sticking foil-wrapped potatoes into the fire when he heard a thump and a strange little squeaking noise, and shot a glance at Jim only to follow his gaze and see that Jim had thrown his hunting knife. And there was a Raccoon, pinned up against a tree-trunk, the knife plunged deep into its throat with impeccable aim. Perfect reflex. Death was instantaneous.

Whipping his gaze back to Jim, scrutinizing him, Blair saw that he was breathing heavily, his eyes were wide and he sat rigidly on his heels. Blair left the fire, approached Jim slowly, and crouched down directly in front of him, locking his gaze.

“Jim?” He asked in a low, careful tone that meant: are you with me?

Jim let out a startled breath and ducked his head. Even in the dim light, Blair could see that he was sweating.

Clearly broadcasting his movements, Blair reached out and palmed Jim’s neck. Flinching, Jim looked up.

“I heard it coming. I just-- acted.”

“Okay,” Blair said without a hint of accusation.

“I didn’t need to--. I didn’t mean to--.”

Jim voice was shuddering, and Blair could see that his body was too, suddenly, as if he was very cold. Blair moved in closer. Leaned in.

“That was instinct. Reflex. Training,” he explained softly. “It’s O.K.”

Jim just shook harder and Blair kissed him lightly on the cheek, the forehead.

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not,” Jim rasped back. Then, abruptly, he surged to his feet, displacing Blair’s hands. And he walked over to yank the knife out, watching the dead animal slump to the ground. Blair got up too and kicked dirt onto the fire, putting it out, not caring about the potatoes anymore. He packed up the food and locked the cooler in the truck, then he unzipped the tent-flap. When he found Jim with his gaze again, the knife was nowhere to be seen but Jim was shaking even worse and looking at his hands. Blood. He’s probably looking at blood on his hands.

“Come on. Get in here,” Blair said firmly, like an order, and Jim responded to that. When he ducked inside the tent, Blair fiddled around a little, clipping a lantern onto a hook, casting a soft glow over the sleeping bags that had already been laid out. Then he started to unbutton Jim’s flannel shirt, talking softly as he worked.

“Okay, Jim. Just let me do this. This is just your body reacting. It’s all right.” He palmed Jim’s face and looked at him squarely-- steadily confronting the sudden fear in Jim’s eyes that was bordering, now, on mute hysteria-- his breathing had turned rough and shallow.

“Trust me?” Blair murmured and, stiffly, Jim nodded.

“Good. Okay. It’s okay.”

Blair unbuttoned his own shirt so that they were both bare-chested and then he pulled Jim into his arms, helping him lie down, tugging the sleeping bag up to cover them both. Jim’s body shook even more violently, letting go, and he moaned, afraid, but Blair held on tighter and spoke into his ear.

“Shhh. I’ve got you. This is okay. This is normal. Just let it happen.”

“I --,” Jim shuddered helplessly. “I can’t--”

“Yes you can. Just try to relax. Just breathe.”

* * *

Jim buried his face in Blair’s neck and fought against his body’s weakness. He fought as hard as he could even as Blair urged him to give up, let go, surrender. That went against every instinct he had; everything inside him that had always screamed: “fight”.

“Come on, Jim. Don’t do this. It’s okay to let yourself relax.”

Blair was rolling-- rolling him over onto his back where he arched against the tension that was now stretched like a cord through his body. His stomach clinched. When Blair kissed his neck, Jim craned his head away, trying to deny the seductive urge of Blair’s mouth-- of his hands, relentlessly kneading at his chest muscles, his shoulders, his arms. When Blair’s hand started to unbutton his jeans, unexplainably, Jim wanted to say no-- but, at the same time, he didn’t want to-- and he couldn’t. His voice was stuck. There wasn’t enough air.

Blair’s touch on his cock was gentle but firm, fingers curling around him as he flushed full and hot and hard. Blair kept it simple, jerking him off as an act of mercy, bringing him relief-- release-- rescuing him from the trap that his own body had become. Blair must’ve known that he couldn’t control the drive to fight, always fight-- always survive. It was entrenched in his brain like hypnosis. It was in his blood.

Jim cried out when he came, and coughed as waves pleasure surged through him. He arched and twisted and then-- finally-- collapsed against the soft cushion of the sleeping bag.

“Easy,” Blair said-- and that was all he said. Over again over again. Murmuring softly as he kissed Jim’s face and neck and ran his hands over Jim’s sweaty chest. “Easy. Easy.”

Jim lay still and breathed as images flashed and burned across his mind. He saw himself move, in the act of cutting another man’s throat. Saw himself shoot to kill. Again and again. Easy. Yes. It was so easy to pull a trigger.

He saw the Land Rover explode ahead of him and he flinched at the deep, shockingly thunderous sound it made: Ba-room!. . . . Heat slamming up against his body so hard that he felt himself falling. His eyes stung. His lungs burned. Then he was being dragged across the sand.

“Talk to me.”

Blair’s voice echoed distantly-- so far away. Jim’s heels made tracks in the sand. Sand everywhere. Sand in his mouth. And then it was dark and blessedly still, and cool like velvet until--

He screamed and felt Blair grab his face, alarmed, but he tried to twist away anyway because the sound-- Jesus Christ, it hurt. It was so loud. So loud his eardrums were going to explode and he couldn’t see anything and his skin was on fire.

Screaming. Screaming because it was purely excruciating. This was agony and it was never going to stop. It was no good-- useless-- but Jim twisted and tried to crawl away.

Then he blinked and saw the soft light of the lantern inside the tent and felt the flannel warmth of the sleeping bag underneath him and Blair’s arms were around him and his voice was streaming a fast, urgent litany into his ear saying:

“Jim, Jim, it’s over, whatever it is, it’s over. You’re safe, I promise you, you’re safe--”

There were tears in Blair’s voice as he spoke and Jim wanted to comfort him but he couldn’t because he was crying too.

“No,” he coughed, pushing against Blair who backed up enough to look down at his face.

“Not from what’s in my head,” Jim said, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple, grinding it in as though was trying to push out the bad memories. Blair took his wrist ready to keep Jim from hurting himself.

“Tell me what happened,” Blair said urgently. But Jim just shook his head. He couldn’t tell Blair about had happened to him. What he had done. What he didn’t do.

“Yes,” Blair pressed, leaning in, “Please, Jim. You can’t bury this. You can’t keep this inside.”

Jim looked up into Blair’s eyes, his own eyes raw, stinging with tears and, God, he was so tired.

“I couldn’t save him,” he hissed, taking his head in his hands, feeling his fingers ball into fists, feeling himself rock forward with the horror of it. “Tom. They killed him right in front of me and I couldn’t do anything--.” His words stopped and he moaned, shaking his head again.

Blair grabbed his arms.

“What could you have done, Jim?” He asked fervently, “It was a terrible, impossible situation--.”

“But I see it!” Jim croaked, reaching up to rub his eyes with both hands. “Over and over again. When I’m asleep. When I’m awake. I see them all die.”

Jim tried to turn away but Blair caught his shoulders forcing him to stay face to face.

“So we’ll go get you help,” Blair said fiercely, “there are people who know how to help with-- this kind of pain-- there may even be some medications--.”

Jim closed his eyes, grimacing and Blair’s words stopped abruptly. His breath caught.

“Jim,” he said, taking Jim’s face in his hands, firmly claiming him. And when Jim opened his eyes they were swimming with tears.

“I love you,” Blair said.

Jim froze, blinked, and the tears spilled over. Then he cocked his head as though he couldn’t understand-- couldn’t grasp the words. His face twisted with grief.

“How can you--? How can you really mean that?” He whispered, shaking his head. And Blair, still cradling Jim’s face, strained to hold his gaze, leaning in closer so that their foreheads almost touched.

“I’m not lying to you,” he said, his voice soft, steady. “Listen to me. Listen to my-- everything. You know I’m telling you the truth. You know I mean it.” He swallowed hard and said it again: “I love you.”

“Blair--,” Jim’s voice was like gravel, so rough, so full of doubt. “I’m--,” he struggled for words, “I’m all fucked up, I’m--”

Blair shook his head, pursing his lips to hold back tears.

“No. You’re not,” he finally rasped when he could speak. His throat felt thick, swollen, it burned like it was on fire. “You’ve been through something horrible and it’s tearing you up--.”

His throat closed up again and it was all he could do to mutely shake his head.

“We’ll get through this,” he croaked after a long struggle to speak, his adam’s apple bobbing. Then he pulled Jim into his arms and almost sobbed with relief when Jim finally reached up and clutched him back.

“We’ll figure this out.”

* * *

There was no denying that he lost control. Jim punched the perp in the face and he went down, and Blair looked across the interrogation room at him like he’d just morphed into the Incredible Hulk. Blair looked at Jim and then down at the guy-- opened his mouth to say something-- closed it-- and then half a second later the shit hit the fan.

Simon, who’d been watching through the two-way, came barging in, slamming the door back against the wall, yelling: “Ellison? What the hell?” and Jim’s heart was going, his hands were still in fists, something inside him was hissing and crackling like live wires, and looking at the perp on the floor he said:

“You’re going down, asshole,” even though, technically, he already had.

Then Blair grabbed Jim’s arm and he rounded on him, glaring, his chest heaving.

Blair’s eyes searched Jim’s face and he still looked shocked but all he said was: “Hey, hey, okay, Jim, calm down,” in that tense-loose voice of his that made whatever he said seem vitally important and yet, somehow, casual-- just a walk in the park.

Jim was such a sucker for that voice. He calmed down enough to spare Simon an angry look, shrug Blair off, and then storm out of the interrogation room, heading for the elevators.

Outside, it was cold and almost raining, (in Cascade it was always either raining or almost raining). Jim made it all the way to the sidewalk and down past Shiltz’s hotdog stand before Blair caught up with him.

“Hey!” Blair yelled and Jim turned around just in time to catch the coat Blair threw at him. He caught it, one-handed, and their eyes locked. Blair gave him a flinty, worried look asking about fifteen silent questions that Jim wasn’t prepared to answer. Then Blair raised his hands in surrender, nodded at the coat in Jim’s hands and said simply: “Put that on, will you?”

So Jim shoved his arms into the sleeves and hiked the coat up over his shoulders. Then Blair broke his gaze and started looking around like he was just realizing where he was. After a while he settled back on Jim.

“So,” he said, suddenly all matter-of-fact like he was about to suggest going out for Chinese food or something instead of about to break Jim’s balls.

“That was-- unexpected. You wanna tell me what that was all about?

“Just drop it, Sandburg,” Jim said, looking up at the bruised, gray sky to avoid holding Blair’s gaze. And, as if sensing his opening, Blair advanced on him, getting right up in his face.

“Quit trying to bullshit me, Ellison, this is me you’re talking to, remember?”

And Jim flinched just a little at the tone, remembering last night and what a blubbering idiot he’d been. Another damn nightmare-- sweating like he’d just run a 12K, waking up with Blair’s hands on his face, Blair’s voice in his ear.

Jim blinked, banishing the memory, and when he looked down at Blair again he saw that they were close-- close enough to taste. He wanted to kiss Blair so badly that his chest hurt.

“Still fucked up,” he rumbled trying to make like it was a joke, something sarcastic, something wry, but the way it came out, he just sounded hoarse and kind of bewildered like: this shouldn’t still be happening. I should’ve gotten over this long before now, goddamnit.

Blair’s face softened

“You’re not fucked up,” he said. "You’re not. And however many times you need to hear me say that--"

Jim looked away, cutting Blair off by breaking eye-contact.

“Then how would you explain what just happened back there.”

“How would I?-- okay. All right,” Blair nodded, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. “If you ask me, I think it’s pretty simple. The perp took a swing at me. And you decked him.”

“He was three feet away from you. Even I know you can handle a swing that's three feet out.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence, Jim,” Blair flashed a small, rueful smile, then sobered “And I hate to break it to you, but you're in no shape to differentiate those kind of spatial fine points. You haven’t been sleeping nearly enough to put a dent in your exhaustion. You've still got that headache.”

“You can tell,” Jim grunted.

"Everyone can tell. I think it has something to do with the fact that you’re squinting like klieg lights are trained on you.”

“What is it that you-- what exactly do you want me to do here, Chief?” Jim asked, looking briefly up at the sky again and then wearily back down at Blair.

“I think what I want isn’t really the issue,” Blair said. “I think you already know what you need to do. In fact I’m pretty sure I saw you write it down on a piece of paper today and stick it in your pocket.”

Jim blinked in surprise.

“You saw that?”

“Of course I could be wrong. You could’ve just been writing down Sarah Jenson’s phone number.”

Jim reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a yellow piece of legal paper and handed it to Blair.

Blair opened it, read it, and handed it back with a nod.

“Right. So. You want me to drive?”

* * *

The Reilly farm was five hours away from Cascade. Blair drove while Jim sat rock-silent in the passenger seat. As dusk took them, the landscape changed and the piney forest that had stretched on endlessly as twin walls of drenched, dark green, finally thinned out. It was dark by the time they left the two-lane highway and turned down a bumpy road that opened into the mouth of the farm. A wooden sign, glowing sternly in the headlights read: Reilly Dairy & Produce.

Gravel crunched under the wheels of the truck as it ground to a stop at the end of a very long driveway. There was a fragrant, southerly warmth in the air. Crickets were chirping. The sound of two truck doors slamming shut was loud in the night. A dog barked. A porch light winked on, and then a small, dark silhouette crossed the broad farm-house doorway.

“Pawpaw,” I little girl drawled, “There’s people outside.”

A much larger shadow came up behind the girl, boots clunking on hardwood.

“I know that, hon. They’re friends of Uncle Tommy.”

The screen door creaked open and a man stepped out.

“At least I hope that’s who it is.”

“Yes sir,” Jim said, coming up the porch steps, extending his hand, “I’m Jim Ellison.”

“Joe Reilly,” the man said, “Tom’s father. You said on the phone that you have news about my boy.”

“Yes sir,” Jim said again.

“Well, come on in then,” Joe Reilly said, ushering them into the house. Jim and Blair filed in and the screen door thwacked shut behind them.

* * *

Jim sat down at the Reilly’s dining table with Joe across from him. Blair hung back, leaning against a kitchen counter. There was a pot of coffee and cups on the table but nobody was drinking. Jim rubbed one of the cups back and forth between his palms. It was a long moment before he could force himself to look up at Joe, who waited like a man who had grown very used to waiting. The rest of the Reilly family-- what seemed at least at first glance to be a large group of people, husbands and wives and children all living under one roof-- had vacated the kitchen leaving it calm and starkly quiet.

Joe nodded at Jim and finally broke the silence saying:

“I can see in your eyes that you don’t have good news. You don’t have to say the words for me to know that-- he’s dead. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Holding his gaze, Jim was still, and then he nodded.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

It was barely perceptible, but Joe flinched when Jim said this and an ineffable sadness sprang into his eyes. Pressing his hands together, he brought them to his lips.

“We were told he was MIA,” he said slowly, his voice a half-octave lower, “I was fifth infantry in ’Nam. I know what that means. The odds of being taking as a prisoner of war are--.”

“He was,” Jim interrupted roughly, looking away and just missing the bright flash of surprise mixed with helpless hope that crossed Joe’s face. “He was taken. Along with two other officers. My team was sent in to extract them all. But the mission-- the mission failed.” . . .

. . .There were three, maybe four of them holding him down. A forearm jammed against the underside of his jaw made him claw for breath. His arms and legs were pinned down. But he still struggled. He strained and bucked violently to get free, consumed by a sinking panic. He was being pulled under. Swallowed up. He blinked and all he saw was blurry whiteness mixed with strange dark shapes. All he heard was his own voice yelling harshly: “Reilly!. . . Tom!”, mindlessly, over and over again because the last thing he’d seen clearly was Tommy on his knees with the pistol pressed against the back of his head, hands raised in surrender, trembling.

Then, jarringly, he felt something-- something that was hot and flooded up his arm like snake venom. It spread swiftly through his body and left him weak-- still yelling, but stricken with fear-- nearly paralyzed. He blinked a pool of tears out of his eyes but his vision didn’t clear. Dizzy, nauseous, he tried to turn over but he was uncoordinated, he had no strength, and he spewed up puke while still lying on his back. He would have choked if someone hadn’t kicked him over, roughly, onto his side. Faintly, as though from a long way off, he heard a man spit: “Bastard! American!” in thick-mouthed English. And then he was being stripped, looted like a corpse. Someone tugged off his boots, dragged his jacket away, and his shirt. Hot air hit his bare back.

“Tommy,” he croaked, barely audible now, “Answer me.” . . .

. . .He woke up hot. His skin itched and he thought instantly of the sand that blew through the air in the desert, searing everything with its stinging dust. He thought of slow-moving fans, the buzz of flies, and sweat soaking through the stink of his shirt. They beat him unconscious again, that’s why his head felt swollen and his eyes wouldn’t open all the way. He needed to puke but his hands were tied with plastic wire behind his back and he couldn’t make himself turn over to cough up blood onto the dingy tile floor. His ribs hurt so fucking much, probably cracked, and his jaw might be cracked too like the plaster in the walls. Better to try to breathe through it.

Don’t move: Don’t let them see you’re awake. Don’t give them the satisfaction of any afternoon fun. They do it to break the monotony more than anything else between cigarette breaks and yet another cup of steaming, hot tea.

He knew that if he moved the one he’d named Jerry Lewis would come over and piss in his face, so he stayed still and thought about the day he would snap that bastard’s neck-- he was the one who’d shot Tommy in the head, laughing as Jim screamed at him-- begged-- him not to do it. Soon, Jim thought. Soon you die.

But right now he was hot. So fucking hot. His tongue felt as dry as bat-hide and for a fleeting moment he thought he smelled water. The image of a cold, wet bottle of beer flashed across his mind in the full-gloss color of a Sam Adams commercial and he moaned, helplessly, just before he heard someone say his name.

“Ebn el metnakah,” he hissed impulsively, not caring that such an insult would probably get him a few broken bones. And then, “Go get fucked,” he added because he might as well make it really worth it.

“Jim.”

Then a hand touched his shoulder and Jim shot to his feet, only to realize that he was actually standing and that the smell of coffee was in the air-- and Blair was talking to him-- and a man who looked a lot like Tommy-- but older, much older-- was standing across from him, looking worried, looking sad and--

“I’m sorry,” Jim rasped in a voice so hoarse it was hardly more than a whisper. “God, I’m sorry. I was supposed to save him but I didn’t-- I couldn’t. I was so fucking helpless and I--”

Joe stepped forward and grabbed Jim’s shoulders shaking him once, hard, urgently.

“No,” he barked back, “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. I know damn well who’s fault it is that my Tommy is-- gone-- and it sure as hell isn’t yours. Tommy made a choice. Don’t you cheapen that.”

“No,” Jim coughed on a rush of terrible shame, “no, I don’t mean to.”

“I know that, son,” Joe said, and his voice cracked on the word: “son” like it wasn’t really Jim he was talking to, not so much him as the ghost of Tommy who had once stood right here in this kitchen and said hard words to his father.

“It should’ve been me,” Jim whispered, “there’s no reason why I should’ve lived and he--didn’t.”

“Who said it’s gotta be a trade off? You’re not God,” Joe growled, infusing fury into the name. “You’re not the one who gets to decide who lives and who dies. You’re alive. The best thing you can do for Tommy is not let his death destroy you too. He wouldn’t want that. And I won’t allow. You hear me?”

Jim looked at Joe, and tears were streaming down both of their faces. “Yes,” he croaked. “I hear you.”

“Good.” Joe shook Jim’s shoulders again and then turned away, swiping a hand over his face and taking in a harsh, wet breath. “Good. Now, I think it’s best that you leave. It’s a long drive back to Cascade.”

Jim nodded at Joe’s back, jerkily, and then reached under the neckline of his shirt. A moment later he set something down on the table that rattled metallically. Tommy’s dog tags.

“Thank you, sir,” he said and looked, finally, at Blair whose eyes were red, and wet, and full of love.

“If there’s ever anything I can do for you. . .”

“You just remember what I said,” Joe answered without turning around.

Jim nodded again, then ducked his head, turned, and left the kitchen.

* * *

In a motel room off I-90, by lamplight, Blair unbuttoned his shirt. Jim sat on the bed, holding Blair’s hips and looking up at his face. When Blair bent down and kissed him, his dark hair fell softly down to brush Jim’s cheek. Jim reached up and let a thick, silky handful sift through his fingers. You’re beautiful, he wanted to say but all he did was stare into Blair’s eyes. There wouldn’t be any more talking tonight-- not much anyway. He didn’t need words. He needed Blair’s hands more than anything else in the world-- Blair’s body, easing down on top of his. He need Blair inside him to fill him up-- fill this puncture wound of emptiness inside him. Blair held Jim’s face between his palms and deepened the kiss.

“You’re a good man,” he whispered, “A good person. I love you.”

“You-- I love you too,” Jim confessed, his voice shaking.

“I’m going to show you you’ve got something to live for,” Blair vowed, his lips moving against Jim’s temple. “You hear me? You believe me?”

Instead of answering ‘yes’, all Jim could do was reach out headily for the waistband of Blair’s jeans. But Blair caught his hand and drew it away.

“No,” he murmured, “not yet. Let me.” And Blair tugged up the tail of Jim’s tee-shirt and drew it up over his head. The single remaining pair of dog tags jingled and Blair didn’t even try to take those off. They would stay as long as Jim wanted them to stay, cold markers against flushed skin. Blair would grow used to their cool, sliding sound, he would tug on the chain to pull Jim down for a taste of his mouth. Not tonight though. Tonight he’d straddle Jim and stare down at his face, and do deep love-hot things to him. He’d rock the life back into him.

Blair’s hands spread flat over the warm muscles of Jim’s chest, feeling the faint roughness of mostly-healed cuts. Roughness that would fade soon, but that he would never forget. His hands would remember and be gentle long after all outward sign of pain was gone. Even after Jim finally started whispering to him, in the dark, that it didn’t hurt anymore-- encouraging: “It doesn’t hurt, baby, touch me. Go ahead and touch me.”

The bed creaked when Blair pushed Jim slowly to lie down, and suckled his neck, and stroked his hair. Jim closed his eyes again and moaned-- He closed his eyes and didn’t see anything but the afterimage of Blair’s beautiful face. Then he opened his eyes, smoldering, wanting more.

Blair touched Jim’s face, his eyes glistening. He kissed him deeply, generously, kissing until they both gasped for breath. Then he buried his nose deep behind Jim’s earlobe and then between his chin and chest. He licked Jim’s throat and suckled there, one hand roving over Jim’s body--wherever he could touch. He squeezed and rubbed Jim’s side, pressing him farther down against the mattress. He took Jim’s nipple in his mouth an tongued it languidly, savoring.

And Blair gave Jim more. Blair gave him everything with a deep, unbearable intensity that was like nothing that had ever come before, but only a taste of what was yet to come. Because Blair could give up everything and still have more. Somehow.

“How?” Jim asked-- and he would continue to ask, over and over again, stupefied by love. Blair’s answer was always a thing of beauty, a penetrating plunge, an arch, a hitched breath. He kissed the back of Jim’s sweaty neck, craving salt, and listened to their breathing mingle as he massaged away the loneliness deep inside that Jim had never faced, along with all the other secret pains that lived there too.

“You inspire me,” he gasped, meaning it, speaking in Jim’s ear.

* * *

Later, as the sun came up, Jim held Blair tangled in his arms, one hand wrapped in a loose fistful of Blair’s hair, and while Blair slept Jim watched his smooth face, seeing innocence there, and he held onto that. He breathed that in--

--and only then could he close his eyes and rest.