Disclaimers: The words are mine; everything else belongs to Pet Fly. Absolutely no infringement is intended, and I'm not making any money off this.

Summary: While vacationing with Blair in Peru, Jim mysteriously disappears only to resurface three years later.

Warnings: AU. Adult themes. Unfinished.

Author’s Note: I’d like to extend a hearty thank you to everyone who chipped in to help with this one. Thanks especially to the wonderful Kate (Calista Echo) for beta-reading. Any mistakes left are solely mine. I hope y’all enjoy this one and feedback is, of course, very welcome! Feedback rocks my world:)

Inverse

by Brook Henson

(c)2005

The night he found out that Jim Ellison was alive, Blair was standing on the sidewalk outside the new Thai place on twelfth street, fighting to open his umbrella because it had started to drizzle. He glanced across the street, looking for his car, and that was when he saw Jim standing under the sallow light of a street lamp, tall and lean-- too lean-- dressed in jeans, and a thick cable-nit sweater that beaded in the rain. Blair knew him instantly by the line of his shoulders and hips and by his eyes which were so blue but as fragile-looking as stained glass. It had been nearly three years since the funeral, but even faced with their staggering impossibility, Blair could never mistake those eyes.

“Jim,” he said, out loud, and then he was walking, striding, running across the street, his feet pounding on the wet pavement. Jim sank back at his approach, and before Blair could get to him, he smoothly disappeared into the shadows.

“Jim!” Blair screamed, turning in circles on the sidewalk, looking frantically around, his fists clenched, his chest heaving “Jim! Where are you? Come back!”

* * *

After that first glimpse, Blair got the feeling that he was being watched and was breathless with the hope that Jim might be following him, a welcome stalker, working up the nerve to show his face again. But there was absolutely no sign of him. Blair returned to an old habit of scanning the streets as he walked, scouring the city. When Father Peter said he thought he might have seen someone matching Jim’s description at a homeless shelter, Blair made nightly rounds to each of them, searching countless dirty faces for a particular set of striking blue eyes. But to no avail. A week passed and Blair began to wonder if wishful thinking had made him only imagine what he so desperately wanted to see. Simon agreed with this, saying sympathetically that he used to see Jim standing on every street corner and sometimes he still did. It’s normal, he said, and then reminded Blair, very gently, that the dental records had matched.

It was a cold night near the end of November when Blair saw Jim a second time. He was rushing out of the loft with a little boy, his two year old “nephew” Jack, in his arms, and a pastel-blue diaper bag slung over his shoulder. The baby was screaming, feverish, possibly very sick. Blair didn’t know how bad it was. He’d taken one look at the kid’s vomit-soiled crib, plucked him up into his arms, and ran down three flights of stairs. On the sidewalk, Blair spotted Jim only a few yards away and, flinching hard, he stopped short. Of all the things he meant to say to Jim, of all the greetings and fervent entreaties he’d rehearsed over and over again in his head, the only thing that came out of his mouth was: “Oh God...Jim.” Then the baby let out another shriek and Blair felt like he was being ripped savagely apart. Jim looked like he felt much the same way; he took a stiff step forward, stopped, and then caught Blair’s gaze with an agonized look.

“The baby’s sick,” Blair blurted out, and something in those words galvanized Jim. His face cleared, his jaw set, and he strode right up to Blair, dropping what looked like an army surplus duffel bag onto the ground beside him. Then he reached out and laid a gentle hand on Jack’s forehead.

“A hundred and one,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. His hand, which looked roughly calloused, shifted carefully to cup the side of the child’s head. “Ear infection.”

“Ear infection?” Blair gasped, reeling from the sound of Jim’s voice, his sudden nearness, and the news he reported. “So not-- not an emergency? We’re just talking about some antibiotics?”

Jim nodded. He seemed unable to look away from the wailing child.

“And something for the pain,” he said in the same ransacked voice. Listening to him, Blair realized that it was tearing Jim up to see the baby hurt.

“Yes, yes, children’s Tylenol. I have that upstairs.”

Jim nodded again, not meeting Blair’s gaze but not backing away either.

“Will you-- come up with me?” Blair asked, trying not to sound too desperate.

Jim shook his head, slowly.

“Please,” he whispered, now blatantly begging. “please, Jim.”

“I can’t,” Jim croaked, finally pulling his hand away from the baby’s face and taking a decisive step backward.

“Don’t disappear,” Blair begged, instinctively reaching out. Jim took another hasty step back, then turned and trotted away across the street and into the darkness. Blair stared after him, then shifted his gaze to look at his still-outstretched hand which he let slowly drop. The air was bitterly cold, Jack was still screaming and Blair knew he had to go back inside very soon. The tears in his eyes felt like they were freezing. He started to turn around and then caught sight of something on the ground-- the duffle bag Jim had unceremoniously dropped.

“Jim!” he balked in surprise, “your bag!” He picked it up by the strap and knew-- suddenly knew, with certainty-- that he was holding all of Jim’s worldly possessions in his hand. “Oh, Jim. Your bag...”

* * *

Jack’s mother rushed over to rescue him from Blair’s bumbling bachelor clutches, leaving him alone in an empty loft-- with Jim’s duffle bag.

There were three shirts that had at one time been white but were now stained with what looked, and smelled, mostly like some kind of wood varnish. One of the shirts had a fine layer of sawdust on it that made Blair think, with sinking dread, of Jim’s skin. There was no way he could wear these clothes comfortably. There were only two pairs of faded blue jeans, similarly stained, the thick sweater Blair had seen him wear earlier, some underwear and mismatched socks, and also, at the bottom, an envelope.

Blair struggled for nearly half an hour with the prospect of not invading Jim’s privacy, not opening the battered brown envelope. It sat on his coffee table like a stack of cash while Blair paced the living room, raking his hands through his hair and rubbing his mouth. Finally he couldn’t hold off any longer and he sank to his knees. He carefully opened the envelope and dumped its contents on the table. A bottle of pills rolled out and hit the floor with a rattle. Blair felt a hot numbness seep into his stomach like nitric-oxide from the dentist’s office, and he picked up the pills. Vicodin. A powerful painkiller. A narcotic.

He poured out the pills and counted them. Jim had used about half the bottle-- if it had been full to begin with. The numb feeling flashed from hot to cold.

Jim.

Blair glanced over the rest of the contents, touching them with fingers that left damp prints behind. There was forty-seven dollars in cash plus some change, the money smelled rusty like wet nails. There was a collection of newspaper clippings that mentioned Rainer-- or more specifically-- Blair. His name was listed somewhere in each of the articles, however briefly. There was also a grainy black-and-white photo of Simon getting an award from the mayor. Under the clippings, Blair found a worn copy of Jim’s birth certificate, a business card with the name: Dr. J. Life M.D. on it and a Washington State address. At the bottom of the pile there was a folded piece of yellow legal paper with a list of phone numbers on it written in Jim’s tight hand. The first was Blair’s, the second was, Simon’s office number and then there were four more numbers that Blair didn’t recognize.

The last thing Blair’s fingers touched was another smaller envelope with his name and address printed on it: Blair J. Sandburg... The letter was sealed and stamped with old thirty-two cent stamps. There was no return address. The paper was soft and lined as though the letter had been carried in Jim’s pocket or wallet for a very long time.

Blair held the envelope and pressed one hand over his mouth, feeling the scalding-hot ache of tears rise in his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t open the letter-- knew it was a violation, so before he found himself unable to resist temptation, he dropped the letter, grabbed his keys and rushed out the door.

He wanted to roll through the streets at a low speed, searching for Jim. Instead he found himself parked in front of an outlet store. He bought four pairs of brand-new jeans, accommodating for Jim’s leaner size while still remaining optimistic. He bought a pair of nice slacks along with a package of pristine white tee-shirts, a couple of Henley’s, a dress shirt, a polar-fleece pull-over that had some kind of special thermal material in it that touted to protect against negative temperatures. He bought socks that matched and had more of the thermal stuff in them. He wanted to spend two hundred bucks on a state of the art winter coat but had visions of Jim getting knifed or beaten up over it-- and besides, tonight he’d been wearing a coat that looked pretty warm, if old. On one wall of the store, Blair found a large gym bag that looked really sturdy-- he grabbed that and bought it too.

When he got back home, he packed Jim’s new clothes along with the old ones (which he first put into a plastic bag) in case Jim valued them. With shaking hands he replaced all the contents of the envelope, except for the drugs. Then he stood for a long time holding the bottle of pills. At last he slipped it into one of the front pockets, (along with some cash and a note) praying to God that he wasn’t making a mistake.

It took him eight tries to write the note but he finally settled on:

Jim,

I love you. I’m always here for you. Please let me be here for you-- whatever that means. Whatever you need. I can help ease your pain.

Blair

He didn’t give a damn about sounding sappy but he worried that he was being too direct. It felt risky writing the words “I love you” like that, first thing, and, perhaps even more so, the word “help” but he just couldn’t bring himself to be anything less than utterly honest.

When he went to bed that night he prayed for a lot of things: that Jim would come home but if not, that he’d at least find food and some place warm to sleep. Please, he begged the darkness of his bedroom, let the weather stay above freezing tonight.

* * *

The next night Blair stood out on the balcony and scanned the street below. There was a lamp and a bench on the edge of the sidewalk across from his building that made a nice oasis of light and something approximating comfort. He wished achingly that Jim was out there, sitting on the bench. But he wasn’t, of course. That was too much to hope for. Maybe, though, he was watching somewhere not far away, off stage, in the darkness. Blair took off his glasses and tried to rub the painful tension out of his eyes. When he put them back on the world seemed to shimmer and then grow clear around him as though some kind of magic had just happened-- and maybe it had, because when he looked down again, Jim was standing there in a pool of light, gazing steadily up at him. Blair flinched and raised his hand in a gesture that was somewhere between a wave and a plea.

“Hey,” he gasped, counting on the fact that Jim still had the power to hear him, “hey, uh, please don’t move, okay? I’ve got your stuff. You left it last night. Hang on, I’ll go get it.”

Jim blanched and it was hard to read his face, so far away, but Blair had an idea about what he was thinking.

“I won’t come down if you don’t want me to, okay? I can, uh, I can just throw it to you.”

After a heart-stopping moment, Jim nodded, barely perceptibly, and Blair rushed into the loft, feeling his face burn and his heart thud like a rubber ball inside his chest. He was an idiot-- a stammering idiot. He grabbed the gym bag, which was still sitting on the living room floor and ran back to the balcony, half expecting Jim to be gone. But he hadn’t budged and after an awkward practice swing, Blair tossed the bag over the balcony ledge, craning forward to watch it hit the grass below with a soft “whomping” sound. Jim hesitated briefly and then crossed the street. Blair watched him pick up the bag and then make his way back to the circle of lamplight.

Riveted, Blair kept watching as Jim set the bag down, right there on the sidewalk, unzipped it, and started rifling through the contents, undoubtedly because he was suspicious and wanted to know what Blair had done to his things. He reached in and drew out the package of white shirts, casting Blair a struck look that could have signaled either horror or just deep surprise. Blair’s gut twisted, hoping it wasn’t horror.

“I owe you three years worth of Christmas presents,” he said feeling stupid and a little bit crazy. Jim’s expression slowly congealed into something stiff and completely unreadable. He replaced the shirts, zipped the bag and stood up slowly. For a moment Blair had the feeling that Jim was going to walk away and leave the bag behind, but after a few heavy heartbeats, he picked it up by the strap, slung it over his shoulder and then locked eyes with Blair again. Time came to a standstill. Blair could have stayed where he was forever. Finally Jim shifted his weight and raised his hand in a gesture strikingly similar to Blair’s initial wave. There was awkwardness there and also a kind of mute supplication.

Two seconds later, Jim was gone, vanished as if he had never been.

* * *

A kind of pattern developed after that. Not every night but with increasing regularity, Jim showed up in his pool of light across the street, materializing like a magician in the off moments, when Blair just happened to glance away. On Wednesday night he wore the new jeans and the pull-over, and looked like he’d shaved since the last time Blair saw him.

“Those jeans are too loose on you,” Blair said, aiming for casual but succeeding in only sounding distressed. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t seem to get himself to stray from inane conversation. He was too afraid of scaring Jim off.

“Let me throw you down a sandwich.” He meant this mostly as a joke, but if Jim had nodded he would’ve run careening into the kitchen. Instead Jim quirked a slow, tiny smile and stayed gazing at him without looking away. He seemed capable of staring directly at Blair for long periods of time as though he was streaming invisible coded messages at him-- which, perhaps he was. Blair got to thinking that there were messages at least, and acted as though he understood them.

“Yeah,” he said, “I was being optimistic. They look good on you, though. You look good. You shaved.”

More streaming from Jim. There was an odd kind of understated intensity to this, as though he could stay there for eons just to make sure his message got fully across. He never did stay very long, though. He stood and watched, sometimes smiling just the barest little hint of a smile as Blair talked. It quickly became Blair’s central focus in life to coax these smiles out.

On the nights when Jim didn’t show up, it felt as though someone had punched a hole in Blair’s chest cavity-- there was such a painful emptiness there. Sometimes three or four nights would go by before Jim would show up again looking ragged and haunted, his eyes as sharp as stakes.

“Hard week?” Blair would ask, fighting to keep the edge of frantic grief out of his voice, gripping the balcony wall just to keep from bolting down to the street as fast as he could because he wanted to hold Jim so badly-- God, just let me put my arms around you...

Instead he tried to put his arms around Jim with words, talking to him, on and on about whatever he could think of, keeping his tone as soothing as possible. Often Jim seemed skittish during these rough patches, darting his gaze around rather than maintaining his usual steady stare. The passing of a pedestrian was enough to make him slip way, back into the shadows.

“I’m here,” Blair would end up saying over and over again-- trying to draw Jim’s harried eyes back to him. “I’m here for you, Jim. I’m always right here.”

* * *

A month passed like this with Blair suffering though intervals of daylight, anticipating the next visit from Jim. He lived his life between exhausting fluctuations of joy and despair. He functioned. He taught his classes at Rainer, he clocked hours at the library, he grocery shopped, and babysat Jack-- but he spent every evening on the balcony and lived for the moment when Jim stepped forward out of the night, into his spotlight.

It was the night of December 24th, Christmas eve, when something finally changed. Blair was spending the evening with Jack. His mother, Carrie, had been invited to a party and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking the baby. “I should probably feel terribly guilty for leaving my kid with someone else on Christmas eve,” she said, “but it’s not like he fully appreciates the holiday and you look like you could use some company, even if he isn’t much of a conversationalist.”

Blair took the baby, bundled him up so that practically only his nose was showing, and went to his usual spot on the balcony. To his surprise Jim was already standing there.

“Hi,” he said, “look who got dumped on my doorstep.”

Jim blinked, smiled with rare ease and then took an unexpected step forward. Blair watched raptly as he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled something out. He hesitated for a long moment, staring down at whatever it was that he held in his hand, then with a visible tightening of his shoulders, he straitened up and started to walk across the street. Blair could not believe it. He could not believe what was happening. His heart leapt, skipped a few beats and then came crashing down into a wild rhythm. He ran toward the door, still holding the baby, and snapped all the locks free. When he finally heard a soft knock, Blair flung the door open and then just stood there panting.

Up close, Jim looked rugged and breathtaking. There were more lines around his eyes, a scar Blair didn’t recognize dashed across his eyebrow, and there were even a few glints of gray in the course stubble that covered his face, but he was still Jim-- so warmly, palpably Jim.

He swallowed thickly, tilted his head, and reached out to smooth one of his calloused hands over Jack’s small head.

“Is this your son?” he asked in the same deep, gravelly voice Blair remembered from that long ago second encounter.

“Uh, no,” Blair said, hearing his own voice break dryly. He cleared his throat. “No, I’m sort of an honorary uncle. It’s a long story. His name is Jack.”

Jim absorbed Blair’s words, studying the child intently, then he sort of roused himself and reached into his pocket again, pulling out a wooden car with wheels that looked hand-carved-- very expertly hand-carved.

“It isn’t very original,” he shrugged, “but I thought-- Jack-- might like it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Blair said, taking the toy reverently and admiring it, “you made this, didn’t you? It’s really beautiful.”

“I didn’t know what to get you for Christmas, Chief,” he said then, roughly and there was a dampness in his eyes when Blair looked up.

Blair felt his own tears well up and shook his head, unable to form words. He opened his free arm and sighed jaggedly when Jim stepped forward into his awkward embrace and cupped his head much as he had the baby’s.

“This,” Blair said thickly, fighting to get the word out before a wet, lurching sob, “this is all I could ask for. All I could want.”

“Blair, so much has happened,” Jim rumbled brokenly, “I’m not who I was.”

“Neither am I,” Blair rasped back, “We’ll work it out, Jim. We’ll deal with it-- together.”

Jim pulled reluctantly away and leveled Blair with his raw, watery eyes.

“You make it sound easy.”

“Not easy, just simple. There’s you, there’s me and there’s neither one of us ever being alone again.”

“I-- I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Blair took Jim’s hand and squeezed it.

“You don’t have to be. C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

Jim took a deep breath, looking weary and deeply unsure, but he pulled himself up, stood tall, clenched his jaw, and stepped into the loft.

**

Function

**

Blair paused in the act of cutting carrots to take a deep breath, hold it and let it out. He set the knife down and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, then he glanced around at the quiet loft-- which was immaculate. The living room was lit by the soft orange glow of the fireplace, the table was set, the wine glasses and silverware were practically sparkling. Everything was ready, Blair thought, closing his eyes with a sigh-- everything except me.

Turning back to his cutting board, Blair picked the knife up again, only to drop it with a clatter when he heard a knock on the door. That’s him. He’s here. He’s actually here. Blair picked up a dish towel, wiped his hands, drew in another deep breath, and went to answer the door.

Jim stood in the doorway wearing his coat, slacks and the blue dress shirt Blair had bought him weeks ago. He’d shaved, his hair was damp and he smelled cleanly of soap. His eyes passed quickly, intensely, over the loft and then settled on Blair.

“Am I early?”

From the look in his eyes more than the rough sound of his voice, Blair could tell that Jim was just as nervous as he was.

“There’s no such thing as early,” he said softly, “or late for that matter. Please, come on in.”

Blair widened the door, Jim nodded and took a few steps into the loft. He’d come inside briefly last night, staying only long enough to sit on the couch and gulp down a cup of coffee. Blair had done most of the talking but in the end Jim had agreed, hesitantly to come over for Christmas dinner. “Just the two of us,” Blair assured him, “nothing fancy.”

Jim slowly stripped out of his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. He moved with deliberate care, as though his muscles were sore.

“The food smells good, Chief,” he rumbled, “I-- I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything.”

Jim’s halting apology and the word “Chief” threatened to bring tears to Blair’s eyes.

“Hey,” he said, struggling for calm, “that’s okay. Do you want to come sit down on the couch? Have a glass of wine before dinner, or a beer? I have beer--.”

“I’ll just take water, if that’s okay.”

“Water’s fine, sure, I’ve got water.”

Jim nodded and then looked around the loft again. Blair slipped into the kitchen and cast a glance over his shoulder. He watched Jim walk over to the stereo system and run his fingers lightly over a stack of CDs, no doubt noticing that all of the old R&B and Santana albums were still there. On the shelf above the stereo there was a row of pictures and when Blair came back out of the kitchen with a bottle of water, Jim was holding one of the frames.

Glancing at it, Blair saw an image of Jim decked out in full fly-fishing gear: hat, vest, a pole in one hand, and a huge blue trout in the other-- grinning.

He felt himself smiling. “Do you remember that day?” he asked, “You couldn’t get that shit-eating grin off your face no matter what Simon said.”

Beside him, Jim started to smile but then suddenly flinched and fumbled to set the picture back on the shelf before turning abruptly away. Blair reached out for him but, when he saw Jim stiffen, he forced himself to lower his hand and just stand there, very still, watching the movement of Jim’s shoulders as he drew in heavy breaths of air.

“Jim,” he whispered finally, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I just need-- I need to--,” Jim rasped before he turned and stalked off to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. A moment later, Blair heard the distinct sounds of retching and he moved unconsciously to lean with his palm spread flat on the bathroom door, his eyes closed, listening.

“Jim,” he said softly, “hey. . .Hey, easy . . Breathe. Try to breathe through it.”

The door was so solid under his hand, an impenetrable barrier between himself and Jim, one of many it seemed. Blair ached to be on the other side. He remembered a time when he would have followed Jim into the bathroom quietly, but without hesitation, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he walked. Now, he waited tensely, listening, holding himself in check, afraid of making a mistake-- afraid that Jim would push him away.

But when the retching didn’t stop, Blair felt his hand curl around the doorknob.

“Okay,” he said, unable to hold back any longer, “I’m coming in, Jim. I’m just going to come in now, all right?”

He turned the knob slowly and let the door swing open to reveal the sight of Jim, on his knees, gripping the sides of he toilet with both hands, helplessly dry-heaving. One look was all it took for Blair to find himself across the room wetting a washcloth in the sink. He crouched over Jim.

“Hey,” he said again with quiet authority, squeezing out the cloth and pressing it to the back of Jim’s neck, “easy-- you’ve got to breathe, Jim. Breathe. . .”

And he talked Jim through the retching, speaking steadily into his ear, remembering all the right words to say about dials. Finally, he managed to draw Jim away from the toilet so that he was leaning back heavily against Blair's chest, breathing hard and shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Jim shuddered, “I’m sorry. I thought I could control it. Seeing you always makes it better and I thought-- I thought I’d be okay.”

“Jim.” Blair tightened his grip with one arm and reached up to lay his hand across Jim’s forehead. He could feel a sheer force of agony rolling off Jim in trembling waves. “Jesus-- you’re in so much pain. Please. You gotta let me help you.”

Jim just continued to shudder and Blair sensed that somewhere inside him, he was letting go, not trying to hold himself still anymore, releasing his body to its own will.

“Close your eyes,” Blair whispered, covering them and wishing fervently that he’d thought to turn off the bathroom’s overhead light, “Yeah, that's good. Now, just listen to my voice.”

* * *

Nearly an hour later, in the darkened living room, Jim leaned forward and picked up his still-steaming tea cup. Blair saw that he had to use both hands to hold it steady. They had spent a long time on the bathroom floor and it was only just recently that Jim had been able to stop shaking enough to stand up with Blair’s help and make it over to the sofa. Blair recognized the symptoms of withdrawal when he saw them and he could only imagine what they felt like with Jim’s senses-- the blinding headache and screaming nerve endings-- it had to be agony.

“How long have you been off the pills?” he asked softly

“Two days,” Jim said. “the shaking and uh. . . it comes and goes.”

Blair couldn’t think of anything to say to that other than: come home.

“Listen,” he said out loud, speaking slowly, “why don’t you sleep here tonight--.”

“No,” Jim cut him off, setting his cup down hard enough to make tea slosh over the side. He grimaced at the mess he'd made, pulled a rumpled handkerchief out of his back pocket and started sopping up the tea.

Blair carefully took hold of his wrist stilling him.

“Jim,” he said, “I don’t care about spilled tea. I care about you.” That drew Jim’s gaze and Blair held it steadily.

“Please,” he said, “I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but you shouldn’t be alone right now. You said you didn’t want to be alone.”

“I don’t,” Jim rasped, his voice breaking.

“So then stay.”

Jim looked down at Blair’s hand where it covered his wrist and gingerly pulled his arm away. Then, with surprising steadiness, he got to his feet.

“Jim.” Blair stood up too and reached for Jim’s arm only to freeze again when Jim ducked his head.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said, not looking up, his voice barely audible, “about dinner, and thank you. . .thank you very much for--” he stopped and glanced at Blair. His eyes were so full of sorrow and gratitude that Blair felt his heart constrict.

“Tell me where you’ll be,” Blair blurted out, “at least. Please don’t make me spend another night wondering whether you’ve found a warm bed to sleep in. It’s-- it’s below freezing out there and--.”

Jim’s hand on Blair’s cheek stopped his words. He blinked in surprise and his tears spilled over. Jim wiped them away with his rough, calloused palm.

“Look at what I’m doing to you,” he whispered brokenly, “God, Blair. . .What am I doing?”

Blair grabbed Jim’s wrist again, this time holding on as tight as he dared.

“Just tell me where you’ll be,” he said, “That’s all I ask.”

Jim looked torn. He was silent for a long time and then finally he swallowed hard and spoke.

“There’s a shop, a second-hand store called "Leo’s" on the Parkway. I work there restoring old furniture-- I have a room in the back.”

“Leo’s?”

“Yeah. Leo, he-- he’s a good guy. He did two tours in Nam. The way he talks, you’d think it was a life project of his to-- rehabilitate me.”

“I think I like this Leo,” Blair said, “I’d like to meet him.”

Jim’s eyes flicked away at that and his jaw clenched.

“No. I mean-- please-- don’t come down to the shop, Blair. Don’t just show up. I need to know when I’m going to see you, I-- I don’t deal so well with surprises.”

“All right,” Blair said, tilting his head to try to catch Jim’s eyes. When, very slowly, Jim turned to look at him, Blair held his gaze to show that he was serious-- that he meant what he said. “No surprises, Jim. But maybe I could have a rain-check on dinner?”

Jim stood rigidly for a long moment and then, finally, his face softened and he actually managed a small smile.

“Yeah, sure, Chief. Rain-check.”

Realizing that he was still clutching Jim’s wrist, Blair shifted his grip so that he could hold Jim’s hand warmly between both of his. His fingers brushed over a band of roughness that marred the smooth skin of Jim’s wrist and it took him a moment to realize that he was touching a thick, angry scar.

Jim pulled his hand away, startled, and was across the living room shrugging back into his coat before Blair could make himself move.

“Okay,” Blair heard himself say, at last, in a voice that sounded thin, stretched, “Rain-check then. Dinner. How ‘bout tomorrow?”

He was pushing and he knew it, taking a few hasty steps toward Jim, but it was all he could do not to grab Jim’s hand again and beg him-- just beg him to stay.

“I, uh--.” Jim had a grip on the door knob and was looking at Blair as though he might possibly be dangerous, “maybe, I’m not sure.”

“Yeah,” Blair said tremulously, “That’s okay. I don’t want to pressure you, I just--.” He stopped and rubbed a hand roughly over his mouth, trying to calm himself.

“This is your home, Jim,” he said in a firmer tone, “it always was and it always will be.”

Jim’s face faltered at that and, for an instant, kind of crumpled before he turned his back on Blair; his breathing suddenly harshly audible in the quiet loft. Blair took a few more steps forward.

“I meant what I said,” he continued “we can work through this together.”

“You don’t even know what “this” is,” Jim said in a voice so low, Blair could hardly hear it.

Leaning in, Blair dropped his voice to match.

“So maybe you’ll tell me,” he whispered, “or maybe you won’t-- but I know what I see.”

“What do you see?”

“I see you. I see that you’re in pain. I see that you’re scared.”

Jim reached out and pressed his hand flat on the door as though he needed the support to stay standing.

“Jim. I thought you were-- dead.” Blair’s voice cracked. Even after all this time, three endless years, the grief was still so fresh.

He took a step forward and tentatively, as though he still wasn't entirely sure that Jim was real, laid his hand on his warm, solid back.

“I went to your funeral. . .” Blair squeezed his eyes shut and ducked his head, fighting for control. “. . . And then I tried to come back to the loft but I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t breathe here. I thought the memories of you, the --absence-- of you was going to kill me. And part of me wanted to die-- but I didn’t.

I rented a room and after a while I was able to stumble out of bed to go teach my classes. But I cut myself off from Simon and the guys-- everybody who knew you-- who reminded me of you. . . and all I did was--function. Just barely.

Then one day a woman I worked with put a baby in my arms and everything-- eased a little bit-- just for a while. Jim, I’ve been holding that baby at least once a week-- every week, for two years. Carrie doesn’t need a baby-sitter-- it’s me-- I’m the one who needs that baby. It wasn’t until Jack came into my life that I realized that I just couldn’t live without having you-- some of you anyway, your things, your-- presence, around me. So I moved back into the loft, and this place has brought me the only real comfort I’ve known in three years-- until now.”

At some point during Blair’s speech, Jim had turned around and was looking at him with a hard shimmer of tears in his eyes. When he stopped talking, Blair pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and swallowed convulsively trying to hold back sobs.

“Please,” he whispered, “You can leave. I can’t make you stay but--.”

Jim grabbed Blair by the back of his neck, hooked his arm around him and yanked him to his chest so suddenly that Blair let out a yelp of surprise and caught Jim’s shoulders, clutching the fabric of the nice blue dress shirt.

Jim gripped him back, fiercely adjusting and readjusting his hold as though he just couldn’t pull him close enough-- and, after a desperate moment, Blair finally relented, letting out abject, full-body sobs.

“I’m sorry-- God, Blair, I’m so sorry. I tried to get to you. I tired--but they did things to me--they kept making me forget.”

“Who?” Blair asked, even as he cried.

“It doesn’t matter who. It’s best that you don’t know.”

“Jim-- what happened to you?”

“I was taken. I was-- used.”

“Was it the government?” Blair wheezed, hauling in great gasps of air, “The military? Scientists?”

Jim just tightened his hold and pressed his lips to Blair’s shoulder, unable to speak.

“They hurt you.” Blair managed in a strangled voice.

It was all Jim could do to just to nod, mutely.

“For three years?”

Jim nodded again and this time Blair reached up and covered his head with his hand-- wordlessly-- there were just no words for this.

They held each other then, for a long time in the dim quiet of the loft. Standing by the door, they simply held each other and cried.

**

Relative Space

**

Blair parked in front of Leo’s second hand store, cut the engine and sat for a moment clutching the steering wheel in a bloodless grip. He’d promised Jim that he wouldn’t drop by unannounced and he wasn’t. He’d called first. But he hadn’t actually managed to talk to Jim directly.

“Blair Sandburg, huh?” Leo’s friendly gruffness carried clearly over the phone, “Yep. Jim’s told me about you. I’ll let’em know you’ll be stopping by. Best not show up for an hour or so, though. That boy spooks worse than Black Beauty if you come up on him sudden.”

“I’ll be there at five,” Blair said, meaning to be exactly on time. Checking his watch, it was 4:58. He got out of the car and shut the door behind him, trying to ignore the fact that his stomach was tied up in knots. It’d been four days since he’d last seen Jim-- four days and three very long nights--and that was just about as much of a disappearing act as Blair could endure.

A bell jangled when he stepped into the store and looked around. The place was large and packed to the brim with-- stuff --reminding Blair vaguely of his old basement storage room at Rainer. There was everything from T.V. sets to wind-chimes, children’s toys, old musical instruments, picture frames, lamps. . . all of it was orderly and well categorized but rather worn around the edges. Blair scanned the clutter looking especially for furniture, sure that he would able to recognize anything that had been shaped by Jim’s hands, but he didn’t see any.

“You must be Sandburg,” Leo spoke up from a spot, half hidden behind a congregation of file cabinets. He weaved a path toward Blair giving him a quick once-over and grinning knowingly.

“I’m afraid it’s the hair gives you away,” he said when he was close enough to offer a handshake. “Don’t worry, I don’t have anything against you hippie types-- least not anymore.”

Blair smiled and nodded, shaking Leo’s hand and muttering: “Yes, hi, Blair Sandburg. Nice to meet you,” but he couldn’t keep himself from glancing around, looking for Jim or at least some clue as to where he might be.

Leo cocked his head toward the far side of the store.

“Yeah, he’s back there, along with all his handy-work. Go on, son. He’s expecting you.”

Blair traded a glance between Leo and “back there” realizing that he ached to see Jim with a kind of undertow draw that reminded him of a particular stretch of the Pacific ocean he’d visited as a child one cold, gray day when the waves pulled at the shore so strongly that they sucked the sand right out from under his feet. Still, he was nervous, just like he’d been when he was ten years old, running along the beach daring the water to reach out, grab his ankles, and swallow him whole.

At the back of the store, Blair found a short dark hallway. Following the smell of paint thinner, and a distinctive rasping sound, he turned left and came to stand in the doorway of a wide, airy room that served, by the looks of it, as a carpenter’s shop. He found Jim bent over a long, stripped but still regal-looking dining table, briskly sanding it. His once-white tee-shirt was stained with sweat and smears of rusty brown wood varnish. By the way he was leaning, Blair could see that his jeans hung down low on his hips, but despite how lean he’d become, his arms and shoulders, and the flex of his thighs showed a strength and definition that came from many hours of manual labor.

Caught in a moment of awe, Blair stilled at the sight of him, realizing that this was the first time he’d seen Jim fully in the light of day, caught in the fragile brightness of a winter afternoon. Sawdust stirred in the air, clouds billowing up and hanging in golden suspension with each pass of the sanding block.

“You should be wearing a mask,” Blair said gently from his place in the doorway.

Jim, who must have been aware of his presence all along, stopped sanding abruptly and a hot silence pulsed with the cessation of sound.

“So Leo tells me,” he said finally in his rough voice without looking at Blair. Then he shrugged uncomfortably, “ I-- don’t like to have anything cover my face.”

“That bothers you?” Blair asked, wondering about anything that could bother Jim more than breathing in dust. Jim tugged at the fingertips of his leather work gloves, pulled them off and dropped them onto the table. Finally, he looked over at Blair with eyes that cut so deeply Blair thought he might bleed.

“You disappeared on me,” Blair whispered then, past the sharp ache in his throat. He wanted to say more. He wanted to somehow express how much it hurt to keep losing Jim over and over again: one minute to have him in his arms, hands fisted in his shirt, feeling him so warm and solid and unfathomably alive against him. . .and the next, forced to watch him pull away and stumble back into the cold December night.

Jim looked away and scanned the wall in front of him as though it might have words of wisdom written on it. Finally he sighed and ducked his head.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I sometimes get this-- feeling, like I have to-- get away. Just--away. It’s better now than it was.” He raised his head and looked at Blair again. “For a long time I couldn’t be around anybody. I was. . .” His voice trailed off and he shook his head giving Blair a resigned look that seemed to say that he’d just run out of words-- used up his entire quota for the day.

And Blair felt a kind of exhausted desperation seep into him at the thought of Jim being so compelled to flee from people-- from him; that Jim couldn’t bear to be with him, was in some way repelled by him, made his bones feel weak with sorrow.

Blair took a step forward, which was rash and uncalculated-- the act of a man whose love outweighed his common sense. Jim blinked, raking his eyes over Blair’s body from head to toe and back again. Another step and the startled flash in Jim’s eyes eased a bit. When Blair was close enough to be within arm’s length, he opened his palm and lifted it.

“I brought you something.”

Jim held his gaze for a long moment and, at last, he looked down at the object in Blair’s hand. This close, Blair could see the surge of sudden tears that rose and hovered unshed in Jim’s eyes.

“It’s a key to the loft,” Blair said even though explanation was clearly unnecessary. Jim’s jaw clenched as he first nodded mutely and then shook his head.

“Blair--.”

Blair reached down, took Jim’s hand, placed the key against his palm and folded his fingers closed over it.

“Just take it. Please. I want you to have it. You never know when you might need-- a safe place.”

Still holding Jim’s fist, Blair smoothed his fingers over the raw, raised scar on his wrist. Lifting his gaze, he could see that the scar extended on, running roughly up the entire length of Jim’s forearm--as though someone-- with a knife-- had brutally. . . Blair’s eyes burned and he felt the valves of his heart slam shut. His chest hurt so badly that he thought he might have to lean against Jim’s table just to keep from falling over. Instead, he felt one of Jim’s hands slip under his arm to support his elbow while the other reached up and turned his face away.

“No. Don’t look,” Jim said gruffly, too late. And Blair stood for a long moment in Jim’s grasp, working to get his breathing back under control. It wasn’t as though he was usually so squeamish-- he’d actually managed to get over his penchant for puking at crime scenes and even trained himself to stand all the way through an autopsy-- but this was Jim. Someone had done this to Jim. . .

“It’s--okay,” Jim said haltingly, running a heavy hand over Blair’s back, trying to soothe him. When he could manage it, Blair sought Jim’s eyes and held them hard with his own watery gaze.

“No, Jim,” he ground out, forcing himself to look down again and curl his palm over that god-awful scar, “This is-- not-- okay.”

At his words, Jim closed his eyes and his adam’s apple throbbed as he swallowed.

“Blair,” he said hoarsely, his voice hardly more than a rasp. “That’s not the only scar.”

And it was all Blair could do to fight the dizzy despair that engulfed him at those words. He held onto Jim’s arm as though the wound there was still fresh, and bleeding, and he could somehow ease the pain of it.

“I know,” he whispered brokenly, even though he didn't know-- not for sure.

When Jim opened his eyes again, he couldn’t seem to look at Blair. He picked up the key that he’d set down on the table and clutched it tightly in his fist, then he pulled slowly away and turned his back.

“Blair, I uh-- I have work-- I’ve got to. . .”

“Okay,” Blair agreed, reaching up to wipe the slickness of tears off his face. “Yeah, Jim. I understand. I’m gonna go. I just wanted to give you that key. Any time, Jim-- I mean it -- you can use it any time. And I hope we still have a rain-check for dinner. . .”

Without turning around, Jim nodded and Blair nodded too. Relief, which Jim couldn’t see, flashed clearly across his face.

“Good,” he said, “well, I can call Leo. . .”

“Call Leo,” Jim agreed.

“Okay. I will.”

Blair took a step toward Jim, then stopped and raked a hand through his hair. “Jim, I--” his voice broke and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself and try again. “I, uh. . .I just miss you, okay?”

He watched Jim for a response but got nothing, with his back turned. At that moment he wished desperately that he could see Jim’s face.

“Okay,” he said again, finally, and with a tremendous effort, he turned and walked away, heading back down the dark hallway from which he'd come.

Out in front of the store, Leo was helping a customer but he stopped talking in mid-sentence and looked at Blair. He must have seen distress written on Blair’s face, because he grimaced with sympathy and left his customer to come talk to Blair.

“He should be wearing a face mask,” Blair snapped as soon as Leo was close.

“I know. I’ve tried but he refuses. That room does have ventilation--" Leo started.

“Well, then he shouldn’t be doing that kind of work!”

Unfazed by Blair’s anger, Leo nodded. “He says it helps to keep his hands busy and his mind still. It’s solitary work, Blair. It’s calming.”

Blair felt his anger crumbling under the influence of Leo’s knowing words. Before the man had seemed simply friendly and kind-hearted, but now Blair could see that he was as steady and as patient as a good father who’d raised a whole family of sons.

Blair passed a hand over his face and then leveled Leo with desperate gaze.

“Does he have a warm bed back there?”

“Yes,” Leo said, “I gave him three good quilts my wife Elzanne made.”

“And is he eating? He’s too thin--.”

“I got eyes don’t I, son? Yes, I feed that boy much as I can-- I like to even set him down at the table and watch’em til it’s gone. At first he could only take bland foods and not much at a time but now he’ll manage a regular meal, long as it’s simple.”

“Thank you,” Blair croaked, having to look away. His throat was painfully tight and there was a scalding ache behind his eyes. “Leo, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

Leo reached out and squeezed Blair’s shoulder.

“Blair, now, let me tell you something. I was a P.O.W. in Nam,” he said, holding Blair’s gaze meaningfully, “that was a long time ago but I still remember what it felt like to be somebody's prisoner-- and what it was like to come home again all torn up inside.”

“Leo, I can help him. I have to help him--”

“I know,” Leo cut in softly, “you want to wrap your arms around that boy and take him home and care for him 'cause you love him like he’s family, and he’s one damn fine man. I know. I lost my wife to cancer two years ago and, before that -- dear Lord-- my oldest boy died in a car wreck goin' on near ten years ago now. If, as a miracle he came back to me somehow, alive but hurt so deeply down inside like Jim is -- God knows what I wouldn’t do for my son to take his pain away. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see my own John’s refection when I look into Jim’s eyes-- uncanny how they got the same color eyes. . .”

Leo shook his head, flashing a sad smile tinged with old pain, then he caught Blair’s gaze again and went on.

“But I ain’t his father and he needs you more than I’ve ever seen anybody need anybody, Blair. You’re the sunrise and the sunset for that boy. He doesn’t dole out many words but when he does, most all of’em are reserved for talk of you-- and I know this’ll cut you deep to hear but-- it’s your name he calls out when the nightmares come and grab him by the throat.”

“God, Leo. . .”

“I know, son. I know. But listen to me. You got to go slow. You gotta let him come to you in his own time. You’ve been hangin on a good long while-- these past three years-- and now you just gotta hang on just a little bit longer. He’s come this far. He’s survived. His desire to come home to you has been some kind of powerful sustaining force-- the likes of which I’ve never seen-- so he’ll come if you let him. You just gotta let him, All right?”

Blair couldn’t speak but he nodded realizing the truth of Leo’s words as something that he already knew-- don’t push. Don’t rush him. Don’t scare him away. . .

“You can call me-- any time,” Leo continued, “and I’ll be dialing your number the instant anything happens you need to know about, okay?”

Blair nodded and opened his mouth to say: “Thank you,” again, but Leo just waved a hand and pulled Blair into a quick, rough hug.

“You go on now, son-- I got customers to tend to,” he said with a sternness that was completely negated by the kind light in his eyes.

* * *

Back out in his car again, Blair sat for a long time with the engine running and the heat blasting on high until he felt steady enough to drive again. It was a gray day and the sky hung down low like a sagging old awning. The sign above Leo’s store was painted a cheerful light blue that was outlined with a kind of cheap gold paint that chipped easily. What once must have shown with bright luster now looked, to Blair, only faded and worn.

* * *

It was two nights later when Blair was jolted, by a loud knock on the door, out of accidental sleep on the living room couch. Still dressed in jeans and the old Cascade PD sweat-shirt he’d pulled on after work, Blair sat up and promptly dropped the remote control that was still in his hand. The loud knock sounded again and he stumbled up to answer it. The image of Jim that wavered through the peep-hole, tiny and distorted as it was, shocked Blair the rest of the way awake and he fumbled with the locks in his haste to rip the door open.

“Jim,” he gasped taking in the sight of Jim who stood there dressed exactly as he had been at Leo’s shop, in sweat-stained clothes, except now he was soaking wet and breathing hard, dripping all over the doormat.

Without saying anything, Blair reached out carefully, urgently, and pulled Jim into the loft.

After shutting the door, he rushed off to get towels, and when he came back Jim was standing right where he’d left him shivering and still breathing raggedly, making a puddle on the hardwood floor.

“Jim? Jim, you’re freezing. You gotta get out of those clothes.”

Blair lifted the tail of Jim’s shirt to expose his slick, heaving stomach muscles, and pressed a towel there like he was trying to stop a wound from bleeding. Jim flinched violently under his touch and Blair cringed too.

“Did that hurt?”

“My skin,” Jim seethed through clenched teeth, “it’s been-- numb-- for so long-- but now. . .it hurts-- it burns.”

“Okay,” Blair said quickly, trying to ignore the suddenly fast thud of his heart in his chest, “Okay, Jim. Let me help you. Come with me.” He started to urge Jim toward the bathroom but halfway there Jim stopped, planted his feet like a frightened horse and refused go any farther.

“No,” he shuddered, staring at the bathroom as though it had turned into a cage. “It’s too small in there. I can't go in there.”

And then he cast about desperately, looking in every direction for an escape route. Blair could feel Jim’s sudden urge to bolt, see the terrified, cornered look in his eyes, and he did the only thing he could think of, he stepped away, giving Jim space, wanting him to know that nobody was trying to hold him against his will-- least of all Blair.

Jim’s eyes snagged Blair’s again and settled, blazing hard with surprise and uncertainty. Blair felt paralyzed under that stare but he managed to withstand it and stay calm. Finally, the wild glare in Jim’s eyes eased a bit and was replaced by a churning mix of pain and regret.

“I felt like I was on fire,” he confessed miserably, “so I came out in the rain.”

“That makes sense to me.” Blair nodded gently.

“I wanted to rip off all my clothes.”

Blair nodded again. “We can take them off,” he said, aching with an impossible depth of compassion for Jim, “if they hurt you.”

It was Jim’s turn to nod and Blair could see that he was still afraid, filled with the kind of fear that made a man run toward the object of his terror.

Moving with deliberate care, Blair stepped forward.

“Just tell me where the dial is,” he murmured, grazing Jim’s arm very lightly with his fingertips, testing.

“There is no dial for touch,” Jim croaked, flashing his gaze down to follow the movement of Blair’s hand, “not anymore.”

And Blair felt his stomach drop as he realized the implications of that statement-- what extremities of agony Jim must have endured in order to be forced to numb himself completely. . .

“Let me try something then,” he said, swallowing hard and finding Jim’s eyes, willing him to trust him.

After a hard pause, Jim nodded once, just barely, and as gently as he could, Blair slid his hand up under Jim’s shirt to press his palm against his stomach. Jim grunted, his muscles jumped like they’d been shocked, but then he let out a startled breath that was tinged with relief. Blair could tell that Jim had expected that to hurt much worse than it did.

“I want you to do something really simple for me,” he said, “Okay? I just want you to count.”

Another startled breath from Jim, and Blair might have smiled at the sound if it hadn't been for the tight waves of pain that were still rolling off Jim’s body.

“Yeah, I know that sounds like it won’t help, but just give it a try,” he said reassuringly, “I just want you to count up to eight and then start over again. Nice and slow, okay? With me.”

Blair started to count out loud and when he got to “four”, he shifted his hand over fractionally feeling Jim jump again, but not so hard as last time. “Five. . .six,” he continued, “good, Jim.”

When he got to “eight” he moved his hand again, setting up a rhythm that was clearly predictable. Starting back over at “one” again, Blair told Jim to imagine that his hand was drawing the pain out as it moved like a vacuum-- just pulling it right out.

And it was a simple exercise but it worked. Gradually, Jim’s breathing slowed and he settled into a kind of a trance that was nearly a zone but not quite. Eventually Blair was able to ease his shirt up over his head and use the towel to dry him off, affording him a full view of Jim’s scars-- which were worse than he thought they’d be; worse than he could have ever imagined-- and Blair had a pretty vivid imagination.

To think, he’d actually thought he knew just about every ugly thing one person could do to another if they were sick enough, or evil enough. He’d seen a lot in his time at the PD-- but this. . .this done to Jim. . .was completely beyond his scope.

He ran trembling fingers over the scattered evidence of unthinkable agony, laying hands on Jim’s tormented body-- and then he just had to pray that Jim had the wherewithal not to slip down fully into a zone because the next thing Blair knew he had stumbled over to the couch, braced himself against the back of it, and was doubled over trying not to throw up.

Nothing, not even the worst crime scene he’d ever seen, had made him feel like this.

Jim stood still as a statue, caught in his groggy trance. Eventually Blair was able to pull himself back together enough to pick up the towel again and finish drying him off. Speaking soothingly through the haze of his own hot tears, Blair stripped off his sweatshirt and put it over Jim’s head, threading his arms gently through the sleeves. Getting him into a pair of sweatpants, retrieved hastily from a drawer in Blair’s room, was harder, but he took his time and talked Jim through it. And Jim must have been content to stay where he was, away from the pain of full consciousness, because at no point during the whole process did he rouse enough to resist Blair; he stayed calm and pliant the whole time.

It wasn’t until Blair led him into his bedroom and started to urge him to lie down, that Jim finally mumbled a half-hearted protest.

“Just for tonight,” Blair murmured soothingly, “C'mon now, don’t worry. Just rest.”

And Jim gave in, leaning over when Blair guided his shoulder to the bed. Blair watched him curl in on himself, drawing his knees up protectively, and he wondered how many nights Jim had slept like this on some cold, unforgiving floor-- beaten and bleeding and terribly alone.

“Not anymore,” Blair said out loud, pulling the warm weight of all his bedcovers over Jim and tucking him in, “You're not alone anymore.”

He smoothed his hand over Jim’s damp hair and then palmed his forehead checking for a fever, and just-- touching-- because he didn’t know when he might get the chance to do that again.

“Blair,” Jim moaned, more asleep than awake, and Blair sat down beside him on the bed, bending over to speak into his ear.

“Shhh. I’m here,” he said softly, his voice low and warm, “It’s okay, Jim. You’re safe. Everything’s all right now, I promise. Go to sleep. Just rest.”

**

Natural Force

**

Blair was deeply asleep and in his dream he heard the sound of a train whistle blaring insistently for what felt like days. Finally, when he thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, the sound pushed its way out of his eyes and he found himself staring up at the living room ceiling which was only dimly distinguishable in the murky pre-dawn. He blinked, heard another whistle blast-- and it was only then that he realized the sound he was hearing wasn’t a train at all. It was Jim. Screaming.

He rolled off the couch, fighting the sheets, and stumbled to his feet. Catching himself on the door frame to his bedroom, he stood, chest heaving, straining to see into the darkness. Another wild scream ripped the air and Blair dove for the lamp that he kept by his bedside. Fumbling, picking up the lamp, light splashed over his hands and stabbed his eyes. He cast about for Jim and spotted him hunched in the far corner of the room. He was slapping and clawing at the wall, his mouth open as he sobbed and screamed like a man being ripped apart by grief.

“Jim!”

Blair didn’t think, he just moved. He grabbed Jim’s shoulders and pushed him flat against the wall so that they were facing each other.

Jim arched his back in panic, his eyes wide with terror. Looking at him, he seemed suddenly unable to draw in air.

“Jim! Jesus. Wake up!” Blair said, frantically skating his hands over Jim’s throat, his chest.

Finally Blair threw his arms around Jim and held on. Jim’s hands clutched at his shirt but he didn’t try to fight or push Blair away; he was too engaged in a desperate struggle for breath. His whole body was rigid and trembling, his head thrown back, neck straining.

“Breathe,” Blair chanted, urgently. Terrified. “Breathe, breathe, c’mon Jim, breathe.”

And finally Jim did with an awful, shrill gasp that tore all the way through his body like voltage. He did push Blair away then, with one rough shove as he continued to gasp and cough and gag. Blair landed hard but quickly got to his knees and raised placating hands, palms out so that Jim could see that he was unarmed-- not a threat.

“Easy, easy,” he said, trying to force his voice not to shake, “it’s me. It’s just me, Jim.”

Jim was leaning over with one hand clutched at his throat. His eyes blazed at Blair with blatant, hostile fear.

“Where am I?” he wheezed.

“The loft. In my bedroom. You were having a nightmare.”

Blair himself was gasping, his heart running on overdrive. He couldn’t look away from the jagged hatred in Jim’s eyes. Hatred that very slowly began to weaken and then finally fracture into so many other emotions Blair could hardly catalogue them. There was disbelief and confusion and underneath all that, splinters of concern.

Ducking his head, Jim tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt as though it was choking him. When he lifted his head again, there were hard-wrung tears in his eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked so hoarsely that he practically growled. Blair nodded and made his way, half crawling back over to Jim. Very carefully, he took hold of the hem of Jim’s sweatshirt and drew it up over his head, freeing him from it.

“Yes. I’m all right.”

He lightly touched Jim’s throat and then gently, with his hands on Jim’s shoulders, eased him back to lean against the wall again. “And so are you. Just keep breathing.”

Jim’s skin gleamed with sweat, each rough breath he drew sounded like it hurt. Blair put his hand on Jim’s broad chest and just held himself still, waiting. In the weak, yellow glow of lamplight, shadows groped over Jim’s face and chest like empty hands reaching out from the walls. Blair saw the scars again, Jim's clenched, quivering stomach muscles, and he knew that Jim had spent many nights backed up into a corner like this, trying to grasp his sanity back, in the dark, by himself.

“I’m here,” Blair said defying that lonely past, the details of which he still didn’t know-- wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Jim reached up and curled his hand around Blair’s wrist, holding on.

* * *

Blair made tea and eventually Jim came out of the bathroom, barefoot, in a clean tee-shirt and sweatpants. He walked into the kitchen, looked warily at the dining table for a long moment and then sat down gingerly in a chair. He moved as though he thought the furniture was going to come alive and attack him.

Blair set a cup of tea down in front of Jim and then took a seat across from him. Resting his forearms on the table, he turned his own steaming mug in his hands and looked down into the brown liquid as though it might reveal the answers he sought.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Blair said, finally, quietly. “But you can tell me as much-- or as little-- as you want. I won’t push. I can just-- listen. If you want to talk.”

“And if I don’t?” Jim whispered.

“Than you don’t,” Blair said softly, nodding.

Jim didn’t touch his tea. He ran his palms down the edge of the table ponderously.

“It was Leo’s idea that I restore old furniture,” he said, finally. His voice was as rough as it usually was, which Blair realized now must be caused by screaming. “He sees it as a metaphor.”

Jim looked up at Blair for an instant, then glanced away again. “You know, a metaphor for resurrection. Fix what’s broken. That kind of thing.”

Jim reached out and finally did take a tentative sip on his tea. Grimacing, he set the cup back down again.

“I think it’s ironic.”

“How so?” Blair asked when it seemed clear that Jim wasn’t going to keep talking.

“In Lima, they like to use tables and chairs during interrogation. Whatever is-- readily available.”

“What do you mean: use tables and chairs during interrogation?” Blair asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jim ignored the question, or seemed to.

“Ordinary things. Bathtubs, telephones, old-fashioned generators,” he said. “The really old kind, you know, that you crank.” He raised his hands and turned his fist over his palm, demonstrating a cranking motion. “They disconnect the receiver wires and tape the two ends to sensitive parts of your body. It’s crude. . .but it works.”

Blair sat for a long moment before the meaning of Jim’s words really registered and formed a picture in his mind. Then it was as if someone had slammed their fist into his stomach. He literally felt the impact.

“Jim. . .” He had to look away, then, down at his hands, over at the kitchen sink, anywhere but at Jim. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to the refrigerator. Opening it, he pulled out a couple of beers and brought them back to the table. When he popped the tops a strange, toxic, numb feeling prickled in his hands as though he had just been drugged. He didn’t taste the beer going down.

Jim stayed where he was. Quiet. Still. Finally Blair pulled himself together enough to look Jim in the eye again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I got a call from a man at the consulate in Lima-- his name was Diego, I guess you could say we were on a first name basis. I got to know him pretty well during the-- search-- for you. I, uh, familiarized myself with quite a few people over there.” Blair looked down at his beer and saw that he had begun to peel the label off, picking at it with his thumbnail.

Thinking back on those first few days after Jim disappeared, he remembered how he’d stormed into that small, dusty office building called the consulate and demanded immediate action. He had felt strangely high, then, articulate. Furious.

“So, he was the one who called to tell me that-- your-- body-- had been found in the rubble of one of those underground drug labs; the ’manufacturers’ had deliberately destroyed it based on intel that the lab was about to be raided. I was told that-- you-- you were--.”

Blair drew in a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the phone call as if it had just come yesterday, remembering how Diego’s voice had sounded so heavily accented that Blair'd thought he couldn’t possibly have been speaking English despite the few, vile words that did seep through. “What?” he kept hissing into the phone that already spat and cracked badly with static, “I don’t understand.”

“But they were able to make the ID from dental records. Diego told me that despite the condition of your body, you died before the fire-- you’d been shot in the head. “Death was instantaneous. He didn’t suffer much.” That’s what Diego told me. I-- I’ve been holding onto that for a long time.”

Blair was completely unable to keep the grate of despair out of his voice and when Jim raised his eyes to meet his, Blair saw undeniably what he had known since the first moment he laid eyes on Jim’s scars: that he had been living and breathing, believing a lie. He knew the truth now; he saw right down into the bleak, blue depths of it.

“But you did suffer.”

“I should go,” Jim said, tearing his gaze away to stare down at the table again. “I’ve said enough-- you didn’t sign on for this.”

“No. Wait.” Blair pushed standing up from his chair again and reaching out for Jim but he froze at the sharp, startled look Jim shot him. Jim rose cautiously to his feet, not looking away from Blair.

“Wait,” Blair said again softly, “Jim. . . I didn’t sign on for this? For God’s sake, neither did you. Tables and chairs? A crank? There’s still so much I don’t know-- that maybe I can’t know-- and there’s a hell of a lot I didn’t let myself see until now-- but, now, now, Jim?”

Blair tossed his gaze around the kitchen, looking from the refrigerator to the cabinet doors, and finally letting his eyes land on the dining table. He pressed his palms down flat on its surface suddenly filled with the urge to upend it with one violent heave. Instead he met Jim’s gaze again.

“I look around and I can see that you’re surrounded by all these “ordinary things” that must remind you everyday-- every minute of the pain you went though.”

Blair’s voice broke and he shook his head. He couldn’t stand the thought that whoever had hurt Jim was still managing to torture him-- he couldn’t help but wonder how Jim was able to repair the very furniture that he must, on some level, long to destroy. Blair felt so helpless against such a--nightmare, and he didn’t know what he could offer against it, what he could possibly give Jim that would be of any comfort.

Jim held Blair’s gaze for a moment but then he suddenly swayed and reached up to clutch his head with a gasp. Alarmed, Blair rushed around the table and caught his arm, guiding him back down into his chair.

“Whoa,” he said shakily, “easy. What is it, Jim? What’s wrong?”

Jim hunched forward, holding his head in both hands. His breath came out as a series of fast, pained hisses. Blair rubbed his back, running anxious hands over Jim’s warm, strong body, aching when he felt the tender texture of Jim’s scars through his shirt. He cupped one hand over Jim’s and pulled Jim's head over to rest against his chest.

“Easy,” he said again helplessly. “Can you find the dial?”

“No. No more dials,” Jim grunted breathlessly, even as he started to relax against Blair as his pain subsided. “no more fucking dials.”

“Okay,” Blair whispered, leaning over to speak against Jim’s hair. “No more dials. I hear you, Jim.”

After a while he straightened and started to back away but Jim caught a fistful of his shirt.

“Don’t go,” he coughed hoarsely, and Blair stilled instantly, palming Jim’s head again.

“No, hey, no. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jim’s fist slowly unclenched and he pressed his hand against the small of Blair’s back, turning his face into the soft fabric of his tee-shirt.

After another long minute, it was Jim who finally pulled away, lifting his face to look up at Blair. There were tracks of tears on his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” Jim rasped. “That day in Peru. In the marketplace. I made the biggest mistake of my life that day when I left you. I was such an idiot.”

“What happened?” Blair whispered, raising his hand to lightly finger the unfamiliar scar on Jim’s eyebrow. “One minute you were there and then, God. . . you just vanished. . .”

* * *

Jim opened his eyes and saw a white curtain swaying languidly, slow-dancing with the morning breeze. Bright, clean sunlight streamed into the hotel room and spilled over the foot of his bed. He’d slept late, by the strength of the daylight it looked to be nearly nine o’clock.

He breathed, and smiled. Then he turned to look at Blair who was asleep in the next bed. Blair slept like a little kid-- a ten year old boy, all sprawled out and boneless, one socked foot hanging over the edge of his bed. He’d worn himself out the day before, traipsing through the jungle, making rubbings of every inch of the temple walls, re-hashing the history of each etched symbol like the host of a Discovery Channel documentary. He was in Anthro-geek Heaven. He was in Guide Heaven.

And Jim felt like he’d wandered into a past life. Running his fingers over those cool, dusty walls. . .cool even though, outside, it was sweltering, hot as a sauna. . .

He kept thinking: “I know this place. I’ve seen all this before.” And he felt filled up with the most amazing-- still-- feeling. He felt like there was a pond inside him that had finally settled. Smooth as glass.

Last night, when they both had finally made it back to the hotel, exhausted and filthy, Blair looked at Jim, amused, and said: “You look like you’ve found Enlightenment.”

“Wasn’t that the point of this wacky vacation, anyway? You and me, we can’t just go to Disneyland, we have to commune with spirits.”

“Yeah, that’s us,” Blair said, fighting back laughter, “We’re wacky like that.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“When we get back, I’m telling everybody you said “wacky”.”

“I’ll show you wacky,” Jim said, smacking Blair lightly up side the head.

Sounds and smells from the street market below drifted in through the open window; the staccato, fast-paced chatter of Spanish, the screech of caged birds, the too-sweet scent of overripe fruit. . . We should go shopping today, Jim thought. Blair can buy something exotic-looking, and I can show off my haggling skills. I’m good at haggling. I can haggle with the best of’em.

* * *

“Man you got taken. You got had,” Blair chuckled, looking admiringly down at his new exotic-looking thing. “One look at you, the rich, blue-eyed, Americano, and that merchant's eyes just bugged out. I could practically hear him think “Cha-ching!”.”

“I did not get had,” Jim insisted grumpily, though he was thinking that maybe his haggle could use a little work after all. “I got you your thing didn’t I?”

“My thing? Jim, I’m almost positive that this is a genuine Aymará Healer’s mask!”

“Almost positive?”

Behind him, Jim heard an engine rev and horns honking. By mid-day the streets were clogged up like the worst New York City traffic jam. Every breath tasted like gasoline and he was ready for the relative tranquility of the jungle again.

“Hey, Chief, enough shopping already, let’s head back to the temple before we lose too much daylight.”

“Sure thing man, I just wanna check out those spear heads over there first,” Blair pointed to another section of the market on the other side of a narrow street ahead of them.

Jim groaned with impatience, but then he noticed a man watching him from the doorway of the white-washed building behind the spear head booth. Their eyes meet for a second before the man glanced away, dropping the butt of his cigarette and grinding it into the ground with his boot. He was wearing U.S. Army issue combat boots, Jim noticed.

“Chill, Jim, it’ll just take a minute,” Blair said, then,

“Jim?”

He touched Jim’s arm.

“What’s the matter?”

“What? Oh. Nothing. Go look at your spear heads. I’m just gonna hang here.”

“I’ll make it quick,” Blair said and then he was off, dodging his way across the street. Jim glanced around for mister Army-boots again and didn’t see him at first. Then he caught sight of him walking in a crowd. Tall and blonde, the man was as conspicuous as a sunflower. Instinctively, Jim moved to follow him.

* * *

After about half a block Jim knew that the man was aware of the fact that Jim was following him. He wanted Jim to follow him. Hell, he was being about as obvious as Lassie about it, which was strange-- enough to make Jim a little apprehensive-- but mostly curious.

He crossed the congested street, trotting in front of an old woman on a bicycle and an idling bus. He got to the other side of the street in time to see Blondie turn the corner into an alley. The man glanced back at Jim just before he disappeared.

What are you up to?, Jim thought warily, extending his senses out to catch the guy’s heartbeat and smell his sweat. The man was anxious but he was more excited than afraid. He stopped just a few steps inside the alley and stood there, breathing hard, waiting. Jim heard other heartbeats coming from the alley too-- there were three of them-- no four. A familiar voice inside his head, the voice of training and experience, said bluntly: “suspicion confirmed. This a trap,” and he stopped in his tracks.

Then, from inside the alley, Jim heard a radio hiss and crackle to life. A thin but commanding voice said: “Target’s not taking the bait. Initiate Plan B now!”

Just a few seconds later Jim heard the rev of an engine, the screech of tires, and then a big white van came charging out of the alley only to lodge in the street traffic like a giant door-stop.

The van’s side door slid open and two armed men wearing fatigues and black ski-masks jumped out, training their machine guns directly at Jim. He glanced first right then left, instinctively looking for an escape, but he already knew that he was surrounded by people-- civilians who could get shot if he tried to resist.

Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his hands in the air

“Easy boys,” he said, “Te acompano voluntariamente.”

* * *

”What happened?” Blair asked again softly, standing in the kitchen, meeting Jim’s gaze. Jim finally pulled away and rubbed his hands wearily over his face. He shook his head.

“I can’t. I can’t tell you,” he said, swallowing thickly. “It’s not safe. I’ve said too much already.”

“What do you mean, not safe?” Blair asked, feeling a sudden plummet of dread, but Jim just pushed his hands on the table and stood up. Blair hovered close by ready to catch him if he swayed again; this time Jim stayed steady on his feet.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Blair said beseechingly, his voice low, near Jim’s ear. “Please just stay until morning. You can sleep in my room, or there’s your old bed upstairs. Everything’s still there; it’s all just the same.”

Jim looked sidelong at Blair, giving him a slow once-over. Then his face softened and he reached up to gently cup Blair’s cheek.

“Oh, Blair,” he said, his voice full of deep, aching affection. He held Blair’s gaze with shimmering eyes. “Don’t you see?” He shook his head and sorrow flooded his face. “Nothing’s the same.”

Blair let out a pent-up sigh and, pained by Jim’s words, he closed his eyes.

“All right,” he whispered, curling his fingers around Jim’s wrist, “It’s not the same.”

Jim started to draw his hand away, but Blair caught it and squeezed his fingers tightly.

“But stay,” he insisted fervently, grinding the words out, wanting desperately to show Jim that it didn’t matter-- whatever had happened, whatever was going to happen, whether anything would ever be the same again-- all that mattered was that Jim stayed. Right here. Right now.

Jim looked at Blair for a long moment, reading his face, studying him. And then, at last, he sighed and ducked his head.

“All right,” he conceded, sounding utterly exhausted, “Okay, Chief. I’ll stay.”

And Blair almost sobbed out his relief, but instead he led Jim by the shortest route back to his bedroom. There was some fuss over changing the sheets and straightening them but it wasn’t long before Blair was urging Jim to lie down again, much as he had done earlier in the evening.

“I won’t be far. I’ll just be on the couch,” Blair said after pulling up the bedcovers and laying a hand warmly on Jim’s shoulder. Jim’s eyes were already closed but he wasn’t asleep; Blair knew because when he reached the doorway of his darkened bedroom a soft voice spoke in hardly more than a whisper.

“Thank you,” he heard Jim say.

**

Entropy

**

Blair woke, opened his eyes to the fragile light of early morning, and thought instantly of Jim lying on his futon like a man shipwrecked; washed up on a beach, exhausted and battered, but finally on solid ground again. Home. Blair stared up at the ceiling with wonder remembering how he used to pretend that Jim was alive, not really gone forever, just lost, delayed. Blair used to imagine himself opening the front door-- all in a rush to get out of the loft because he was late for work-- only to find Jim standing there with his hand raised to knock.

“Hi, Chief,” he’d say sounding oh so smooth, oh so impressively casual, given away only by the telltale shine of moisture in his eyes.

Blair’d had a thing about doors-- for a long time because of that-- this awful, powerless sense of anticipation followed by the gut-twisting sucker-punch of disappointment. He’s not here. He’s not waiting behind every door. You have to accept this. You have to move on.

Except that now Blair knew that the impossible was true-- all his wild, rebel hopes had come true. They were wonderfully real, and alive, and asleep in the next room.

With a sigh, he rubbed his hands over his face and pried himself up off the couch. When he came to the doorway to his room, he stopped and stared for a long time at his empty, neatly made bed feeling a constriction in his lungs.

Some small, pessimistic part of him was not surprised to find Jim gone, but most of him felt rung like a bell, stunned and weakening. This felt like yet another empty doorstep, and irrationally, it wasn’t enough to know that Jim was alive-- this knowledge was miraculous, it was earth shattering-- but it wasn’t enough.

Angry thoughts crowded up in his mind and jostled for position. He was angry at Jim in an exhausted, helpless sort of way that made him want to lie back down. He was fiercely angry with himself for not hearing Jim get up and slip out. He sensed a new kind of guilt that came from being a heavy sleeper-- to be able to sink to the sweet depths of REM while Jim lay wracked by nerve-endings and nightmares.

In the kitchen he cleared away the teacups and beer bottles from last night, made a pot of coffee and sat at the table, in a sash of morning light, sipping and thinking. After a while he roused himself enough to check his watch and call a couple of his teaching assistants, arranging for them to cover his morning classes. His TAs were under-worked. He hadn’t taken a personal day in over a year.

Then he called Leo. Standing at the bright balcony windows, he leaned against the glass and spoke with quiet urgency.

“Is he there?”

“Yeah,” Leo drawled, clicking his tongue, “he was up with the chickens. I woke up and he was already work’n. I popped my head in but I couldn’t get more’n two words outovem. Tense. Wouldn’t even stop for a cup of coffee and some toast. Did something happen last night?”

“He came to my place.”

“The loft?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that certainly qualifies as something.”

“Leo, I’d like to see him.”

Leo drew out a breath and didn’t say anything for a long beat. In that moment Blair had to fight down the urge to start pleading, grinding out harsh, desperate words. Hadn’t three years been long enough; stumbling blind in a blaze of grief that never seemed to ease?

“It’s not my place to tell you no,” Leo finally said, “but I will tell you one thing. This is the place Jim comes to put his pieces back together, so to speak. I know that you want the loft to be that place-- but it’s not. Least not yet. If you start coming up on him here, in his workshop, he’s gonna feel like he doesn’t have any place to retreat to, if you get my drift. You might just be stripping him of what little stability he’s managed to scrounge up for himself.”

Blair clamped his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to the glass, feeling the chill of winter seep into his skin.

“I don’t want to do that,” he whispered.

“Well, I know that son, and I’m sorry. I’m just call’n it like I see it.”

“Thank you. You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just--.”

“It’s damn hard is what it is.”

Blair reached up and pounded his fist lightly on the window, hearing it thump. Then he spread his hand wide.

“Yeah,” he said at last.

“Listen,” Leo sighed. “Let me run it by Jim, real easy-like, and see what he says. Then I’ll call you back.”

Blair was silent, nodding against the glass, but unable to get his vocal chords to work.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to make sure he knows it’s just you caring about him, not putting pressure on.”

“Yeah, okay,” Blair finally managed to rasp before saying goodbye and hanging up the phone. He reached up and pinched wetness from the corners of his eyes. Staying by the window, he looked out at the railing of the balcony seeing particles of sand sparkle, imbedded in the concrete, suddenly bejeweled in the sunlight.

Then he closed his eyes again, and instead of darkness, he saw a blanket of red.

* * *

The call came when he was making scrambled eggs. He flinched so hard at the shrill ring that he burned his knuckle on the frying pan. Leo sounded relieved, like he was smiling.

“Well, he’s not much for conversation, that boy. He stopped sanding long enough to nod at me. I’d say give him about half an hour to get used to the idea and back out if he wants. Then head over.”

Blair thanked Leo again and rushed off to get dressed. By the time he got his rheumatic car warmed up enough to move, it was time to leave. During the drive over, he sucked his knuckle and forced himself to wait all the way through red lights. Morning traffic was heavy and it mirrored his thoughts, which were backed up in a line, each one waiting impatiently for their turn. He tried to run through a conversation with Jim in his head, but kept getting stuck after the: “Hi. How are you?” part.

When he finally walked into the store Leo waved at him and pointed to two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag that were sitting next to the cash register.

“There’s toasted bagels in there,” he said. “Breakfast.”

And Blair nodded, knowing that it was now his job to try to get Jim to eat something. A familiar sense of responsibility and protectiveness fell over him so strongly that it blotted out everything else. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Leo gave him a fond pat on the back before disappearing to another part of the store. Blair picked up the coffee and the bagels and went to meet Jim.

* * *

The rasping of the sanding block stopped as soon as Blair came into the room, but Jim didn’t look up. Instead he sat on his heels, with his head bowed, leaning over what looked like a hope chest or trunk. He was breathing fast but evenly. Sweat rolled down from his temple to his jaw and he reached up to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

“You’re angry,” he said in a quiet, take-it-or-leave-it tone.

“No,” Blair said automatically with an ardency that revealed how much he wanted that to be true.

But Jim raised his head and looked at Blair dead-on, and the conviction in his eyes was arresting.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Okay,” Blair said, cringing inwardly, “yeah, all right.”

He walked over to a workbench and set the breakfast stuff down. Jim didn’t watch him, but Blair could feel him tracking his movements with his body, almost like an animal sensing a predator-- or prey.

Blair came back into Jim’s line of sight, but kept his distance, finding a spot on the wall to lean against.

“I’m angry,” Blair said quietly, “I’m-- lots of things. Mostly, I’m scared.”

Jim dropped his head forward again and snorted out a dry laugh.

You’re scared,” he said, as though this was bitterly ironic, and also as though Blair’s fear was something the cat batted around for a few minutes of fun.

Blair felt his heart lose its rhythm when he realized just how raw Jim sounded underneath his mordant tone. He was terrified. My fear is the cat’s toy compared to this, he thought dizzily-- dear God.

“Jim--.”

“No!” Jim yelled suddenly, and with startling viciousness, he picked up his sanding block and slammed it down hard onto the wooden trunk before throwing it aside. It clattered and skidded across the floor, and Jim was left on his knees, his hands clutching his thighs, straining. “Damnit!”

“Jim.” Blair took a couple of instinctive steps forward, which was enough to bring him within arms length of Jim, and he watched in horror as Jim felt his approach and literally cringed away, raising his hands in reflexive defense like a boy in the shadow of his huge, violent, ham-fisted father. Seeing this, Blair sank woozily to his knees.

“Whoa, shhhh,” he murmured without thinking, just responding. “It’s me. It’s just me.”

Jim, his head turned away, shuddered at the sound of Blair’s voice, letting go of first one breath, then another. Very slowly, he lowered his hands. Blair waited for Jim’s breathing to calm down, and then with infinite care, he reached out and touched Jim’s thigh.

When Jim flinched, the act set off an impulse inside Blair and before he knew what he was doing, he’d caught Jim’s panicked attempt to retreat and wrestled him into his arms.

“No, no, no,” he chanted urgently, fighting to hold Jim still, “No. I won’t hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jim struggled fiercely for a few seconds and then abruptly with, a coughed sob, he gave up and clutched Blair instead, breathing like he’d just gone ten rounds.

“Don’t ever think that. Jim, please. It’s me. I would never hurt you,” Blair said, breathless from exertion, but meaning the words more than he’d ever meant anything in his life. He held on tight and stroked Jim’s hair, “You’re safe with me. I swear. Do you hear me?”

And maybe it was naive of him to promise security, (holding Jim’s cringing body in his arms Blair was beyond trusting that life would be kind), but he’d be damned if he was going to deny Jim his sincerity now.

Jim didn’t make a sound other than the painful heaving of his breath, and his fingernails dug into the back of Blair’s shirt. But as Blair stroked and rocked him a little, Jim’s breathing gradually slowed down again.

“I’m sorry I rushed you like that,” Blair said, “That was stupid. I wasn’t thinking.”

Jim’s forehead came to rest on Blair’s shoulder and with a palpable force of will, he unclenched his fists and laid his palms flat on Blair’s back. On his knees surrounded by furniture and tools and dusty light, Blair held the back of Jim’s neck and murmured to him, streaming words into his ear. It was a long time before either of them moved. Finally, Blair pulled back and held himself still, waiting, watching as Jim ducked his head and continued to catch his breath. He felt strangely as though he was balancing pot of boiling water, knowing that if he spilled, somebody was going get hurt.

After a while the feeling passed, when something told him it was okay to very carefully set the pot down.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked at last, gently, tilting his head to try to catch Jim’s gaze. He noticed, as Jim reached up to wipe his face, that there a tremor in his hand, and he wondered warily about mixing the caffeine that was in the coffee, with the adrenaline that was already coursing through Jim’s system. But he stood up anyway, slowly, and went over to the workbench. Jim took his time following but eventually he pulled himself together enough to get up and come over.

Blair handed him a cup and they stood next to each other quietly drinking. Jim held his cup in both hands. After a while, Blair opened the paper bag and passed over a bagel.

“Can you eat this?” he asked as casually as he could manage. Jim rubbed his thumbnail across his forehead and avoided Blair’s gaze. After what looked like a moment of deep calculation, he held his hand out for the bagel, nodding. Blair wondered what thoughts had just run through his head, suspecting that Jim had been weighing levels of discomfort with the kind of bleak efficiency that came from too much practice.

They didn’t talk while Jim ate-- as though eating was a delicate operation that required lots of concentration and was too important to be disturbed.

When breakfast was consumed, Blair set his cup down, took Jim’s cup and set it down too, then he walked over and wordlessly picked up the sanding block that Jim had thrown. He hefted it in his hand, realizing that he’d only ever held a tool like this a few times in his life. Once when he was a child, at a barn raising and then again, later, during that tumultuous summer he’d spent in a monastery working with his hands and panning for direction in life. He remembered what it felt like to breathe in the rhythm of carpentry, how his blood seemed to tingle, how the clenched muscle of his mind reluctantly consented to relax. There was a rare peace in that.

Blair walked over to the hope chest, squatted down, considered it for a moment and then started to sand. The rasping sound was loud in the settled air, confident. Eventually Jim came over, set up a pair of saw-horses, and together they lifted the chest up to a more comfortable height--something that Jim would have had trouble doing on his own.

Together, they worked, without talking, more or less absorbed in their task, occasionally making calm, companionable eye contact. When Blair got sweaty and his hair started sticking to his face, Jim fished around on a cluttered counter top and handed over a thick rubber band. Blair nodded his thanks and they went on.

It was just past noon when Leo stuck his head in saying:

“Boys? Lunch is ready.”

Jim looked up at one of the shop’s high windows and checked the time of day by gauging the angle of the sun. Then he looked at Blair and the barest smile crinkled at his eyes.

“You can have the first shower,” he said, his voice rusty from long silence.

“Shower?” Blair glanced down at himself. Dust had mixed with sweat to create grime.

“Oh, okay. Are you sure? That’s very big of you.”

Jim just nodded, and his smile touched his lips.

“All right, just show me where it is.”

Jim led Blair around the corner and down another narrow hallway to the bathroom.

“Is that your room?” Blair asked, pausing before the threshold to the bathroom to look down the length of the hall.

Jim just nodded and pointed out where the towels were stashed.

* * *

Blair showered fast, scrubbing salt out of his hair and feeling his muscles hum. He redressed in his dirty jeans and the relatively clean flannel shirt he’d shed not long after starting to sand. His soiled tee-shirt, he dumped in the bathroom hamper, impulsively compelled to leave something of himself behind in Jim’s space-- as a reminder of his presence, and of this time they’d spent together.

Leo’s living quarters behind the store seemed a little bit like a maze made by an industrious small animal who dwelled underground, but each room that broke off from the dark narrow hallway was open and airy. Hearing the soft rumble of voices, Blair found his way to the kitchen. Jim looked at him as soon as he walked in and Blair felt himself become the object of a quick but focused inspection as though Jim had suddenly sensed that there was something different, or “off” about him. Jim’s gaze snared on Blair’s right hand and his body changed, shifted precariously the way a bridge might if it suddenly lost its structural integrity. He crossed the room in three steps and grabbed Blair’s hand.

“It’s just a burn,” Blair said quickly responding to the sharp ricochet of Jim’s concern, “It’s nothing.”

But Jim shot him a look of fierce uncertainty that made Blair lower his voice and speak even more gently, “does it look bad to you?”

Blair gazed at Jim’s face, wondering what had made him see the burn now. In truth, it was Jim who seemed “off”, unable to hold distance between focus and distraction as if each moment was a risk.

Finally Jim swallowed and shook his head. His jaw clenched.

“No,” he croaked.

Blair reached up and gripped Jim’s arm, trying to infuse him with steadiness and understanding-- even though he didn’t understand this shifting ground Jim walked on now, ground that seemed booby-trapped with pit-falls and loose gravel.

“I’m okay,” he said and the tension in Jim eased somewhat. He slowly let go of Blair’s hand, relinquishing that touch in order to lay his palm briefly on Blair’s cheek.

Jim nodded, tentatively agreeing, and then, without a word, pushed past Blair to head for the shower.

Blair watched him go and then turned to Leo, who had paused in the act of spreading mayonnaise on a sandwich long enough to set his knife down.

Leo nodded and pursed his lips, looking grim.

“A couple-three weeks ago, I cut my thumb chopping up carrots right here in this kitchen. Jim just about came undone at the sight of the blood. He turned white as paper and went reeling out of here. Then later he acted like he’d left me alone to bleed to death. It took days of talking to him and repeating myself to get the guilt out of his eyes. I guess when you’ve seen the worst sometimes that’s all you can see. There’s no such thing as just a little bit of blood.”

“Has he told you--?”

“About what happened? No. Not with words. But his eyes are eloquent enough, don't you think? They’ve told me plenty.”

Blair took in the sound of Leo’s grieved voice and his use of the word “eloquent”, and he imagined that, even though most people wouldn’t guess it, this was a man who read poetry over his son’s grave.

* * *

It wasn’t long before Jim came back and sat down at the dining table. All three men ate, mostly in silence, sharing only a few soft words. Jim asked Blair if he wanted some tea and then got up from his chair to pour him some. As Blair watched, he was struck once again by how amazing it was just to be in the same room with Jim, much less be waited on by him as though this was just an ordinary meal on just any old Monday afternoon. Three years of missing this man (with the deep internal ache of a puncture wound) made seeing him now, and knowing how much he had suffered, nearly too much to hold contained inside his body, trapped behind his breast bone. Blair felt flooded with awed sorrow.

Lunch passed too quickly with Blair knowing that he should leave when it was over-- to give Jim back his space. Blair understood that even though they had managed to work side by side in a tenuously comfortable way, the time they spent together wasn’t easy time for either of them-- and it was especially hard for Jim. Blair was more aware than ever that getting to know Jim again needed to follow the form of archeology, a slow, careful dusting away of dirt to reveal the precious, fragile things that lay buried underneath.

When it was time to go, Blair stood with Jim outside the store on the sidewalk, for a few minutes, saying goodbye. Jim fidgeted with his work gloves, slapping them lightly against his palm and rubbing them between his fingers. The air outside was cold but bright, the sky a rare clear blue. Jim looked up and closed his eyes against the sun for a moment, breathing in. It was a beautiful day.

“So, I played hooky today,” Blair said and Jim looked at him.

“You’re still teaching?”

He asked the question in a way that revealed he already knew the answer. Blair remembered the newspaper clippings he’d found in Jim's duffel bag.

“Yeah, they’ve given me a tough schedule this year. Special topics. Ethnography. They even want me to teach psych-anthro next semester.”

Jim nodded, but glanced over Blair’s head, up at the rooftops across the street, as though checking for snipers. Blair felt a change in Jim that reminded him of when they used to work cases together in the field. He felt Jim raise his radar deliberately to sense danger-- and he knew, with sudden clarity, that Jim didn’t feel safe out here like this, in the open, standing still in broad daylight.

“Hey,” he said, touching Jim lightly on the arm, compelling his attention. “So, I’m gonna go.”

Jim eyes landed on his, and he nodded again, looking relieved and grateful and reluctant, all at the same time. Blair wanted badly to pull him into a hug. But he hesitated.

“Thank you-- for today, and for--.” His words got cut off when Jim stepped forward and yanked him to his chest. Blair caught the back of his shirt and held on tight, squeezing his eyes shut. Jim’s fingers twisted into the hair at the nape of Blair’s neck.

“Come back,” Blair heard himself whisper desperately, meaning: “Come back to the loft”, “Come back into my life.”

But Jim just smoothed a roughened hand once over Blair’s hair and then pulled away, turning to stumble his way back into Leo’s store. The bell jangled, and in a matter of seconds, Blair was left alone on the sidewalk.

He craned his head to look up at the sky, letting himself get flash-blinded by the sun. An indistinct sound, like a moan, escaped his throat and he wiped tears off his chin. The world swam, a blur of golden blue.

Covering his mouth, Blair could smell the faint scent of sawdust on his hand.

**

Convergence

**

“Exam review Tuesday. Come prepared to ask questions!” Blair called out over the stampeding racket his students made as they streamed out of the lecture hall. He started gathering up his papers and packing his satchel but glanced up to see how big the group of stragglers was becoming-- bigger than usual on account of the upcoming test, but that was to be expected. Scanning their faces he challenged himself to remember all their names, and was succeeding fairly well until he spotted a dark-haired woman, offset from the group who he couldn’t remember ever seeing before. She was staring intently at him.

“Uh, can I help you?” he asked, raising his chin at her. She was young and dressed like a student, wearing jeans, a white tee-shirt and dangly silver earrings, but in her eyes there was a rock-solid, seasoned look that almost completely defied any impression of youth.

She nodded and stepped up close to him, close enough that she could speak in a whisper. Blair ducked his head down to hear her better.

“You are Dr. Blair Sandburg, friend of James Ellison, yes?” Her voice carried the pronounced hills and valleys of a Spanish accent. Blair, with his head bowed, froze, and then glared at her.

“Who wants to know?”

“Ah. Your vehemence gives you away. I hope you are not always so careless. The safety of your friend and others may depend on your discretion. I am only trusting you now because he does. Here,” She pulled an envelope out from between the pages of a spiral notebook and very quickly slipped it into Blair’s satchel. “Give that to Jim. Quickly. And do not open it.”

Before Blair had time to react, she turned and walked away, slipping out with the last of the students who were leaving the room.

“Wait!” he called, but she was already gone. He pulled the envelope from his bag and stared at it. Both the front and back were blank, it was as thick as a slice of bread. A line of students was forming in front of him, waiting to ask questions, their faces expectant, edging towards impatient, but looking up at them, Blair just shook his head and shouldered his satchel.

“Uh, sorry guys, something’s come up,” he said, backing away as he spoke, “You’ll have to come see me during office hours tomorrow. Or e-mail me.” And with that he ducked out the door.

It was snowing outside, had been snowing off and on for three days, and the lawn in front of Hargrove was garishly white. Blair felt oddly disoriented as he trudged across campus to his car-- like he was crossing the barren landscape of some alien planet. The scattered trees he saw had lost their leaves and stood like starved arms with bony hands reaching out to the sky.

His car smelled musty and it wouldn’t start; it just wheezed and strained. Blair nearly flooded the engine before he quit cursing and hitting the steering wheel, and slumped back into his seat. A thick blanket of snow covered the windshield-- its underbelly looked bluish and crusty like old velcro. Dire words echoed in Blair’s mind: The safety of your friend and others. . . I am only trusting you now because he does. . . .

With another curse, he got out of the car and scraped the snow off his front windshield, walking around to take a few swipes at the rear and passenger-side windows before he got back into the car and turned the key again. With a hacking cough, the engine started.

Blair dialed Leo on his cell phone as he turned off campus into heavy, midday traffic.

“Something’s happened,” he said, hearing the blunt worry in his own voice, “I have to see Jim.”

“All right, now, calm down son, what’s this all about?”

“Look, I don’t know, and I’m not even sure if it’s safe to say anything to you.”

Blair checked his rearview mirror, suddenly wondering if someone might be following him. He made a random left turn.

“Something’s happened that’s scaring the shit out of me. It involves Jim and I need to see him.”

Blair turned back to the right and checked his mirror again. It looked as though every car was following him and he dug back through his memory, trying to dredge up anything Jim had taught him years ago about spotting a tail.

“Damn it. All right, I’ll tell him you’re on your way. But you need to calm down. One of you has to be holding it together and let’s take two guesses who’s got a better chance of doing that. So get a grip, Blair. You hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I hear you.”

Blair hung up the phone, dropped it and forced himself to take a deep breath, clutching the steering wheel in both hands.

“Get a grip,” he chanted to himself. “Come on, get a fucking grip.”

By the time he made it to Leo’s he had achieved a grim calm that made him feel stiff-- but at least he was breathing evenly.

Jim had come out to the front of the store to meet him. He looked pale and also as though he had just showered. He was wearing clean clothes, and something about that made Blair’s gut clench. Jim looked like he was just one good spook away from bolting.

“Hey,” Blair said, hearing his voice soften automatically. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this, but I got a little-- startled.”

Jim’s eyes traveled over Blair and stopped at the satchel he had slung over his shoulder. Blair touched the bag and slowly pulled it across his front, indicating the pocket in which the envelope was stashed. He reached in and very carefully pulled it out.

“A woman came up to me after my class,” Blair said, glancing uncertainly at Leo. Jim’s eyes followed his, flashing from the envelope to Leo, and he nodded barely perceptibly, giving Blair permission to talk in front of him. “She asked me if I was Dr. Blair Sandburg, friend of James Ellison. She gave me this envelope.”

Blair held it out. Jim hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and took it.

“She said your safety was at stake so I came right over. I don’t think I was followed but-- Jim, I have no idea who that woman was--.”

“I do,” Jim said gruffly, ripping the envelope open and pulling out several pieces of paper. His fingers shook and something fell to the floor. Looking down, Blair saw a photograph of a young dark-haired woman, holding a child who couldn’t have been more than two or three years old.

Jim’s eyes fell on the picture and he froze, his lungs seemed to lock.

Alarmed, Blair took a step forward, but Jim suddenly pinned him with eyes that were filled with wild grief.

“No. You stay the fuck away from me.” His face twisted with anguish, and he shook his head. Blair watched as Jim bent, picked up the picture and then fled, turning away to head down the hallway to his room.

Blair gasped and looked around desperately for a place to sit down. He just barely made it to a nearby patio lounger, before he doubled over and dug his hands into his hair.

“Easy, son.” Leo appeared beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Stay the fuck away from me?” Blair wheezed, hearing a strange roaring in his ears that might have been his heartbeat.

“He’s scared, Blair. He’s nine different kinds of scared right now.”

Blair nodded numbly, fighting to get his breath back.

“This isn’t about you.”

“Oh? What is this about, Leo? Can you tell me?”

“C’mon Blair, you know Jim better than anyone, or have you forgotten? What does it mean when he pushes you away?”

Blair looked up at Leo beseechingly, then back down at the satchel that he held in his lap, after a few moments of pulling in deep breaths, he rubbed his face and nodded.

* * *

Blair sat on the floor outside Jim’s door, leaning back against the hallway wall. With his eyes closed, he listened for any sound of movement from within, knowing that Jim could hear him-- his breathing, his nearness. But, for Blair, there was no sound. Silence seemed to loiter, growing sleepier and more disinterested as time went on.

Blair just sat and waited, coasting on a gut-feeling that told him to just be still, be available, be patient.

Finally, after maybe an hour had passed, Blair felt a change in the air and suddenly got the very strong, clear impression that Jim had come over and crouched down to sit on the floor next to him. Blair leaned over and pressed his forehead to the door.

“Jim?”

No answer came, but that was all right. When Blair placed his palm flat on the door, he imagined Jim reaching up to do the same thing.

Closing his eyes, Blair said: “Do you want me to leave?”

After a long pause, he heard two quiet, roughly spoken words.

“No,” Jim said, “Stay.”

* * *

So Blair hung around, visiting Jim’s door often, but also managing to orbit Leo as he worked in the store, helping out a little in a quiet, distracted way. It wasn’t until after dark, when Leo had closed up shop and left to go play poker with some buddies, his Thursday night ritual, that Jim finally emerged. Blair was sitting in Leo’s cluttered living room, perched on the couch, flipping through one of the many yellow-framed National Geographics that were stacked in piles around the room; there was an impressively tall tower over by the bookshelf and two hefty stacks underneath the coffee table.

He looked up, startled, when Jim came into the room dressed just as he had been but looking, somehow, as though he’d spent a week in those clothes. He looked wrung out, a stormy, humid air of sorrow hovered around him, the skin under his eyes was red and puffy.

“Hey,” Blair said, closing the magazine and standing up slowly, rubbing his hands on the thighs of his jeans.

Jim blinked at him and then walked over to sit in an armchair opposite the couch. Seeing this, Blair sat back down too, noticing for the first time that Jim was still holding the papers he’d taken out of the envelope. Jim looked down at the papers and unfolded them carefully. His eyes scanned over the words. After a while he folded them closed again and deliberately met Blair’s gaze.

“I’m sorry about earlier. What I said. I was-- .” Jim shook his head and looked away. “I don’t know what I was.”

“I understand, Jim. I mean, I--.” Blair’s voice trailed off when it became obvious that he didn’t understand much of anything. Jim reached up and rubbed his forehead with the flat of his hand. He closed his eyes.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you. But now that this-- now that you’ve been. . .approached. There are some things that you should know.”

“Okay,” Blair said, quietly, nodding. His hands tightened on his knees and he realized that he had leaned forward, straining to hear every word Jim said. “You can tell me anything. Whatever you want.”

Jim opened his eyes and studied Blair before a terrible, wincing smile twisted his face.

“I don’t want to tell you any of this,” he said, shaking his head and laughing bitterly; one fist unconsciously tightened around the papers in his hand, crushing them. “I don’t want you within a thousand miles of this-- sick-- .” Jim broke off and looked down at his fist before swallowing hard as though nauseated. “I should never have come back here. I should never have exposed you to what could happen if--.”

He surged up out of his chair and walked toward the fireplace, turning his back on Blair. He reached up and gripped the mantle-piece as though he was contemplating ripping it off the wall.

“But I was weak.” He spat the word like it was vile, poisonous. “You were. . .are. . .For so long I held onto the hope that I could--.”

“Come home?” Blair whispered.

Jim’s head sagged forward and he gusted out a sigh that meant: yes. Yes.

Blair stood up, and, running a hand over his mouth, he walked slowly over to stand behind Jim. He nodded, unseen, and then reached out to very gently touch the place between Jim’s shoulder blades. Jim’s breath caught.

“Hey,” Blair rasped softly, speaking through the harsh burning in his throat, “talk to me.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Jim said.

“How about at the beginning?”

* * *

Voices spoke in hurried Spanish, fading in and out like a car radio driving through the mountains. He was being driven down a bumpy road-- possibly through the mountains, though it was impossible to be sure. It was impossible to see anything at all, even for him.

The sack over his head was thick, and hot, and itchy like burlap. It was probably loosely woven with pricks of light shining through, but he couldn’t tell that either because underneath the sack, he was also blindfolded, which made him wonder, with sick dread, if they suspected, or already knew, about his senses.

He could feel the drug in his system yanking at the ankles of his thoughts making them slip and stumble. He couldn’t seem to hold onto any important information. He could feel the coarse rope that bound his wrists behind his back-- tight, grinding the bones together like stone against stone.

He could feel the hard metal floor of the van under his shoulder and hip, punishing him with a jolt at every pothole. The Spanish was beyond him. He kept hearing the word Secuestrado and he knew what that meant-- or he would have known, if he could only just think.

He was intensely, frighteningly thirsty. His tongue felt like rough hide leather, and he could feel the sweat seeping out of him like it was his life, soaking through his clothes, trickling down the sides of his face, dripping off his nose.

He saw Blair’s face in his mind, from this morning-- had it only been this morning; only a few hours ago? Asleep in the bed next to him at the hotel, drenched in sunlight. So peaceful. Where was he now? Looking? Searching? Blair would search for him. Like . . .Like. . .What was he? The Holy Grail?

Fading in and out.

Everything became clearer when water splashed over his face, roaring down from a bucket. A whole bucket of water wasted with him only managing to swallow half a startled mouthful. He blinked frantically and light screamed at him every time he opened his eyes. The blindfold and sack were both gone.

So Jim blinked and sputtered and finally squinted up at the sun which was shooting jagged shards of brightness around the shape of a man standing in a doorway.

Jim’s head throbbed with the shocking, tender pain of a skull fracture, and he very gingerly reached up to cradle his forehead. It was only belatedly that he realized his hands were free and he looked down at his palm. His wrist was crusty with dried blood from where the rope had flayed his skin.

I’m guessing you’ve had better days,” the man in the doorway said wryly, in English, with a distinct Carolina drawl. Then he stepped forward. Jim grimaced as he forced himself look up.

“Who are you?”

“Ah, right on cue,” the man said, and Jim could just see the crease of a smile form in the shadows. It must have been the middle of the day, judging by the sun outside but inside--

Jim glanced around, moving his head as little as possible. He saw that he was in some kind of rudimentary building with mud-caked walls and a dirt floor, hardly larger than a standard prison cell.

-- inside, it was as dank as a root cellar, and dark.

“It’s always so damn predictable, isn’t it? Always the same damn questions: Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Who are you and what do you want with me?” Jim growled and teeth gleamed, ghostly in the dimness as the man smiled. In the next moment, Jim felt the man move, rushing forward and then, a splitting pain cracked open in his head like a fault-line. He sucked in a shrill gasp, tasting blood. Swimming-dizzy, sick and choking on cloying agony, black spots flashed across his vision, and then a boot slammed into his stomach, and--

* * *

Jim shook his head as though he’d been punched, and Blair let his hand move down Jim’s back, trying to soothe him.

“I can’t start at the beginning,” Jim croaked, swiping his hand over his face, “No. Not there.”

“Okay,” Blair whispered. “Okay, Jim. Whatever you want.”

“Blair, I--.” Gripping the mantle-piece, with his head bowed, Jim rocked forward and then back again as though he was testing the strength of the wood-- or his own arms. He looked like a man trapped behind bars.

“Hey,” Blair said again, stepping in even closer. “Hey. It’s okay. Don’t-- .”

“They took me to Ayacucho. They--. It doesn’t take long to lose it all-- all of it-- everything. You think that you’re strong but the pain rips all that away--and the drugs. So fast. One day you’re a man and then you’re naked and screaming and--.”

Jim.”

Blair grabbed Jim’s arms and pulled him away from the mantle, drawing him back a few stumbling steps to the couch. Jim didn’t resist. His knees gave out and he sat down heavily when Blair nudged him back far enough, his breathing was fast and shallow. Blair shoved the coffee table out of the way and crouched in front of Jim.

“Hey. Easy.” He looked into Jim’s wide, shocked eyes, and felt the pulse-point at his neck. Jim’s heart fluttered as though it was out of synch with itself. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Easy.” Blair swiped his hand gently over Jim’s brow and cheek. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s all right. Okay? Just breathe.” Blair’s voice shook badly.

Jim nodded jerkily, scared, and Blair stood up, pulling Jim to him. “Breathe. You don‘t have to talk anymore. You’re safe now.” Blair leaned over to hold and rub Jim’s back. “You’re safe.”

“There’s no such thing as safe,” Jim rasped breathlessly, tense in Blair’s arms. “I thought I could-- but I’ll never be safe again.”

* * *

Blair covered Jim’s fist with his own hands and gently pried the crumpled papers out of his grasp. Jim watched this abstractly as if he was looking at someone else’s hand.

“Read it,” he insisted again, his voice soft but desperate, quivering. “Take it with you. You should know what it says.”

Blair nodded, trading his glance between Jim’s face and the pages. He smoothed them out against his thigh as he knelt in front of Jim.

“Yes. I’ll read it.”

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and crossed one arm over his stomach, hugging himself.

“It’s in Spanish. Can you--?”

“I’m rusty but I’ll manage.”

“By yourself. You can’t show it to anyone, Blair.”

“Of course. Yes. Don’t worry, Jim.”

“I’d read it to you, but--.”

“No. Shh. No.” Blair reached up, gripped Jim’s shoulder, and then briefly touched his cheek. “I got this covered.”

Jim nodded and tried to smile. Then he suddenly lifted his head, listening.

“That’s Leo,” he said, looking pointedly at Blair again. “Back from poker. You should go now. Take the letter. We can talk about it later-- tomorrow.”

The lock on the front door of the store rattled and then the bell rang, clattering against the glass. Leo’s heavy boots clomped across the floor.

Blair shook his head. “I’d rather stay. I can sleep out here on the couch. I’m sure Leo wouldn’t mind.”

“Won’t mind what?” Leo asked, arriving in the living room with a quiet raucousness, bringing with him the chill of outside air and the faint smell of cigar smoke.

“If I crash on your couch?”

Leo looked down at Blair who was still crouched in front of Jim, then his gaze shifted up to Jim’s face. Concern came into his eyes like a sudden thaw.

“Damn, but don’t you look like forty miles of bad road, son. Are you all right?”

He strode forward and laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder. Jim just rubbed his face with both hands and nodded halfheartedly.

“Yeah. Sure. I’m, uh. . .I’m just tired.”

“I can see that. Well, head on back to bed then. Blair can stake claim to the couch. It’s still snow’n out there. The roads are get’n pretty bad.”

When Jim nodded again, Leo gave his shoulder a pat and then started to head out of the room. “I’ll just go scrounge up some bedding, then,” he called over his shoulder. When he was gone, Blair stood up and held his hand out to Jim. Wordlessly, Jim let Blair haul him to his feet and walk with him back to his bedroom.

The room was small and made up mostly of a big brass bed that was covered with soft-looking quilts. It was a cheerful bed. The pattern on the top quilt reminded Blair of colorful ring stains. There was a chest of drawers wedged up against the far wall and an ancient looking rocking chair in one corner next to an end table with a lamp on it. Crossing the threshold, Blair stepped in front of Jim and turned down the covers on the bed.

“Here,” he said softly, “why don’t you just lie down, close your eyes.”

He turned around and saw Jim pause suddenly in the act of unbuttoning his jeans. Their eyes met and Blair felt an awful numbness bloom in his stomach when he realized that Jim didn’t want him to see him get undressed. Blair had glimpsed the scars before, but never with Jim fully conscious of it.

“Uh, yeah,” Blair cleared his throat, coughing into his hand, “I’ll just, uh, say goodnight now. Do you-- do you think you can sleep?”

Jim let his hands drop to his sides, slowly, and he looked confused by the question.

“What if I can’t?” he whispered. Blair heard amazing fragility in Jim’s voice-- and hope. Hope like a dangerous thing; a ticking bomb, a hair trigger.

“If you can’t, I could stay up and, I don’t know-- talk to you,” Blair said carefully, “maybe fill you in on some of the things that have happened to me these past three years. Or, whatever. Anything. I could--.”

“Yes,” Jim croaked, cutting him off. He closed his eyes as though he’d startled himself, and then opened them again. “I mean-- yes. Talk. That would be--. I’d like that.”

“Okay,” Blair nodded. “yeah. Yeah. Me too. Uh. Why don’t I just head to the bathroom and then come back?”

Blair gestured toward the door and Jim stepped aside to let him pass, but when he crossed Jim’s path, Jim reached out and caught his arm. Blair stilled instantly.

Jim leaned in close and took a breath as though he was going to say something into Blair’s ear, but instead he just stayed that way-- poised, unmoving, and close, for a long moment before he slowly loosened his grip and let go.

“Okay?” Blair whispered.

Finally Jim nodded.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

* * *

In the bathroom, under harsh light, Blair splashed water over his face and looked into the mirror above the sink. Staring at himself, he suddenly became aware of the bones of his face, under his skin. His cheekbones, his jaw. And it was as if he was nothing more than a skeleton disguised in a little bit of flesh. When Jim died, the world went out of focus and he thought he’d discovered the true depth of his own fragility, but looking at himself now, his vision was jarred by the clarity around him and he didn’t think he’d ever felt so breakable before.

**

Symmetry

**

When Blair came back from the bathroom, he stood in the doorway to Jim’s room and waited for permission to come in. Jim was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up, leaning against the bed. Barefoot, he had changed into a white tee-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Blair saw that Jim’s skin looked darker then he’d noticed it being before, standing out as almost brown against the white of his shirt. His arms were muscled and healthy except for the scars on his wrists and forearms which were pinkish and tender-looking-- as crude as graffiti. The sight of them made Blair’s blood surge and his ears ring. They brought stunned tears to his eyes.

He stepped forward and Jim looked up, for an instant nakedly startled-- as if afraid-- before he followed Blair’s gaze with a flicker of a glance.

“I’ll-- put on some long sleeves,” he said, and then got to his feet before Blair could stop him, moving with soundless, muscular grace. Blair’s protest died unvoiced, and he just watched as Jim took a sweatshirt out of his dresser and pulled it on over his head. It was the same Cascade PD sweatshirt Blair had been wearing the night Jim came to the loft driven by need and drenched in rain. The sweatshirt had been Jim’s once and now it belonged to him again.

“The letter I gave you,” Jim said, not turning around to face Blair, “I’ve-- changed my mind. I shouldn’t have given it to you.”

Blair watched him slowly close the dresser drawer. When Jim finally did turn around, he reached out his hand and there was a hard, urgent look in his eyes that reminded Blair of times when, as a cop, he used to talk to hostage-takers.

Blair pulled the letter out of his pocket and, tearing his eyes away from Jim's, he looked down at it. The letter was so important, he knew that. He knew he needed to read it-- but it wasn’t his, and reluctantly, he handed it over. Jim came forward, grabbed it and then fished a cigarette lighter out of a familiar-looking gym bag that was on the floor at the foot of the bed. The paper caught fire and was burning before Jim made it over to the trashcan in the corner.

“I thought you said there were things I should know,” Blair said as he watched black, tissue-wisps of paper peel off and drift downward, dripping sparks. Then he looked up at Jim’s face, dazed.

“No. What I said before-- I wasn’t th-- I was wrong.”

Blair gazed at Jim and wondered what his resting heart rate was, his blood pressure, how much adrenaline was coursing through his body at all times. He could feel the stress rolling off Jim like some kind of magnetic charge that tingled his skin.

“Okay,” Blair said slowly, “but I know that something’s wrong. And I think it’s something-- dangerous. That woman who came to my class made it sound like that letter was about life and death, Jim. And ten minutes ago, you made it pretty clear that you thought I should read it.”

“I was wrong,” Jim said again, pinning Blair with a bright, warning glare.

“Okay,” Blair said, raising his hands. “Okay.”

Jim dropped the last of the charred letter into the trashcan.

“You have to forget everything I’ve told you,” he said, his jaw clenching “I’ve told you too fucking much all ready.”

“Jim, you’ve hardly told me anything--.”

“Who else knows I’m in Cascade?” Jim asked as though he hadn’t heard Blair speak. Blair blinked and then felt a punch of nausea in his stomach.

“You’re leaving,” he said, his voice suddenly weak with shock. “Aren’t you? You want to know if I told anyone you’re here because you’ve decided to leave.”

He looked away, over at the wall, anywhere but at Jim, then he felt strong hands on his shoulders and looked up at Jim’s face, startled.

“It’s dangerous, Blair. Do you understand that? I’ve been-- careless-- coming here. Seeing you. Stupid. I’ve put you in danger. I should never have believed that it was safe enough to surface again. I took a terrible risk and the letter I got today just confirms what I should have already-- accepted to be true. I’m never going to be safe and because of that no one around me is ever going to be safe either. I have to leave and you can not come looking for me, Blair. Do you hear me? They’ll kill you. Or worse, they’ll take you away and they’ll--”

Jim’s face twisted with anguish and he reached up to cup Blair’s jaw.

“They’ll make you wish you were dead.”

Blair shook his head. His eyes ached and his throat felt swollen. It was very hard to speak.

“I don’t care,” he croaked. “I don’t care about the danger. If you leave I will come looking for you, so you’d better either stay or take me with you.”

Jim ducked his head away and then shot a gaze up at the ceiling. Blair could see his adam’s apple work as he swallowed.

“God,” Jim said, lowering his gaze to look at Blair, his eyes wide with fear, “Please, Blair. Don’t do this. You have to understand. I know these people-- the man who is after me. He hasn’t found me yet, but he will. He believed, for a while, that I was dead but the letter confirms that a-- friend-- of mine was taken to Huamanga where she will be tortured until she gives up all the names of everyone she’s ever worked with. My name included. She’ll hold on as long as she can-- too fucking long-- but she will break. Everybody breaks. It’s just a matter of when.”

“I’m sorry,” Blair rasped, wiping wetness off his face with the backs of his hands, “I’m sorry about your friend--.”

Jim closed his eyes, pained.

“That letter is over a week old,” he said thickly, “I have to assume that Helena is dead.”

He opened his eyes.

“I can’t let the same thing happen to you, too, Chief. Please. You have to let me go.”

Blair grabbed hold of Jim’s arms and looked him square in the eyes.

“What makes you think I’ll be safe if you leave?”

“I’ll make sure you’re protected. There are people-- people have been protecting you and they can continue to do that, but the main thing is-- he’s not interested in you. He won’t use you to lure me into a trap-- he’d consider that to be cheating. He would extract information from you and then kill you but for him it’s all about the-- hunt. Skill against skill. He wants me but he also wants to prove that he’s better at tracking than I am at hiding. He doesn’t know that I’m-- how much help I’ve had from people who’ve--. He thinks--” Jim let out a raw coughing sound that might have been a laugh, “he thinks I’m still a worthy adversary.”

Blair stood in silence for what must have been nearly a minute, then he moved away from Jim and sat on the bed looking down at his hands in his lap.

“Your senses.”

Jim let out a sharp breath.

“Are the least of my problems.”

Blair looked up at the wall across from him, and nodded, running a hand through his hair.

“And you think that running is the answer?” He cast Jim an anguished look, “Maybe that’s worked for you so far but how much longer can you keep that up? Jim, you’re exhausted. I’ve never seen anyone more tired than you are. And you’re hurt--.”

Blair’s voice cracked and broke on that last word but he kept on talking,

“And you need help. And you say that there are people who are-- who have been-- helping you. And I know people-- we-- know people here in this city and at CPD.”

Blair got up and walked over to take hold of Jim’s arm.

“And you have me.”

Jim looked down at Blair’s fingers where they touched him and Blair could see that clear crescents of wetness had formed under his eyes.

“If something ever happened to you. . .” Jim shook his head.

“I know,” Blair whispered back, “I know.”

* * *

Jim sat on the floor again, with his elbows on his knees in a position that seemed to Blair to be too habitual, as if he had been trained to sit that way-- as if he had grown used to a room without furniture.

Blair sat down next to him and stared at the closed bedroom door, quiet, for a long time. Jim picked nervously at dirt underneath his fingernails. It was late and the light in the room had a yellow thickness to it that felt heavy, cloying, so unlike the spacious breathablity of the loft. Finally, Jim spoke.

“You didn’t move. I thought maybe you’d leave Cascade. After. Travel.”

Blair pursed his lips and shook his head.

“No. I know some people do that. Pack up and put everything into boxes and just shut the door. And I tried that. But I couldn’t leave.”

Jim bit his thumb nail and then studied it intently before nodding.

“When I-- thought of you-- I always imagined the loft and everything staying exactly the same, but I kept trying to tell myself: No. He’s off studying ruins in Machu Pechu right now-- maybe even married to the next Margaret Mead.”

Blair ducked his head and let out a breath of a laugh.

“Yeah. Not exactly. But my mom is still doing all that stuff. She’s in Africa right now on some kind of vision quest thing with a Shaman who reads chicken bones. She writes me letters filled with detailed descriptions of her dreams and tells me that I’m represented repeatedly as a bird who lays stone eggs. It’s all very metaphysical, of course. She’s having the time of her life--.”

“Blair-- .” Jim reached out and took Blair’s hand and Blair stopped talking.

“Tell me about you,” he said quietly.

Blair shook his head, feeling suddenly scared.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” Jim said in his low, rough voice, “everything.”

“There really isn’t a whole lot to tell. I’m still teaching at the university. I work a lot. That’s mostly what I do. But, hey, you know? Daryl, he went to Kent State last year. He’s majoring in Criminology. And Rafe did get married. His wife Anne is pregnant with twins--.”

“Chief.” Jim said and Blair’s gaze snapped to him, startled, before he looked down again and sighed.

“Yeah. Okay. I- I don’t know what to tell you.” He pulled Jim’s hand into his lap and turned it palm up, looking at it. “After you. . . .died. I got lost. I had some-- trouble--.”

Frustrated, Blair stopped and shook his head. Speaking to Jim now, his own past felt trivial. His own pain was nothing compared to what Jim had gone through. He had known a terrible grief, and yes, that had been the deepest wound he had ever felt, it had nearly torn him apart, nearly. . . killed him-- but he’d never known torture-- that kind of suffering was beyond him, and looking at Jim now, Blair saw himself as weak. He let go of Jim’s hand and abruptly stood up, walking a few steps away.

He sensed rather than heard it when Jim stood up behind him.

“Blair--” Jim moved in close and put his hands on Blair’s shoulders, turning him around to face him.

“What kind of trouble?” He asked, looking deeply into Blair’s eyes, searchingly, concerned. Blair met his gaze and saw in him the man he had known so well before any of this shit had ever happened.

“Nothing felt real after you. . .disappeared. I mean, you think something is unbearable but then you just keep right on waking up in the morning anyway. Time should’ve stopped, but it just keeps dragging on. . . And it’s quiet. So incredibly quiet. I remember sitting in the loft, hearing my ears ring, feeling this silence all around me . . hearing the refrigerator hum, and that’s what it was like-- like one long, horrible, silent afternoon. You were gone. Just gone. And you weren’t ever coming back.”

Blair’s voice cracked and he felt a hot sting in his eyes. Jim’s fingers tightened on his shoulders and Blair forced himself to breathe through the familiar deep pain in his chest.

“But--,” he went on, steadier, “Like I said, time goes on. So-- I work.” Blair shrugged. “I’m one of those “your job is your life” kind of people-- I mean, if I wasn’t before, I am now. But there’s satisfaction in being good at what I do and I need. . .I’ve needed to stay busy.”

“What about-- friends?” Jim asked, his voice like steel wool.

Blair glanced away for a moment, and then back.

“I keep in touch with Simon, and Joel still invites me to his Christmas party so I go to that. . .Father Peter-- he’s one of the Catholic priests down at St. Andrews-- he guilted me into playing midnight basketball with him and some of the neighborhood kids every Friday night so that’s a regular thing now. And then there’s Carrie and her baby. . .”

Jim looked down at him with a kind of unreadable sadness in his eyes. He reached up and touched Blair’s neck and shook his head as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find words.

“Blair,” he whispered finally, gazing at Blair as though seeing him clearly for the first time, his own face filled with fresh sorrow. “You thought you were alone. Didn’t you?”

“I was alone, damnit!” Blair snapped, locking eyes with Jim, flashed-burned by the heat of sudden anger. Then, slowly, his fists unclenched and he breathed and looked down. “But, I’m not anymore. Now I have more than I could ever-- in my dreams, Jim. . . That’s why I can‘t-- I can not lose you again.”

“Blair--.” Jim cupped his jaw and lifted his chin, forcing Blair to meet his gaze-- and when he did, Blair saw that Jim’s eyes were like water, bright and wavering “You have to know-- I--I’m not who you remember. I--.”

Blair shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I mean it does matter but-- you‘re back. That’s what’s important. We can get through the rest of it together.”

Jim let out a quick, heavy breath, “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh, “I’m not your miracle. I’m not all the good parts of the man you remember. If you think I’m him then you’re going to be--. You’re going to wish--.”

Jim’s eyes shone wetly but no tears escaped and his gaze didn’t falter. “Don’t you get it? Your Jim Ellison is dead.”

Blair closed his eyes and when he opened them again he actually managed to smile.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not your miracle either,” he said gently, “but I’m here and I’m not going to be disappointed in you and I could never wish that you hadn’t come back into my life. You have to believe that. Please believe that.”

Jim’s face was stiff for a breathless moment, then Blair watched him press his lips together in a fierce attempt to hold back tears. His jaw clenched, his chin quivered and Blair reached up to hold his face.

“Yeah,” Blair whispered tenderly, “I know. But I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. No matter what else has changed, that’s the same as it has always been.”

Jim pulled Blair to his chest and held on, gripping the back of his neck and then wrapping his arms heavily around him. Blair felt Jim’s ragged breathing, felt his chest heave.

“You’re still you,” Blair said. He felt such a fierce, terrible rush of love wash over him that he could hardly speak through it, but he had to. “You’re still the Jim Ellison I know. I’m sure of it. I can see it. I can feel it. And you’re alive, Jim. You hear me? You made it. You survived. You‘re still surviving.”

“Blair,” Jim moaned, his voice full of doubt.

“It’s okay. You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

Jim’s fingers fisted in Blair’s shirt and he didn’t say anything else for a very long time.

* * *

Jim slept, finally, in bed, but he was restless in sleep, one minute lying sprawled on his back, and the next rolling over onto his side with a moan. Blair sat beside him and tried his best to soothe him. In the darkened room he couldn’t see much, but a faint light seeping in from under the door showed him the outline of Jim’s body, the fine sheen of sweat on his face, and the agitated rise and fall of his chest. Jim’s breathing sounded harsh and dry in the settled quiet. Blair touched him carefully, very gently, palming his face.

“Shhh,” he breathed, “easy. It’s all right, Jim.”

When Jim rolled protectively over onto his stomach, Blair rubbed his hot back with a slow, calming rhythm, but it wasn’t long before Jim moved again, flopping back over to gasp up at the ceiling. Blair pressed his hand flat on Jim’s pumping chest.

“It’s all right. You’re safe,” he whispered, “You’re home.”

“Blair?” Jim rasped, rousing enough to reach out blindly, but not waking up all the way. Blair caught his hand and leaned over to speak near his ear.

“Yes. Yeah. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Jim moaned and arched his back slightly, grimacing in pain.

“Water,” he begged desperately. “Please.”

Blair was prepared for the request, or rather Jim had predicted it, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge before bed without offering any explanation-- and Blair hadn’t asked for one--, but the reason was clear enough now as Blair groped around for the bottle, found it and unscrewed the cap.

“Yes. Here. I have water,” he said, and again Jim woke up enough to reach out. Blair helped him hold the bottle and sit up a little, supporting his neck, then he watched Jim gulp the water straight down without stopping. The sound of his swallowing was urgent and loud in the quiet room.

“Easy,” Blair said, his own voice soft and shaky. “Take it easy. Slow down. There’s plenty of water.”

But Jim just shuddered hard. “More,” he demanded when the bottle was empty, slumping back in Blair’s hold. Blair reached out and ran his fingers through Jim’s short, sweat dampened hair.

“Okay,” he said, “okay. Whatever you want. But just rest for a minute. Just breathe.”

Jim clawed for breath and, painfully awake now, he stared wide-eyed up at Blair’s face. Then suddenly he cringed and crossed an arm over his stomach.

“Hungry,” he hissed, pushing himself up into a sitting position, holding Blair’s gaze with bright panic in his eyes. “Please. Let me have some food.”

He reached out and grasped Blair’s forearm beseechingly and the next thing Blair knew he was helping Jim up, hauling him to his feet and saying: yes, yes, whatever you want, of course, yes.

* * *

Blair eased Jim down into a chair at the kitchen table and then whirled around to grab a plate. He had to open three sets of cabinet doors before he found one, all the while listening to the sound of Jim’s quick, harsh breaths.

He set the plate down in front of Jim and then yanked the refrigerator door open.

“What do you want?” he asked, urgently fumbling with Tupperware containers and dumping them unceremoniously onto the table, “there’s some fried chicken in here.” He peeled off a plastic lid, “And some potatoes. Green beans.”

“Yes,” Jim grunted, holding his stomach and rocking forward against a hard cramp in his gut. “Please. Yes. All of it."

Blair put chicken on Jim’s plate and then, not having a spoon, he used his fingers to dish out the rest of it.

“I can warm it up for you."

“No." Jim grabbed a drumstick and tore into it. Blair rushed over to wash his hands in the sink and then he searched through drawers until he found the some silverware. When he came back and handed Jim a fork, Jim was too busy eating to take it. He ate like starving man, wolfing down the food. Blair tried to get him to slow down and pace himself, but it was no use and finally all Blair could do was just stand beside him and watch with tears in his eyes as Jim stuffed food into his mouth.

Half-way through the meal, Blair poured Jim another glass of water, most of which ended up spilling down the front of Jim’s shirt. Blair placed a steadying hand on the nape of Jim’s neck and rubbed his back but he didn’t know what to say. There were just no words for this.

Finally when his plate was clean, Jim pushed it away and slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. Blair let his palm slide down to rest between Jim’s shoulder blades where he felt the frantic movement of Jim’s breathing.

“Sorry," Jim finally croaked, his voice muffled in his hands. “I’m sorry."

“No," Blair whispered back, “It’s all right."

“I don’t know--," Jim went on, speaking thickly as though forming words was exhausting. “Sometimes I just-- can’t control--."

“It’s all right,” Blair said again, moving deliberately to crouch down beside Jim’s chair. His heart was banging heavily inside his chest like an old radiator; he kept trying to sound reassuring but he couldn’t get it right, there was just such an awful roughness in his voice.

In the end, he just leaned down and pressed his forehead to Jim’s thigh, and after a long moment of feeling the hot rhythm of his own blood pulse at his temples, Jim’s fingers sank into the thickness of Blair’s hair and stayed there palming his skull, cradling it, holding him in place.

When Blair spoke again, he said things he wouldn’t have been able to manage if he’d been looking up at Jim’s face.

“They. . ." He swallowed. “They starved you?"

Jim didn’t answer but Blair knew the truth. He had witnessed it in the wild desperation in Jim’s eyes, in his voice as he begged, in his hands as they shook while he ate. He saw the truth in Jim’s still too-lean form-- his ribs countable if not starkly visible beneath his skin.

“So now, sometimes, you feel a-- compulsion to eat. That makes sense. That’s understandable." Blair spoke with numb detachment, but despite the sound of his voice, tears steamed down his face.

Jim’s hand tightened on his head and then relaxed again.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this," he said as his hand stirred, fingers twining in Blair’s hair.

“I don’t want this to be who I am."

* * *

The window in Leo’s kitchen overlooked the back parking lot of the Sudden Service Cleaners. It was not the most bucolic view but the window let cool, clean light fall in across the sink to catch the corner of the kitchen table. Blair stood with a cup of coffee, watching a Volkswagen pull into the empty lot. One side of the window frame glowed with sweet, rich-gold sunrise.

Jim had been awake for hours, having slept only sparingly, restlessly, as though sleep was some kind of battle to be won. More than once he mumbled and gasped only to snap his eyes open and stare, stricken, at the ceiling-- and each time he saw Blair he flinched in surprise.

It was still dark when Blair watched Jim finally give up the fight and get out of bed-- he left the room soundlessly, slipping away. Now it was almost 6:00a.m. and Jim wasn’t in his shop so Blair guessed he was showering; the pipes were old and creaky-- they made strange, sonorous sounds like whale song.

A young blonde woman got out of the Volkswagen and walked through the snow into the cleaners carrying a load of clothes on hangers over her shoulder. Blair finished his coffee and was just pouring himself another cup when Leo walked in.

“Morn’in."

“Hey." Blair turned around and raised the coffee pot, offering. Leo took a cup down from the cabinet and held it out, meeting Blair’s gaze.

“You look like you could use more than a cup of coffee. I take it you didn’t get much sleep."

Blair didn’t answer, instead he just put the pot back down in its cradle and glanced out the window again. After a moment, he felt Leo come to stand beside him.

“Where’s Jim?"

“He’s in the shower," Blair said.

“No he’s not. That was me. I just got done in there.”

Blair shot Leo a hard look, saw that his hair was slightly damp, and suddenly felt a hot numbness run through his limbs. He set his coffee cup down.

“Is he in the shop?" Leo asked, but Blair was already walking out of the kitchen. He crossed the hall, ducked into Jim’s room and rounded the bed. The duffle bag that had been on the floor the night before was gone. Blair knelt to look under the bed but there was nothing there.

Through the living room, coming to stand at the store’s back entrance, Blair’s eyes scoured over the coat rack but he already knew that one coat would be missing. Jim had gathered up what few belongings he had, put on his coat and boots and left.

Outside, Blair saw a line of heavy tracks in the snow leading from the door to the street but once there, they stopped. He looked up and down the street but there was no one on the sidewalks, nothing to see and Blair knew that, for the second time in three years, Jim had disappeared.

* *

Inertia

* *

There was a crack, and inside him, something fractured. Blair looked across the expanse of snow outside Leo’s shop and all he saw was shards of light on a glare of white. Leo spoke to him but Blair heard only static, white noise. There was a roaring in his ears like water. Like rage.

Blair didn’t hear the snow crunch under his boots or his car keys jingle, or the haughty roar of the Volvo’s engine starting up.

He thought of Peru and his brain sizzled and hissed with a kind of electric dread. He remembered flying in a helicopter over what looked like a rag carpet of jungle, the urgent thudding of rudders in his ears, casting Diego a rickety smile. Hope hurting like a pulled muscle in his chest. Desperate for any sign of Jim.

And then he remembered-- would never forget-- suffocating in the middle of the night with the phone in his hand, Diego’s words echoing in his ears, clogging in his throat. Talking about dental records. Trying to sound sensitive but saying: “I’ll mail them to you for a second analysis.”

He’d dropped the phone. Fought to breathe. Bit his knuckles. Tasted blood.

* * *

Blair’d been crazy at the funeral and he only remembered snatches of it, lurches of vivid pain. Dizzy, he’d been unable to think. Sometimes he could see but couldn’t hear.

That morning, in the loft, Simon had tried to hug him, impulsively, stepping forward, but Blair had reeled away. When Simon kept coming Blair exploded, shoving him back, screaming wildly; something inarticulate that might have been: “Don’t touch me!”

At the edge of the grave he sank to his knees and someone caught his arm. He’d gagged, his stomach heaving as he yanked his arm back. His fingers curled into the ground-- into the grass, and dirt-- and he remembered hearing roots tear like a seam being ripped out of rotten cloth. Then he was lifted to his feet.

Sunlight caught his eyes and shattered, splintering.

He woke later on a bed in an empty, quiet room. A moment after that, he started to cry. Simon came in and sat beside him. Blair looked him in the eye and wailed, mouth open, helpless to stop.

Simon caught his shoulders, lifted him up, and Blair clawed fistfuls of the back of Simon’s white dress shirt. He couldn’t breathe and he wanted to say that he was dying: “Call an ambulance”. But all he did was clutch there, yelling, sucking in shrill gasps. And all Simon did was rock him. Then someone else came in. There was a pinprick in his arm, and he felt his mind start to-- slide-- terrifyingly. When he blinked, Simon’s face appeared above his own.

“This isn’t real. He’s not dead. It’s a dream. It’s a dream,” Blair begged, wide-eyed, and Simon stroked the sweaty hair out of his face as though he was a child and crooned, eyes soft, shaking his head: “Oh no, no. Oh Blair. Shhh. Shhh.”

* * *

A month later Blair woke up and found himself standing in the shower with hot water pelting his shoulder blades. He’d moved out of the loft and into a tiny rented basement near campus that smelled like moth balls and wood rot. Stepping from the shower, naked and dripping, he looked at himself in the foggy mirror, seeing only a pale, featureless reflection. He had no face. A bottle of shaving cream and aftershave lined the sink. Blair looked down at them, picked up the aftershave, and threw it at the mirror. . .

. . .Six months later, he turned around and stood facing a hall full of students. He lectured with a remote, impenetrable fierceness that kept his office hours free. He spat out facts and lingered on the darker, primitive stories of human cruelty. He had a smile that made people flinch. His students were soft. They cried a lot. They had small problems that scratched irritatingly like grains of sand. “I couldn’t hand my paper in on time because my printer died,” a girl wearing flip-flops and sunglasses told him. The fury inside him curled and twisted like burning plastic, he put his hands on his desk and shoved up to his feet, his body shook. “Your *printer* died?” he roared, eyes blazing; one hand fisting in a pile of papers, crushing them. . .

. . .A year later he sat up nights in his office working with a kind of silent, rooted diligence that made him go two days without eating and hardly notice. Work was numbing, like a drug. He’d moved on to his second PhD. He taught with a new, unconscious, almost lofty gentleness that had a strange effect on his students. He was unwittingly inspiring, his dedication to his studies made him soft-spokenly fervent. He often forgot that anyone else was in the room with him when he lectured, but his students lined up outside his office anyway, like true believers on pilgrimage. He never remembered any of their names. All the secretaries hated him because he could write a brilliant monograph but his requisition forms looked like they’d been scrawled in Japanese.

He’d had an army of research assistants but only one of them lasted more than a week. Daniella stayed for an entire year, bringing him unasked-for turkey sandwiches and glasses of water. For some reason-- lots of water-- which Blair took and poured down his throat before turning back to his computer screen.

Once, Daniella came into his office and found Blair sitting on the floor with his head in his hands and blood on the front of his muted plaid shirt.

“Do you know what today is?” Blair’d asked her, looking up with bruised, washed-out eyes and a tear-soaked face. “It’s been a year but it feels like--.”

Blair had broken a small pane of window glass and sliced the very heel of his hand nearly at the wrist. It’d been an accident, but he hadn’t thought to even try to stop the bleeding. Daniella called an ambulance, and then a friend of her father’s who was a shrink. . .

. . .Two years later, he moved back into the loft and felt the heavy weight on his chest lift a little. It was better having Jim’s things out of storage even though sometimes he would look around and his throat would close up, and he’d have to go stumbling into the kitchen for one of the pink-capsuled anxiety pills, spilling half the bottle onto the counter, picking them up later off the floor or fishing them out from behind the toaster-oven.

Using Jim’s clean, chef-quality kitchen knives, Blair made himself balanced dinners, getting up when his watch alarm beeped, (set to go off three times a day at pre-programmed intervals), and cutting tomatoes and red peppers with deliberate care. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt hungry, but he did remember how much Jim liked to cook-- so he cooked, and as an afterthought, he ate. Then he sat on the couch and graded papers until he was too gritty-eyed to keep going.

Usually, on Friday nights, Carrie would drop Jack off, and Blair would lie on the floor with the kid and they’d play a game that involved Blair picking up a slobbery blue rattle, shaking it, and handing it to Jack who thought this was hilarious. The kid would squeal and roar with laughter and Blair would find himself chuckling. “Okay, Jack, we need to have a serious conversation about drool,” he’d say, picking up the rattle again. And Jack would look at him with sparkling, open-mouthed awe, as if he was some kind of heavenly being, like an angel-- or Elvis.

“I mean it,” Blair would say sternly, wiping his fingers on his jeans, “this is a real problem. We could be talking about a vitamin deficiency.”

Sometimes, though, Jack would spring a leak and cry for no discernable reason. He’d be completely inconsolable. On those nights, Blair would hold him, and rock him, and pace the loft, patting his back.

“I know. I know,” he’d say, “I know. Just hang on.”

* * *

Driving around the streets of Cascade, looking for Jim, Blair’s thoughts cleared a little, his ears stopped ringing, and it occurred to him to check bus stations or maybe even head down I-90 scanning for hitch-hikers, but some unknown voice told him to go back to the loft. On Prospect, he caught sight of a yellow cab and his stomach lurched at the thought of having found Jim, but, as he passed, a blonde woman climbed out wearing a red pea coat and impractically high-healed shoes.

He cursed and pounded on the steering wheel, raking a hand through his hair. Once, nearly home, he thought he spotted Jim’s olive-drab winter coat and he cut off traffic to jab the car into a nearby alley, but then he realized the coat belonged to a homeless man carrying a Styrofoam coffee cup.

When he finally got to the loft, Blair stripped off his jacket, yanked the telephone off its cradle and started punching numbers.

Simon picked up on the fourth ring.

Words tumbling out, he paced the floor back and forth, chewing his thumbnail. He shoved his hand into his hair, once, and then again. When Simon didn’t believe what he was saying, he stopped pacing, pulled the phone away from his ear and shouted into it.

Simon didn’t shout back. Instead, his voice got worried-soft and he started talking about a doctor he knew who was very good-- specialized in grief --.

In the end, Blair stabbed the off button viciously, grabbed his jacket and keys again, and drove downtown to the 57th precinct.

* * *

The elevator-- the smell of it (of coffee and old carpet)-- was so familiar that Blair had to cover his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and close his eyes. When he stepped out onto the seventh floor, Henri Brown walked by without seeing him, a file folder in his hand, and Blair almost had to duck back into the elevator, un-braced for the flood of memories that rushed over him.

“He’s alive,” he chanted to himself, leaning against the hallway wall, “He didn’t die. Jim’s alive.”

He touched the wall, pressing his hand to the painted sheet-rock to feel its solidity-- to steady himself-- then he took a deep breath and pushed away, walking into the bullpen. A secretary, (not Rhonda, a young man), tried to get him to stop and “sign in”, which was new-- but Blair didn’t break stride and the kid was left to scramble after him yelling: “Hey! Wait!”

When Blair saw Rafe, unexpected relief surged through him and he was hit by a strangely powerful warmth that almost made him lose his balance. Rafe shot up out of his chair and caught Blair’s arms, looking shocked.

“Blair?” he gasped, his voice low and close. Blair just shook his head, unable to speak, at first, past the lump in his throat, unable to look Rafe in the eye.

“Brian,” he finally said with his face ducked away. “It-- it’s good to see you. I-- uh-- I need to talk to Simon.”

“Are you all right?” Rafe insisted, his voice dropping even lower.

“Yeah,” Blair’s nod was stiff, “just, Rafe-- Simon--I need--.”

“Okay.” Rafe’s hand clamped around Blair’s elbow and he lead him physically to Simon’s office and knocked.

Blair grabbed the doorknob without waiting for an answer, and pushed his way inside.

Simon took one look at Blair and bolted to his feet. He kept bottled water in a mini-fridge underneath the coffee-maker and he rushed to pull one out, unscrew the cap and hand it Blair saying: “Jesus Christ, Blair, take a drink and sit down, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Simon--,” Blair tried to ignore the water but Simon held it up to him at eye level and grabbed Blair’s hand, forcing him to take it.

“Goddamnit, don’t argue with me. Just drink.”

Blair drank and, feeling suddenly lightheaded, he let Simon back him into one of the wide vinyl chairs.

Simon put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“What the hell was that on the phone? The things you were saying-- and then you hung up on me--.”

“It’s Jim,” Blair said roughly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up and caught Simon’s gaze squarely. “I swear to you. I swear to God. He is alive.”

Simon’s eyes flashed hard for a moment before he looked away and ripped his glasses off to rub his face with one hand.

“Jesus, Blair.”

“Would I lie about that?” Blair said, his voice unsteady, “Would I lie about *that*?”

Simon shot him a pained look.

“Oh, I believe you believe that Jim’s-- that he’s-- oh, Christ.”

Blair stood up as Simon turned and threw his glasses onto his desk so that he could rub his face with both hands.

“Look at me. Look into my eyes,” Blair demanded, his voice suddenly very steady.

Simon turned around and reluctantly held Blair’s gaze.

“I don’t have time to convince you that I’m not delusional. So, either believe me or don’t but I’m telling you the truth. I’m giving you my word. Jim is alive and he needs help.”

* * *

“God damnit!” Blair slammed down the phone and surged to his feet. He spun around and ran right into Simon who caught his shoulders saying:

“Whoa, easy, Blair. Easy, c’mon.”

But Blair was frantic,

“Bus stations, cab companies-- I’ve called them all and there’s nothing-- just nothing. I gotta start calling hospitals--”

“Blair--.”

Blair shot a wild glance around the bullpen, which was half-empty in the mid-afternoon. Rafe, Brown and Joel Taggart had all stopped to watch him, their faces guarded and not hopeful. They didn’t believe him. They thought he was coming unraveled right before their eyes. Blair looked back at Simon and a familiar, terrifying desperation flooded his chest, his limbs.

“I have to find him, Simon. I will find him this time--I will--.” Tears stopped his words like a dam. He felt his eyes water and his throat close up, and all he could do was duck his head away.

Simon’s hands tightened on his arms and, when it came, his voice was very deep.

“I’ll call the hospitals,” he said like a promise-- like a vow.

“How are we going to do this?” Blair whispered, almost to himself, shaking his head, “he’s out there somewhere and I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where he is.”

* * *

It was just after one o’clock in the morning when Blair got the call. He was driving again, unable to just sit in the loft and do nothing. However futile, he had to do something. Already, he’d caved into melodrama and checked the ERs, and then scoured the homeless shelters, again. But he saw only unfamiliar faces-- and other people’s pain.

The phone got out only half a ring before he picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Blair, I found him,” Simon all but yelled, his voice high-pitched with shock, actually shaking. “He is alive and I fucking found him!”

Blair gunned through a yellow-light and screeched around a right turn.

“Where?” He demanded, his heart going off like a bomb in his chest.

“Downtown in a holding cell at the 32. He got brought in for Disorderly and shit, Sandburg, they thought he was some kind of wack-job. Schizophrenic. He resisted arrest and then he flipped out and attacked one of the other inmates. You’ve gotta get over there fast. I’m on my w--”

Blair hung up the phone, dropped it and slammed his foot on the gas.

**

Momentum

**

Blair parked badly, his tires squealing, the car landing at a drunken angle in front of the 32nd precinct. He was out of the car and running before the Volvo’s engine stopped shuddering. He tripped once-- twice-- on the steps leading up to the entrance of the building.

Inside he was hit by a pungent, stuffy blast of warmth that made his lungs strain even more then they already were. His chest ached sharply as if he was trying to suck in water instead of air. He coughed, and then, seeing a glimpse of a uniform, he made a desperate grab for the first cop who walked past, catching her by the arm. Her eyes flashed with instant anger, her gaze raking disdainfully over him, sizing him up.

“Hey, I suggest you take your hands--”

“Lock up,” Blair croaked, breathing hard, his voice like ground glass. “I need to get down to lock up-- my name’s Blair Sandburg and I just got a call from--”

“Sandburg?”

Blair spun around and saw a man he vaguely recognized who was not in uniform but was wearing a gold shield around his neck on a chain. A name popped into Blair’s head like a neon sign blinking on.

“Avery,” he said. “You remember me? We worked on the--uh--uh, the Iceman case together. Right? Yeah, look, I need to get down to lock up. Right now. It’s important.”

Blair looked down and realized that he had grabbed Avery’s biceps and was holding on tight as he stood there, sweating like a junkie.

“You know this guy, Detective?” The uniformed cop asked, standing close behind Blair like she was ready to handcuff him if he did anything crazy. And he must have looked crazy. He must’ve looked strung out, but Avery searched Blair’s face and saw something that made him nod and start walking.

“Yeah,” he said, “Yeah I know him.” And looking curiously over his shoulder at Blair, he said: “You coming or what?”

Blair stumbled after him, clumsy with relief.

* * *

Lock up was small-- the way it always was in police stations-- surprisingly small, but it was crowded and loud and it smelled like a seedy back alley: like whisky and vomit and a dumpster full of rancid food. Blair raised his sleeve to his nose and groaned thinking, with sinking despair, of Jim in this place, breathing this air, hearing all this. He closed his eyes and the noise rose and swarmed around him. He felt bombarded by a barrage of harsh voices: cops and pros and winos all yelling back and forth at each other. Disgust hit him in the gut along with a feeling of frenzied rage and Blair thought he was gonna lose it-- just start screaming: What have you done to him? Where the fuck is he? Do you know what you’re doing to him?”

But instead he turned to the Sergeant in charge and, jaw clenched, asked to see James Ellison.

“What? You mean the dead guy?” The Sergeant asked nearly laughing, an obscenely jovial light in his eyes.

Blair’s fingers tingled with rage, a roaring started in his ears and suddenly he was not quite all the way connected to his body.

Looking at him, the Sergeant’s smile vanished and he took a step back.

“Hey,” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder at a computer terminal behind him, “Look, buddy, obviously there’s been some kind of mistake. Jim Ellison was a cop who died three years ago. We all know that, the guy was a legend. Whoever this nut-case is in there, he can’t be Ellison. So maybe you knew him, but--.”

“Yes,” Blair spat, “I knew him, Sergeant Brock. I was his partner.”

“Aw, shit. You’re Sandburg?” The Sergeant blanched and then grimaced with regret. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. But listen, there really has been some kind of mix up, a computer glitch or someth--.”

“Just take me to him,” Blair snapped. “Take me to him now.”

* * *

They’d put him in solitary, locked him up behind a thick, steel door that was punched through with one, small, reinforced glass window like a bank vault-- and, God, Blair seethed with the humiliation of it-- but still, he couldn’t help but be relieved by the solitude: the protection of walls around Jim that could muffle some of the sounds and chaos outside.

Blair caught a quick glimpse of Jim on his knees, hunched over, rocking, with his hands clamped over his ears, before the door rattled open and the Sergeant let him in.

It had taken much too long to get to this point. Twenty maddening minutes. Blair’d had to sign waivers, blindly scrawling his name on papers he didn’t read, and despite his protests-- despite how he’d yelled and then begged, his voice low, tight (Please, damnit, please just let me see him),he’d had to wait for Simon to show up and vouch for him before they’d take him to Jim.

Now, finally he stepped into the small, harshly-lit cell and felt his mouth go dry. His heart was tripping wildly and, eyes locked on Jim’s bowed back, Blair felt lightheaded. A constriction ran across his lungs and there was a strange, cold numbness in his chest-- caused by fear, or maybe fury.

“God. . .” he heard himself moan, “Jim.”

He took two careful steps forward.

And there was absolutely no response from Jim, no hitch in his rocking motion, no acknowledgement at all. Blair took another step and found that he was close-- close enough to touch Jim if he reached out-- close enough to hear the harsh, quick grunting sounds of Jim’s breathing. Taking one more step, Blair sank into a crouch behind Jim, wanting so badly to touch him, straining with an almost uncontrollable desire to reach out.

“Jim,” he said again, softly, his throat ached so that he hardly managed speech. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Blair.”

He raised a hand and saw that his fingers were trembling. He closed his eyes and tears ran down his cheeks.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice low, crooning, even as part of him was fighting down a swell of terror-- what if Jim was lost to him now, not zoned, but-- just gone?

Unable to stop himself, Blair finally did reach out and touched Jim’s back lightly, only to snatch his hand away again when Jim flinched hard and suddenly lurched, scrambling away to crawl into a corner of the cell. He flattened himself against the wall and tried desperately to back up even farther. His breathing changed to sharp, frantic pants that sounded like they hurt, and his eyes flashed open but they blazed with blind, raw fear, his pupils small as pinpricks.

Those eyes shocked Blair-- rocked him-- and, caught off balance, he was forced to make a grab to steady himself on a narrow, metal bed that was within reach, bolted to the floor. Something in the bed rattled like chains being shook and Jim cried out at the sound, letting out a terrible, high-pitched balk of pain. Blair saw Jim’s whole body cringe as his hands clamped down even tighter over his ears.

Dizzy with a rush of sympathy, nauseated by Jim’s pain, Blair let go of the bed and fell to his knees covering his mouth with one hand to keep from crying out himself; all the while, he kept his eyes locked on Jim’s, looking at him through a swimming veil of tears. He watched Jim’s face contort, his eyes screwed shut, his cheeks wet.

“I’m sorry,” Blair rasped, when he could finally form words. “Jim, I’m so sorry. It’s just me. I swear to God. I’m here to help you. I came to take you home.”

Jim’s sharp, grunting breaths grew louder as though he was trying to drown out Blair’s voice. He’s hearing me, Blair thought with aching, bitter relief, but he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t think that--

“I’m real,” Blair said, swallowing hard, daring to edge his way a few inches closer. “You can believe it, Jim. Please listen to me. I promise you, I’m really here.”

Jim shook his head fitfully, his fingers curling into fists at his ears, his knees drawing up protectively, eyes still clamped shut.

Blair cast a quick, angry glance up at the overhead light-- the bulb burning with powerful wattage-- wanting fiercely to turn it off for Jim, to spare him but afraid that plunging the two of them into sudden darkness would be too jarring right now-- too much.

“Yes,” he said, his voice breaking helplessly, “Jim, please believe me. I’m really here. I’m right here.”

He moved forward again, carefully, slowly, and touched Jim’s knee, his fingertips barely pressing on the worn denim of Jim’s jeans.

Jim jerked back and coughed letting out a sound that Blair realized belatedly was a sob, and his eyes blinked open once, briefly, before slamming shut again. There was nothing in those sharp, blue eyes-- no recognition, just stark terror.

“Easy,” Blair said, tears thick in his throat, “Jim, please-- I’m not going to hurt you.”

“No,” Jim croaked, finally speaking, his voice so hoarse that the word came out as a growl. He craned his head in physical denial, “No.”

“Yes,” Blair moaned, letting his whole palm rest on Jim’s knee, feeling the instant heat that bloomed between them “Come on,” he begged, “You know it’s me.”

Jim’s face twisted and he reached out to press one hand on the wall as if he needed the support, his fingers curling, claw-like, trying to grab onto something. Anything.

Blair moved closer, leaned in and softly ghosted his fingertips over Jim’s shoulder, his neck, reaching up to touch his jaw.

“Oh, Jim,” he whispered.

And with that, a fault-line cracked, and Jim started to weep.

Blair closed his eyes and palmed Jim’s hot, wet cheek, feeling Jim fall still like a stunned animal. Then, gently, Blair slid his arm behind Jim’s neck supporting his shoulders and pulled him slowly to him, folding Jim into his arms.

“I’m here. I’ve got you,” Blair said as Jim’s whole body shook with sobs. Blair spread his hands out smoothing them over Jim’s back and holding on, cradling Jim’s flushed, trembling body and feeling the dampness of sweat through the fabric of Jim’s shirt. He reached up and stroked Jim’s head, running his fingers over his humid hair. Jim turned his face and hid it the crook of Blair’s neck.

And, God, what could he do? How could he really help? Jim’s pain was like metal grating against metal-- an unendurable scream, and Blair would do anything to take that away, anything, but it was too much. The usual words: “breathe”, and “relax”, and “picture the dial”, all seemed flimsy and useless and stupid in the face of this agony.

“Blair,” Jim groaned, and, clutching him, despite the fury of his helplessness, Blair was elated to hear Jim say his name. A surge of wild, frightened joy rose up inside him and threatened to make his heart burst.

“Yes. Yeah. It’s me.” Blair nodded, absorbing Jim’s full weight as he leaned into him, rocking with the sound of Jim’s harsh sobs. “Shhh. It’s all right. I’ve got you now. I’m right here.”

But instead of calming down, Jim’s body shuddered even harder and Blair readjusted his grip, knowing that he was losing this battle-- losing control-- losing Jim.

“I know,” he whispered urgently, ducking his head to speak more softly, into Jim’s ear “I know it hurts.”

He cupped the back of Jim’s neck as he felt him stiffen.

“But it’s gonna be okay,” Blair said, lying desperately, “Just hold on. I’m going to help you.”

“Can’t--,” Jim ground out through clenched teeth, “control--.”

“I know. I know. It’s okay. Just breathe.”

But Jim shook his head.

“Can’t-- breathe,” he rasped even as he sucked wetly for air. “I-- can’t--.”

And then, with a surge of panic, Jim shoved Blair away, sending him reeling back. Blair pushed himself up again just in time to catch Jim as his body lurched with a violent, heaving gag and he fell forward, trying helplessly to vomit.

“Easy,” Blair cursed, hearing Jim draw in a terrible wheezing breath that sounded like a long piece of paper ripping, just before he gagged again.

Jim.” Blair hooked an arm under Jim’s chest trying to brace him. And, dear God, he couldn’t stand this. He had to put a stop to this.

Jim wheezed again and then--

“Stop!” Blair’s voice seethed with command and he reached up to clamp a hand over Jim’s eyes like he was putting blinders on a horse, “Stop.”

Jim shuddered hard, started to gag again, but then something in him changed like he was giving in, surrendering to Blair’s voice, his strength. He swayed, still clawing for breath, but he didn’t heave again, and Blair knew that, finally, he’d done something right. He’d met some rampant, unvoiced need.

“Blair?” Jim croaked hoarsely sounding suddenly, strikingly lucid like he’d just woken up from a bad dream.

“Yes,” Blair gasped, jarred by relief but too shocked to really believe that Jim was with him, that he was back. “Right here. I’m right here. Are you with me?”

“Y- you’re here?” Jim stammered, baffled, afraid.

Blair started to nod but then Jim put his hand on Blair’s face and he froze. Their eyes met and Blair was overwhelmed by the sudden blaze of dismay in Jim’s eyes.

“No,” Jim breathed without air, “No, Blair, you shouldn’t be here. They’ll hurt you, they’ll--”

But just then, behind him, Blair heard the door rattle open and a loud, indignant voice cut in saying:

“Hey! What’s going on here?”

And in the very next moment Blair felt himself being pushed-- slammed-- back against one wall of the cell, and Jim was on top of him, holding him pinned with his hands and the heavy brace of his body in a position that Blair knew unequivocally meant protection, and Jim’s voice was loud as a roar when he shouted: “NO! You stay the fuck away from him!”

So fast-- it all happened so fast that Blair was too dazed to move, or speak or even take in more than one startled breath.

The guard in the doorway stammered: “What the hell?”, and then he was rushing forward, drawing his nightstick, his hard-soled shoes scraping loudly on the concrete floor.

Jim moved.

Blair saw him lunge, saw the guard’s nightstick come up, and then Blair knew with sudden clarity that Jim couldn’t see, he was blinded by the harsh light in the cell, he was exhausted, he was in pain—- and the nightstick caught Jim square in the stomach and sent him to his knees.

“No!” Blair screamed, shoving himself up to his feet, over-washed with a sick, red rage that made him move. The guard turned to him and yelled something but Blair didn’t hear him, he was too furious. This man had just hurt Jim right in front of his eyes--Jim who was doubled over, wheezing in agony. Blair made a grab for the nightstick but then he got hooked hard in the ribs and, just like that, he went down beside Jim.

The pain was astounding, it was as if he’d been stabbed in the side. Blair fought to breathe but he couldn’t get air. A cramp of nausea hit him so hard that he wretched and his body flushed over first with a rush of heat and then a shocking seizure of cold.

Another set of footsteps came running into the cell and he heard voices but he couldn’t make sense of them, his head was filled with a noxious roar of white noise. Then an arm caught him around the waist and Blair felt himself being dragged backwards. He cried out and tried to twist away as the pain shot through him again, impossibly redoubling, but then as he was pinned down he realized, in a flash of insight, that it was Jim who had dragged him into a corner of the cell and who was now crawling over him, using his own body as a shield.

Someone yelled and Blair craned to look over Jim’s shoulder. He saw that there were two guards in the cell now, both with their nightsticks raised.

“Get off him!” One of them yelled at Jim, taking a menacing step forward. Bair struggled against Jim’s hold but it was no use. Jim pressed him down with a force as powerful and untouchable as thunder, one hand splayed heavily on his chest.

“Jim,” Blair gasped desperately, hardly managing the strength to speak, “you have to move!”

But Jim wasn’t listening.

“Shut up,” he growled, clamping a hand over Blair’s mouth “Don’t fight them. They’ll kill you if you fight.”

And Blair could only watch helplessly as the guard brought the stick down, hard, hitting Jim bluntly on the shoulder.

Jim yelled and fell down on top of Blair, but he didn’t roll away. Blair cried out in utter rage and threw his arms around Jim in a vain attempt to block another blow.

Then a new voice boomed, echoing loudly against the cramped walls of the cell.

“Enough!” Simon Banks roared. The room vibrated with his fury.

“Get out!” he yelled, and then Blair heard the frantic scrape of footsteps and got the distinct impression that Simon was throwing the guards out physically, grabbing them by their uniforms and hauling them out of the door.

A moment later there was a steely clank and a sudden silence fell—-silence that was interrupted only by the ragged off-rhythm of heavy breathing.

“Sandburg?” Simon finally rumbled, quiet now, and Blair could hear him walk forward.

“Help me turn him over,” Blair wheezed, stilling holding onto Jim, who was draped over him like a lead blanket, unmoving. “Easy-- be careful.”

With surprising gentleness, Simon pried Jim’s limp weight off Blair and rolled him over onto his back, cradling his head with his hand. Simon looked down at Jim with moist-eyed awe, clearly struggling to believe what he was seeing.

“It’s him,” he breathed in a rough voice, “God, it’s really him.” He reached out with one hand and very gently palmed Jim’s forehead like a priest giving a blessing.

Blair forced himself to sit up, ignoring the fire in his ribs as he moved. He had eyes only for Jim who was staring blankly up at the ceiling, his blue eyes bright like glass.

Blair’s heart beat like a piece of broken machinery.

“Jim?” he said airlessly, crawling over to Jim’s side with one arm bent protectively over his ribs. Jim didn’t answer; he was panting shallowly. Blair reached out and placed his hand flat on Jim’s chest feeling its rapid rise and fall-- feeling the strong heat that radiated off Jim’s body.

“Is he all right?” Simon asked, startling Blair who’d forgotten he was there.

Blair couldn’t even dignify that with an answer, he flashed a quick glare up at Simon and then turned his attention back to Jim.

“He’s not zoned,” he said, sliding his hand slowly up Jim’s chest to his throat that glistened with sweat, “but this isn’t good, he—- we need to get him out of here, Simon, now.”

“I moved the car around to the back lot, it’s not far, there’s an exit just down the hall and to the right. Can you walk?”

“I will,” Blair said, gritting his teeth, readying himself to stand up.

“Okay, if you help me get him over my shoulder, I’ll carry him.”

Blair tore his gaze away from Jim just long enough to glance disdainfully at the closed door of the cell.

“They’re not going to want to let us just walk out of here, Simon,” he said bitterly. “They’ll stop us before we get outside.”

Simon gave a vicious laugh and slid an arm under Jim’s shoulders, starting to lift him up.

“I’d like to see them try,” he said dangerously.

**

Gravitation

**

Jim was in shock, breathing in a thin, shallow way that spoke of trauma, retreat, brokenness. His eyes were open but he stared unseeingly up at Blair who held him cradled in his lap in the back seat of Simon's Sedan.

Blair was crying without realizing it, his face flushed and slick with tears. Bent low over Jim, despite the jagged pain of his own cracked ribs, he murmured softly, petting Jim's cheeks, instinctually calm now-- except for the tears.

Simon kept quiet and drove as fast as he could through the slushy streets, periodically casting worried glances up at the rearview mirror. Snow still fell heavily, softening the world outside and covering the dingy city sidewalks in a blanket of white.

Changing lanes, Simon drove predatorily, cutting through traffic like a shark. Eying the mirror again, he finally spoke.

"Any change?"

Blair barely spared him a glance, but he did respond, his eyes flicking up to say quickly, fiercely: "no".

"Are you sure we shouldn't--."

"Damnit, Simon," Blair whispered, mindful of his tone but adamant nonetheless. "We’re not going to a hospital. I told you, that'd only make it worse."

He spread a hand protectively over Jim's chest, feeling his sweat-dampened tee-shirt and the broad muscles underneath that rose and fell too fast. Jim's body was feverish, radiating heat.

"But you said he's not zoned. What if he needs?--."

"What? Needs what? Drugs? Strangers poking and prodding him? Some ER hack calling down for a psych consult? Or how 'bout a building full of sick people radiating all their pain onto him? No. No way, that's not going to happen."

Simon raised placating hands.

"Okay. Jesus, Sandburg, forget I said anything."

Jim let out a heavy breath that could have been a moan and Blair's eyes shot back down to him. He cupped Jim's jaw and squared his face so that their gazes were locked.

"Hey," he breathed softly, tenderly, "Hey, easy. It's okay. Just hang on. We're almost home.”

As though "home" was some kind miraculous cure-all that would bring Jim back from his dark place-- as though Jim could recognize where he was and be comforted. Blair hoped he could-- hoped to God he could.

* * *

It would've been hard, if not impossible for Blair to get Jim out of the car and up three flights to the loft, but Simon took care of that with the same no-nonsense efficiency with which he accomplished most things, hefting Jim up over his shoulder and trudging up the stairs. Blair had to lean hard on the handrail, the pain in his ribs cutting through his lungs with each breath, each step. By the time he made it up to his apartment door he was gasping, sweating from the pain.

"You gotta let me tape you up," Simon said, grunting as he lowered Jim slowly onto the futon in Blair's room. "And, for crist'sake you gotta get that elevator fixed."

Blair ignored him. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Jim's hand in one of his, palming his forehead with the other.

"This is-- God, I don't know-- some kind of disassociation," he murmured as if to himself, "Not a zone, but. . . something like it."

He put both hands on Jim's cheeks and leaned down so that they were an inch apart. Impulsively, he kissed Jim’s forehead, lingering close.

"Jim," he whispered, speaking into his ear, "come on. Come on back to me. It's all right now. You're safe. You're home. Nobody's going to hurt you here."

He slid one hand carefully up under the hem of Jim's tee-shirt, lifting it to reveal the deep bruise on his stomach. There were more bruises on Jim's shoulder and back, Blair knew, inflicted by the cops who had beaten them both. Anger calcified in Blair's chest making it feel like his lungs had turned to stone; it was hard to breathe, his ears rang. Hadn't Jim been hurt enough already?. . .To be locked in a cell and tortured again? It was too much.

Simon took in a sharp breath and Blair glanced up to see shock clashing with rage in his eyes. The scars, Blair realized bitterly. Simon wasn't just seeing new bruises, he was seeing the full extent of the brutality that was written crudely, and permanently across Jim's body.

Simon didn't say anything at first, but he took a step forward and his face changed, growing impossibly cold, yet at the same time flooded with compassion-- he was like an angry god.

"Who did this?" he seethed, his eyes cutting from Jim to Blair and back again. "WHO DID THIS!?"

Blair flinched and looked away.

"I don't know. He hasn't told me."

"What has he told you?"

Blair looked at Simon again, squarely this time, meeting his gaze head-on; his own eyes were suddenly hard and unfaltering.

"There are people who're after him. I don't know who. Someone wants him dead. He left this morning because he thought-- he thinks that staying with me puts us both in danger."

Simon's eyes tightened with confusion.

"What do you mean: "people?" Who wants him dead? What the hell happened to him?"

"Don't you think I want to know that?" Blair shouted, surging to his feet, his hands clenching into fists, "Every minute of everyday? Don't you think I would hunt them down and blow their fucking heads off if I had any clue where to start?"

"Whoa-- okay--." It was Simon's turn to flinch, raising his hands to stave off Blair's anger "Easy-- take it easy."

But Blair didn't seem to hear him, he had turned and was looking down at Jim again. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerously quiet.

"He was running away, trying to protect me, but he's the one who needs protection. He needs to be here, he needs us to keep him safe."

Simon stepped forward and put his hands on Blair's shoulders.

"We will," he promised fervently, "We will, but first, let me take care of you. What Jim needs more than anything is for you to be able to help him and you can't do that very well like--this. Where's your first-aid kit? Is it in the bathroom?"

Numbly, Blair nodded and Simon left the room. A moment later, Blair's knees lost their strength and he sat down heavily on the bed. Jim didn’t stir, he only blinked glassily. His lips were parted and he gasped, taking in quick, shallow breaths. Blair gathered up his hand and cradled it gently in both of his.

"You're home," he whispered into Jim's ear, closing his eyes against a sudden wave of exhaustion. "You're gonna be okay, I promise-- just come back. Please. Come back."

* * *

It was hours later, in the late afternoon, when the weak rays of the winter sun washed the loft through with soft, dusky light, that Jim finally did come back.

One minute he was staring blankly up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed, lost in some "other" place, almost serene-- then suddenly his empty gaze filled up with awareness, sharpened with terror, and without moving or making a sound his whole body changed.

Blair, who had been lying next to him on the futon, drifting in and out of restless sleep, felt the change immediately.

"Jim?" he gasped, sitting up, every trace of drowsiness gone.

Jim's eyes shot to him, blazing with sharp-edged fear. He didn't talk and he didn't move except to become somehow even more rigid. He didn’t even breathe; his breath seemed locked, frozen in his chest.

Blair stared down at him, searching him over with alert, urgent eyes.

"Hey," he said, "Jim. It's okay. I know this is weird. You're scared. But it's okay. I'm--"

"Blair?" Jim's voice was so low, and rough, and startled, that it came out as a growl.

"Yeah, I'm here."

Blair reached out to touch Jim's face but Jim snatched his wrist in a bitingly hard grip that made Blair's bones feel as fragile as a bird's. God, Jim was strong-- and staring up at him now, with a look of such raw, hostile confusion that his gaze was like a scream.

"Jim--" Blair fought to control himself-- not wince at the pain in his wrist. "It's okay-- it's just me."

But Jim's grip didn't loosen and a long, tense moment passed. Then, finally, Jim blinked and the heat in his eyes slowly started to melt.

"Blair?" he gasped again, this time sounding shaken.

"Yeah," Blair said with relief, touching Jim's shoulder carefully with his free hand, "It's okay. Everything's all right."

Still confused, bewildered, Jim rolled his eyes up, gazing around himself in the frantic way of someone who was used to being trapped.

"Where am I?" he rasped, then his gaze caught Blair's again and stayed there as he fiercely searched Blair's face. "You-- Are you all right?" Very slowly, he let go of Blair's wrist.

"Yes. Yeah, I'm fine. And so are you. You're home now-- in the loft."

"The loft--." For an instant the words didn't register and then Jim closed his eyes against what could only be a flood of dismay. "No. . . oh no, Blair," He groaned, sounding utterly defeated, “not the loft. I can't be here. It's not safe."

Jim reached up and covered his face with one hand. Blair reached out too, reflexively but stopped himself before he actually touched Jim-- he wanted so badly to comfort him-- and he would, goddamnit-- if he only knew how.

"Why, Jim?" He pleaded softly, a tremor of desperation in his voice, "Please tell me what's going on. Why isn't it safe here? You said someone is looking for you, but who? Why?"

Jim let his hand drop and he looked at Blair, pinning him down with raw, watery eyes.

"It's not a complicated story," he said wearily. "I was abducted. I was used. There were . . .drugs involved and. . . brainwashing, and I don't remember-- there's a lot I don't remember. When I try, it's all-- jumbled up. I get moments-- flashes, but nothing's clear. Nothing until-- Helena. . . Her face. I remember. . .It was like I blinked-- I woke up and. . . I was staring at her face through the scope of a sniper rifle."

Jim shook his head, looking away, his eyes now distant, haunted. "I almost killed her but she-- she ended up saving my life."

Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, Jim looked up again, meeting Blair's gaze.

"But, like I said, there's someone. . . a man. For a while he thought that I was dead but by now he should know that I'm not and he'll be coming for me. He thinks that I-- know things. I'm a loose end that he has to take care of and-- and he's obsessed with the hunt; that's what he does, he's a mercenary. He sees himself as a-- predator. And I'm his prey."

It occurred to Blair that he'd never known Jim to run away from anything in his life. But it was obvious now that Jim's life had changed in ways that Blair couldn't even fathom. Brainwashing? Drugs? Sniper rifles? The whole thing sounded like the plot of a spy novel, it couldn't be real, but it was-- Blair knew it was. God, it was all too real.

A slow, sick chill began to bleed through Blair's body and he couldn't look at Jim anymore. He dropped his gaze. He didn't know what to say, or what to do-- all he knew was that he couldn't let Jim leave him again, that was his one certainty. It had only been a matter of hours *this time* before Jim had been found at the police station. Just a few short hours missing and Blair'd nearly gone crazy. He'd wanted to crawl out of his own *skin* not knowing where Jim was, or whether he was hurt. He couldn't go through that again. He just couldn't. Not again.

"Jim-- if you leave. . .I-I can't deal with that," he whispered haltingly, the honesty so raw in his voice that it hurt.

Jim was silent for a long beat, then he reached out and took hold of Blair's hand, squeezing his fingers in a strong, almost painful grip.

"Blair-- Chief, look at me."

Blair looked up, meeting Jim's gaze with difficulty.

"If I stay, we both die. Do you hear me? We die."

Absurdly, Blair almost laughed.

"Well, I can't speak for you," he said slowly, "but I wouldn't exactly call what I've been doing for the last three years: "living"."

Jim's eyes changed then, grew deeper, infinitely sadder, but he didn't say anything, and Blair went on. "If staying together means that we die, then--"

"Hey! Who said anything about dying?" Simon Banks snapped from the doorway, his deep voice loud, almost booming. Blair was startled and he flinched, but Jim was shocked.

Whipping his head around to look at Simon, Jim was out of bed in an instant and, moving as though he expected to be attacked, he stepped in front of Blair and shoved him back so hard that he fell back onto the bed.

Then everybody froze, and the only sound that filled the room was the suddenly quick, panicked rasp of Jim's breathing.

"Hey," Simon breathed, taken aback but automatically gentle-- using the knee-jerk, ultra-calm “cop” voice of his that was reserved for jumpers and gun-wielding crazies. "Okay, easy, Jim, easy. It's okay."

Blair didn't move or speak. Somehow he knew that this-- whatever was happening now-- was between Jim and Simon. From his place behind Jim, he had just enough of a view to see Simon drop his hands slowly to his sides, and turn his hands, palms facing out, saying non-verbally: 'I'm unarmed'.

"Jim. It's me. You know me. It's Simon."

Simon took a small step forward but Jim flinched violently and reached back behind himself to grab a fistful of Blair's tee-shirt. Simon froze again.

"Okay-okay. It's all right. I won't come any closer, okay? Just-- what is it, Jim? What's wrong? Can you see me?" The question was asked gently, confidently and Blair realized that whatever Simon was seeing in Jim's eyes, it wasn’t recognition.

Jim's grip on Blair's shirt tightened, but his breathing did start to slow down just a little as he took some steadier breaths.

"I-- Simon?" he stammered, his voice barely audible.

"Yeah. Hey, man, yeah. It's me. Look, I'm sorry I startled you. As Darryl would say, that was: "so not cool"."

He was dropping names. Blair could tell that Simon was trying to evoke Jim's memory, make things familiar, get him to connect.

Jim didn't move, he stood rigidly as though poised to react at any moment.

"Stupid of me, I wasn't thinking about how tired you are, or that that maybe your senses are a little off."

At the word: "senses", Jim stiffened even more, but then, very slowly, he relaxed again, slightly.

"I--," Jim rasped, "It's-- it's bright in here. . ." he said, and swallowed hard as though this was a difficult confession.

"Damn," Simon agreed readily, "Yeah, you know what? I didn't pull down the shades in the living room. I bet that's what's bothering you. Maybe Blair can help you get things right again?"

It was a calculated question but made to sound light, even casual. At the mention of Blair's name, Jim gingerly unclenched his fist, letting go of Blair's shirt, but spreading his palm flat over Blair's chest in a possessive, yet somehow apologetic gesture.

It was a good sign and it gave Blair the go-ahead to respond. With deliberate care, he moved, slowly taking hold of Jim's wrist.

"Right. Hey, I'm just gonna get up and come around--."

He climbed off the bed and came to stand by Jim, shifting his grip so that he was holding his hand. Jim watched him approach while, at the same time, not taking his attention off Simon.

Blair got close and Jim didn't seem to object, in fact, he turned to him a little as though unwilling to let Blair be completely unshielded by his body.

"Are your senses off?" Blair asked softly. "You can see me, but you can't see him, is that it?" Jim hesitated for so long that Blair didn't think he was going to answer, then, finally:

"He's just a -- shape-- in the doorway."

Blair nodded with self-enforced calm. A dark shape looming in a doorway. . . Jesus. Blair could only begin to imagine how unnerving that was for Jim.

"Okay," he said slowly. "So, what if he came a little closer?"

Jim's face was pale and he gripped Blair's hand, fingers squeezing tight. His gaze was bright, wavering with uncertainty.

"It's okay, Jim," Blair said, meaning it, "it's him. It's really Simon."

At that vow, Jim looked at the "shape" in the doorway again and after a long moment, he finally gave the barest nod.

Simon was careful as he approached. He moved slowly and didn't make any sudden moves. Jim tracked him intently, warily, across the room.

When Simon was standing in front of Jim, close enough to shake his hand, he offered the greeting.

"Hey, Jim," Simon said softly, a little throatily, his eyes over-bright, "I can't tell you how good it is to see you again."

It took a while for Jim to respond, but Simon didn't seem fazed by his hesitation, he just waited like he could stand there all day with his hand thrust out. Jim looked him up and down, blatantly scrutinizing him-- then finally, something softened in his face, barely perceptibly, and, with what was clearly an act of willpower, he took hold of Simon's hand, returning the shake.

Simon's smile was broad, relived, inexpressibly pleased.

"Welcome home, Jim,” he whispered and he pulled Jim carefully, gingerly into a hug. "God, I can hardly believe it's you. Thank God you're alive. . ."

Jim endured the hug stiffly, but when Simon pulled back, he managed a smile-- it was slight, hardly more the an crinkle around his eyes-- but it was definitely a smile.

"Simon. . ." he rasped in his low, worn voice. He swallowed thickly, clearly overwhelmed. It was an effort to speak. "you're a sight for sore eyes."

Simon chuckled. From the light in his eyes, Blair could tell that Simon wanted to laugh outright with delight, but he was restraining himself for Jim's benefit, to keep from startling him.

"No pun intended?" He asked gently.

Jim dropped his gaze, then, drawing in a deep breath, he looked deliberately back up again.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I mean that."

**

Retrograde

**

Blair sat down on the couch beside Jim, turning his back to Simon, who was in the kitchen making coffee. Jim looked terrible. His body was strong -- undeniably so, with his broad chest and his muscular arms -- but this was strength built from desperation rather than health, and in spite of it, he exuded a kind of shell-shocked fragility that was so wrong for him and so startling that it made Blair think helplessly of pictures he’d seen of death-camp survivors-- Dachau, Auschwitz... Jim shared just enough of that broken, haunted look.

And the way he was sitting, poised stiffly on the edge of the couch with his head bowed and one hand held protectively over his eyes...

He sits like he’s hurting but also like he’s used to it—-too damn accustomed to being in pain.

Blair's chest ached with a worry. He had to do something to fix this. Something. Anything. Reaching over, he put a hand on Jim’s thigh just as Simon accidentally knocked two coffee cups together with a loud *clank*, and Bair felt Jim’s leg muscles flinch. Without thinking, Blair took hold of Jim’s free hand and curled his fingers in a tight grip.

“Easy,” he said, fighting the instinct to talk about dials. Dials wouldn’t work now, not yet and maybe not ever again; as Jim himself had said, there were “no more fucking dials.”

“Breathe. Breathe though it.”

And Jim squeezed Blair's hand hard, knuckles turning white. He was keyed-up, hyper-sensitive. He needed to be someplace quiet, someplace dark, tranquil. He needed to rest, but instead he had come out into the living room, ignoring Blair's soft-voiced protests, offering only a look that was as determined as it was weary; a look that seemed to say: "rest is a luxury I can't afford."

Now he sat listening to Simon talk -- or rather, interrogate. Simon had been moving methodically around the kitchen, seemingly focused on his task of making coffee, but speaking to Jim in an intense but quiet way, asking question after question, trying to pry information out of Jim as if he were the sole witness to a terrible crime.

And Jim endured the questions-- that’s what it was: endurance -- Blair could see the effort it took for Jim to withstand Simon's raised inflections, his expectancy. It was as if, to Jim, questions were like fists that pummeled him. But he answered them anyway, as best he could, dolling out a meager stash of information to Simon dutifully -- or maybe hopelessly -- telling him about the mercenary who was hunting him and about Helena, his friend, now most likely dead, tortured to death somewhere in Peru.

Jim didn't say anything to Simon about drugs, or brainwashing, or using a sniper-rifle. And he didn't reveal a word about how an old-fashioned telephone could be used in unthinkably sadistic ways. There was so much left unsaid, so much more than even Blair knew, or would probably ever know. So much pain.

Finally, Simon fell silent and stood for a moment, watching Jim from his place in the kitchen. The look on his face was complicated. Blair saw compassion there, and worry, and anger so deep it seemed bottomless.

"Jim, you've got options," Simon said, his eyes hot with hope, "Whatever's going on--whoever this man is who's hunting you-- we can help you. I can help you and there's Taggart, and Rafe, and Brown-- you know we'll all do whatever we can; we may even be able to set up a safehouse if you feel that you're in imminent danger--."

"No," Jim croaked, in a low voice and Simon pushed away from the kitchen counter, walking over to the couch to stand in front of him.

"No, what? No, you're not in imminent danger?"

Jim lowered his hand from his eyes, gingerly, and finally looked up at Simon.

"No, I don't want you getting involved," he cast a steely, sidelong glance at Blair, "any of you."

"Too late," Blair said softly.

Jim sighed and stood up. Any pain he might've been feeling from his run-in with the cops, he showed no sign of it now-- not a trace, as, side-stepping Simon, he walked over to one of the balcony windows and used a finger to lift the shade so that he could peek behind it.

"You're sitting too close to the windows," he said, looking back over his shoulder at Blair. "You should move."

"Uh… okay," Blair stood up carefully, looking around, "where...?"

"This whole room is compromised because of these damn windows," Jim said, taking a step back to look resentfully around the loft, "there're no quick exits out of this place-- the front door-- the elevator, three flights of stairs...or the fire-escape. No." he shook his head. "It's no good here. We might as well be up a tree."

"You don't have to stay here," Simon insisted and Jim shot him a hard, wary look.

"Like I said, we have safehouses. You and Blair could relocate--."

"No."

Jim squinted with frustration and shook his head again, "Blair has a life here. His work. This is his home. I--"

"Screw all that," Blair snapped. "You think I care about work or this loft more than I care about you?" He took a step forward and the sharp pain in his ribs made him wince.

Jim blinked, his eyes sharpened with concern and he crossed the room in three strides, grabbing hold of Blair's arms and raking his eyes over him, "What? What is it? Are you hurt?" His voice thunderous, seething with emotion.

Blair shook his head and waved a hand dismissively, "It's nothing,", but before he could stop him, Jim lifted up the hem of Blair's shirt and stood frozen, staring at the tape wrapped around his torso that couldn't completely conceal the deep purple bruise that covered nearly all of his left side.

"Blair..."

Blair looked up in time to see concern and anger deepen to guilt in Jim's eyes.

"No, this wasn't your fault," Blair rasped. "Don't even think that."

But Jim turned away from him.

"I can't do this," he said throatily. "I can't stay here. This is wrong."

Blair reached out and caught Jim's sleeve, pulling on the fabric of his shirt to turn him back around to face him again. Jim did turn but he glared at Blair with a fierceness that looked a lot like panic.

"I put you in danger and now, look..." he gestured in the direction of Blair's ribs. His jaw muscles flexed, and he stared at Blair's shirt as though he could still see the bruises even through the cloth. When he finally raised his eyes to meet Blair's, they burned with grief.

"I'm fine," Blair said, urgent but calm now that he had to be, "what happened was-- unpredictable. It was the cops, not some...," he struggled for words, "some danger from your past."

Jim flashed him a hot, 'who are you kidding?' look and then took a step back, breaking out of Blair's hold.

"No, you don't know," he started roughly, raising his hands as if to ward Blair off, keep him at bay. "You have no idea how bad this could get. I've tried to warn you, but you won't--" he turned to look at Simon, "You're not listening to me. You think this can be solved with safehouses and a protection detail? It can't."

He looked across the loft at the door, and Blair could sense Jim's urge to bolt so powerfully that he moved to plant himself in front of him. Pain shot up from his ribs to his lungs but he ignored it, too afraid to register anything but an icy, rage-like dread at the prospect of losing Jim yet again, the same unbearable cycle of gain and loss repeating itself for a third time.

"Look," he said, hearing his own voice strain to the breaking point, "Jim, you tried to leave before. Yesterday morning you packed your stuff and left Leo's, but what happened then? The cops found you and brought you in. They thought you were a nutcase. So, what was it? Did you zone?"

Jim looked at him, and for a second he was confused, then his face darkened with understanding.

"What makes you think the same thing won't happen again?" Blair asked, hating himself for actually voicing the question out loud. Jim held his gaze for a long, hard moment before he turned his face away, looking up at the ceiling. He swallowed and Blair could see the working of his throat as his Adam's apple bobbed.

"I'm sorry," Blair said, softer now, reaching out to touch Jim's arm, "I'm sorry, but..."

"I zoned," Jim admitted almost voicelessly, bewildered, as though the realization was new, "I guess I-- zoned. I don't...remember."

He looked back down at Blair questioningly, his eyes traveling over Blair's face as though searching there for the answer to a desperately complicated problem. Then, gradually, something changed in him. A kind of weary resolve seemed to seep into his shoulders and his face softened, growing sad. He let out a breath.

"I thought this would be different," he said, and he actually smiled; a bleak smile that terrified Blair.

"All right," he sighed, half turning to glace at Simon, "I'll stay here tonight. I...I'm tired." Jim ducked his head and reached up to rub the back of his neck. Speaking to the floor, he said: "We can figure out what to do in the morning."

"Okay," Blair agreed quickly, feeling his heart rate speed up as relief and doubt clashed inside him. He wanted so badly to believe that Jim meant what he said -- but he didn't.

Jim turned to Simon again.

"Simon, I--."

"Get some rest," Simon interrupted quietly.

Jim looked at Blair.

"I should call Leo," he sighed, "he should know that I'm...okay."

~~

Jim didn't talk. He didn't lie down to rest as Blair had all but begged him to do. He didn't even sit. Instead, he roamed the living room, Blair's bedroom and the kitchen, restlessly, searching through drawers, picking up lamps, running his hands along the undersides of furniture. At one point, he went upstairs to the loft bedroom and when he came back down again he was carrying his old Glock 9mil. A loud smack and a series of deadly-sounding clicks, reverberated through the living room as he slammed in the magazine and chambered a round before setting the gun down on the coffee table like a garish centerpiece. Blair looked at the weapon from his place on the couch where he'd been sitting mutely, trying to radiate calm-- then he looked up at Jim again. Their eyes met, and a moment of grim understanding passed between them.

Finally, Blair blinked.

"Simon's here," he reminded Jim softly, trying to sound reassuring, "he said he'd stay staked-out all night."

Blair pictured Simon sitting in his unmarked car which was parked out in front of the apartment building, pouring himself coffee from a thermos and eating a Ho-Ho.

Jim didn't appear to have heard Blair's words. And the roaming continued.

He went over to the bookshelf and started taking down paperbacks, one by one, flipping through the pages before putting them back. When he got down to the third shelf, he paused for a long beat, then reached out and pulled a thick, generic-looking book off the shelf. He smoothed his palm flat over the plain black cover, almost reverently, then tipped the book up on its side to read the gold lettering that was stamped on the spine.

"The thin blue line," he murmured, then looked over his shoulder at Blair who offered him a small smile and an open-handed shrug.

Jim didn't smile back, he just returned his attention to the book and took his time examining it, turning pages carefully, reading a little. When he finally put it back on the shelf, he did so slowly, reluctantly.

"You can read it," Blair hastened to say, leaning forward in his seat. He gestured toward the six other books on the self next to his dissertation, all of which he had written. "You can read any of those. If you want to. It's fine. What's mine is yours."

Jim looked at him, and when he spoke it was with a sincerity that made Blair's eyes sting with sudden heat.

"I do...want to," he said.

Blair couldn't speak, he just nodded, inexpressibly grateful.

Silence settled lightly, then, like dust.

Jim kept flipping through the books.

"Do you want to sit down?" Blair asked when Jim was done, unable to keep the faint note of hope out of his voice. Jim didn't answer. He stood very still, seeming to freeze in place, he even breathed shallowly.

"Maybe have something to eat?" Blair continued.

"I--," Jim started, but then he pinned Blair with a raw, pleading look that seemed to say: "I can't" or maybe it was, "I can't let myself."

Blair absorbed the look on Jim's face, held onto it, then he nodded and with careful effort, he stood up from the couch.

"Okay, what about just some tea, then?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he slipped into the kitchen.

After a while, moving cautiously, wary of the kitchen furniture, Jim followed him.

Blair felt it when Jim stepped up behind him and touched his ribs gently.

"You should sit down," Jim said, his voice hoarse but, in spite of that, unmistakably kind. He sidestepped to turn and lean against the counter, and he looked at Blair's face steadily for a moment, without speaking. Then he swallowed, raised a fist and, suddenly seeming embarrassed, he cleared his throat.

"But then when you sit, I--." Jim let out a derisive breath and looked away from Blair, "it's like I'm on patrol again. It's like..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head. When he met Blair's gaze again, he looked resigned , "I'm not very good at explaining, I...talking to you--" he shook his head to correct himself. "Just *talking*. I'm out of practice."

"You want to protect me," Blair said quietly, understanding.

Jim took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a brief, almost prayerful second. "Yes," he exhaled.

Blair allowed himself a fragile smile, "So, what else is new?" he asked.

Jim blinked, his eyes softened, and he leaned back against the counter, his body relaxing a little, finally.

Blair looked down at the teapot in the sink.

"This is lame," he said, managing a dry chuckle, "the tea, I mean. I'm always...do you even want tea?"

Jim gave a bare shrug, a trace of amusement touched his face.

"It brings back good memories," he said, and that was all Blair needed to hear. He took the lid off the pot and turned on the faucet.

The sound of the water rushing into the metal pot was startlingly loud in the quiet kitchen, and out of the corner of his eye, Blair saw Jim stiffen as though he'd been sucker-punched. Cursing himself, Blair shut off the water and grabbed Jim’s arm.

"God, I’m sorry," he hissed, but Jim didn't respond and Blair felt a stab of fear in his gut, like ice.

"Jim?"

Jim crossed an arm over his stomach and tensed again, half doubling-over. Blair squared himself in front of him, holding on even tighter. Jim was breathing hard, panting. Blair felt a wave of his own light-headedness.

"What is it, Jim? What hurts?"

"Talk--" Jim croaked, without looking up, "Blair. Say-- something. I can't..."

"Okay," Blair nodded hastily, holding on tighter, "look, it's okay, I'm talking to you, okay? I'm here. I know that was loud-- the water-- your hearing's probably spiking..."

Jim shook his head in denial, and then he lurched again, harder this time, letting out an agonized groan. Blair palmed his chest urgently, trying to support him.

"God, Jim-- look at me. I know the dials are no good but you have to look at me--."

Jim's head shot up and that's when Blair saw it, the cut of terror in Jim's eyes; terror like a scream. He put his hand on Jim's cheek, both hands, and he ducked in close, seizing Jim's gaze. "*Jim*."

But tears were streaming down Jim's hot, flushed face as he trembled and drew in fast, hard-won, breaths.

"Hurts," he hissed desperately, a pleading look flooding into his eyes. "Blair."

"I know," Blair rasped, raking his gaze over Jim, touching his neck, his chest, desperate to take away the pain-- anything-- he'd do anything. "I know, just..."

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and fought desperately for some semblance of control.

"No," he growled fiercely, rage suddenly raw in his voice, "I won't do it. You can't make me do it!"

"Jim." Blair gave him an urgent, careful shake, "Look at me!"

And then, when Jim opened his eyes again, suddenly, everything shifted in Blair's mind and he understood what was going on. He could've cursed himself for being so blind, so goddamn slow, but instead he just looked around for something, anything to help him. He saw nothing but the spotless kitchen counters and the teapot in the sink. Turning back to Jim, he grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed it, hard.

"It's a flashback," he said with an authority he didn't feel, "The sound of the water must've triggered it. That's what this is, Jim. You're having a flashback."

He took Jim's hand, still clutched in his, and pressed it to his chest where his heart was raging so hard that he knew Jim couldn't help but feel it.

"You need to focus on me," Blair said. "Not back there, back then. That's all in the past. What you're feeling, what you're seeing -- whatever's happening, Jim-- it is not happening right now, okay? It's over and you're standing in the kitchen in the loft, because you're home now and you're safe. You hear me?" Blair reached out and pressed a hand to Jim's face again. "You feel that? That's me." Blair smoothed his hand down to Jim's flushed neck. "This is me. I'm here. I'm right here."

Jim, head down, gulping for air, reached out and grabbed a fistful of Blair's t-shirt. "Blair," he gasped helplessly. "It won't stop. It doesn't ever stop."

"Yes, it does. It will." Blair reached for the back of Jim's neck and pulled him to his chest, hard, wrapping his arms around him and rolling to brace them both against the kitchen counter. "Just hold on."

Jim's chest heaved and Blair could feel the humid heat radiating off him-- Jim's body like a furnace of pain.

"Water. It-- hurts."

"I know. God, I'm so sorry, Jim. I know. Hang on. You just hang on, okay? There's no water here. I turned it off. There's no water." He pulled away enough to grope for Jim's hand again and put it to the countertop, pressing Jim's palm flat to the solid surface. "Feel that? That's the kitchen counter. That's home."

But Jim groaned and tugged his hand away, reaching instead for Blair's hair, twining his fingers in deep, grabbing a tight handful.

"Yeah, all right. Okay," Blair gasped, nodding, thinking: yes, yes, whatever works. "Focus on me. It's gonna be over soon. Try to breathe through the pain."

And Jim did breathe-- he breathed so hard and so fast that Blair thought he was going to hyperventilate, but he didn't, somehow, and after a long time, he started to calm down. Gradually, the tight-fisted grip in Blair's hair loosened and, at last, Jim's hands slid down to rest heavily on Blair's shoulders. That was when Blair carefully pushed on his arms to ease Jim back a little.

Jim's eyes were closed and he swayed. Blair held on tight to keep him from falling.

"Okay," Blair said softly, his voice shaking, "Okay. It's all right now."

"Blair?" Jim rasped, almost voicelessly, sounding utterly terrified.

Blair folded him back into his arms again.

"Shhh, yeah. I'm right here. I've got you. It's all right. Everything's all right."

Jim coughed out a sob and gave his weight up completely to Blair, leaning so heavily against him that Blair was glad the counter was behind him.

"I've got you," he said again, rubbing Jim's back, holding on.

Jim breathed deeply, wearily, his chest moving like the tide against Blair's. He didn't speak -- didn't move -- and Blair would have stood there all night, if that's what Jim wanted, what he needed. He would have held Jim's weight and braced him. But eventually Jim gathered himself enough to pull away, extracting himself with effort to look down at Blair's face.

His eyes...

Jim's eyes were so pale and clear that they looked nearly gray as though torment had leached the color out of them. They were ghost eyes, empty and yet somehow over-full. Blair knew that he was looking into the eyes of someone who had seen too much-- endured too much.

"You're tired," he heard himself say in a tremulous whisper. There was a scalding ache in his eyes, his vision swam, and his lips felt half-numb as if he had tasted something poisonous. He could hardly talk but he managed, barely, sounding like he was begging, pleading for Jim to understand the depth of the truth that was in his words, the magnitude. "You need to lie down. Rest. Sleep."

Jim stared at him, down into him, wordlessly, his body thrumming with fatigue and heady pain. Then, he opened his mouth to speak, let out his breath, and shook his head, completely at a loss for words. When he blinked, tears tracked down his cheeks.

"You can," Blair insisted, as if he had heard the unvoiced protest that was so clearly written in Jim's stark eyes. He glanced with flagrant hope over at his bedroom door. "Come on. Just come lie down. It'll be all right."

Desperate... he sounded so obviously desperate but he couldn’t help it and he didn't care. With his hands on Jim's arms, he took an encouraging step toward his bedroom but Jim put a hand down on the counter top as if he needed the support to stay upright, and he planted his feet. Blair froze.

"Couch," Jim rasped, closing his eyes if this concession cost him.

"Okay," Blair agreed immediately, "All right, sure. We'll go to the couch." He nodded and looked up at Jim, watching his face as he carefully moved, positioning himself so he could slip an arm around Jim's waist.

"Easy does it," he said softly. "Let's go slow."

Jim was almost too drained to walk. He draped an arm over Blair's shoulders and leaned against him so heavily that Blair staggered, but then managed to make it over to the couch, keeping them both upright. Blair was even able to ease Jim down to sit onto the cushions, slowly, sensing that he needed to move carefully.

Jim let his head rest against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. Blair moved wordlessly to stand in front of him, the t-shirt he wore was darkly stained with sweat.

"Let me go get you some dry clothes," Blair said, but Jim shook his head.

"No," he rasped. "It doesn't matter."

There was a blanket on the back of the couch and some throw pillows-- it was enough. Blair reached for the blanket, "Okay, we'll just both stay here."

Jim let Blair move him, guiding him over to lie down on his side. He tugged off Jim's shoes and draped the blanket over him.

"Blair," Jim started, his voice a dry whisper.

Blair squatted down beside the couch to hear him better, and put one hand on Jim's shoulder. "Yeah?"

"The gun. If he comes..." Jim's voice trailed off and in the very next instant he was breathing in the deep, unguarded way of someone who had fallen helplessly asleep.

Blair turned and looked at the unmistakably lethal shape of the Glock that had been, for the last three years, packed away in the closet upstairs. He looked at it, then he slowly sat down on the floor beside the couch within easy reach of both it and Jim.

*If he comes…*

Jim's words seemed to hang ominously in the air and Blair glanced over at the front door of the loft, checking to see that the dead-bolt was turned and that the chain was in place. Turning back the other way, he glanced at the wide, fragile-looking balcony windows.

It was going to be a long night, he realized. A very long night.

 

**

Atmospheric Pressure

**

 

Nothing terrible happened-- at least, that is, no bad guys came crashing into the loft, splintering the front door or shattering the balcony windows. But when Blair woke to the thin light of dawn and found himself stretched out inexplicably on the couch with a blanket draped over him, he knew, in his gut, that something wasn’t right. There was a pressure in the air that reminded him of his dreams-- dreams of Peru, of wandering lost but searching, always searching for Jim.

He sat up blearily and rubbed his neck. His ribs ached fiercely when he shifted to put his feet on the floor, but the pain was duller than before. Glancing at the coffee table he saw that the Glock, which had been placed there so deliberately last night, was gone.

A soft noise from behind him made him turn and he caught sight of Jim standing in the kitchen, still as shadow, his face calm. His eyes were closed. He was leaning up against the counter by the sink wearing jeans that looked like they were fifty years old; visibly soft and worn thin in places. His t-shirt might once have been blue but it had faded to gray. As Blair looked at him, he felt a pang of sadness in his chest. It was as if, in that moment, Jim was just as old and faded as his clothes.

Sensing that he was being watched, Jim opened his eyes and in a heartbeat, all trace of fragility disappeared, banished by the icy steel in his eyes. For an instant Blair saw only strength, fierce and defiant, then as the moment eased, Jim’s gaze softened and without warning, his eyes were filled with incredible grief-- sorrow so deep it twisted Blair’s heart.

“What?” Blair heard himself whisper. He stood, pushing the blanket off his lap, his alarm rising. He rounded the couch.

“Jim, what--?”

But Jim shook his head, barely perceptibly, and Blair’s voice cut off. In the sudden silence, the clock on the kitchen wall ticked audibly. Blair looked at it startled, realizing that it was something he would never have owned before… living with Jim. Suddenly, he had to swallow a desperate urge to bash it into a million pieces.

Moving forward slowly, he refused to let himself lift a hand to cradle his aching ribs. He didn‘t want Jim to see him hurting. But his effort was wasted because Jim saw his pain anyway, recognized it instantly. They were intimately acquainted after all-- Jim and pain. His eyes darkened, growing sharp with something close to fury.

“Blair--.” His voice was rusty, broken.

“No, I’m okay,” Blair said steadily, reaching out. He touched Jim’s fingers lightly with his own. Jim’s hand twitched but he did not pull away.

“I…” Blair began, but then had to clear his throat as his voice failed. Jim’s eyes moved slowly down to the place where Blair touched him, his thumb brushed against Blair’s knuckles gently.

“Do you want some coffee?” Blair rasped. And when Jim didn’t answer he tried again,

“Are you hungry? I could--”

“Can you live like this?” Jim interrupted gravely, softly, his face unreadable. His eyes rose deliberately up from Blair’s fingers to meet his gaze.

“Live like… what?” Blair hesitated.

“Constantly in danger.” Jim said bluntly, “Under threat.”

“I…” Blair shook his head as if to clear it. It was difficult to think standing so close to Jim like this, caught in the snare of his gaze. “If I have to,” he managed, tightening his grip on Jim’s hand.

The corner of Jim’s mouth lifted.

“Funny… that’s exactly what Helena said once. And now she’s dead.”

“Jim--.”

“She was the bravest woman I’ve ever known. She brought a child into this world. She--.”

Jim shook his head, stunned, his eyes searched Blair’s with sudden urgency.

“There was machine gun fire outside, echoing across the hills. Chief--” He choked on his next word, his eyes suddenly overbright. Blair stepped even closer.

“How do you do that? Hold onto that kind of hope?” Jim rubbed a rough hand over his face, “I’ve never understood…”

Blair couldn’t speak, he shook his head. Unable to meet Jim’s gaze he found himself looking down at the cruel scar on Jim’s arm. Angry tears burned his eyes.

“What happened to the baby?” He finally asked.

Jim was silent for a long moment. Blair could hear him breathing carefully, filling his lungs and emptying them with grim focus. At last, he answered in a low, gut-wrenching voice,

“I gave him to Helena’s aunt who lives in Tucson... Along with a passport and false papers. Helena was willing to risk her own life… but not his.”

“Why didn’t she come with you?”

Blair braved a glance up at Jim’s face and saw him shut his eyes, wincing against a sudden up-rush of pain.

“It’s… complicated,” he said wearily.

Blair could only imagine the kind of complexity that involved a mother sending her baby to another country to escape machine gun fire. He tried to imagine Jim handing this baby-- this baby boy he’d might’ve helped deliver with his own hands-- over to some stranger in Arizona. He couldn’t conjure up the picture.

“Is the baby yours?” Blair asked helplessly, feeling crazy to be asking such a thing. What kind of world did they live in that he could utter these words?

Jim opened his eyes and his far-away gaze focused reluctantly. He blinked at Blair, dazed for a second before a terrible smile, the ghost of some faint old joy, touched his face.

“No,” he murmured. “Helena and Carlos were so in love it hurt to look at them. You knew it was too good to last.”

Jim glanced up at the ceiling and Blair could see his throat work as he swallowed. Whatever curiosity Blair might have felt for Carlos and the fate that befell him was quashed by the powerful anguish he could feel emanating from Jim like waves of dry heat.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

Jim nodded.

“Yeah,” he said crisply, exhaling, “Me too.” He took a deep breath and straightened, glancing around the kitchen as if trying to remember where he was. “Uh….” He rubbed his mouth. “You-- you said something about coffee?”

“Sure,” Blair said a little too quickly, “Yeah. Sure. Coffee. I can do that.”

He stepped away from Jim, turned and took hold of the coffee maker in both hands. He looked at it blankly, trying to remember how it worked.

“Right. Gotta plug this thing in, don‘t I?” He reached for the cord and saw that his hand was shaking. It took two tries to get the plug where it belonged. Then Blair sensed, rather than heard, Jim step up behind him. When a strong, warm hand touched his back, Blair’s knees weakened. Relief, like warm water, swept over him and nothing could’ve stopped him, then, from turning around and pulling Jim into his arms. Jim caught him in a fierce grip.

“I can’t lose you,” Jim croaked, his voice cracking.

Blair tightened his hold.

“You won’t,” he hissed. “I promise you won’t.”

A sudden knock on the door made Jim flinch, and then, in one motion, Jim pivoted, drew the Glock .19 from the holster Blair hadn’t noticed he was wearing, and blocked Blair’s body with his own. It took less than a second. One instant Jim was holding him, and the next, he was aiming a gun at the front door in a two-handed, rock-steady grip.

“Wait” Blair gasped, pain slicing like ice through his ribs stealing his breath. He made an instinctive grab for Jim, catching him around the waist to steady himself-- to steady them both. “Wait a minute. Who‘s out there? Listen,” he wheezed.

“Simon.” Jim’s low-pitched answer was automatic, reflexive, “and… Rafe.”

“Simon and Rafe,” Blair repeated, forcing himself to take shallow breaths, striving for calm. “Simon and Rafe. Okay, so they’re okay. They’re our friends, right?”

Jim didn’t move, his aim didn’t waver.

“Jim--” Blair unclenched his fist where it had balled in Jim’s t-shirt and spread his hand out flat against Jim’s stomach, “Simon and Rafe are our friends,” he said, infusing authority into his voice. “They’re here to help. You can put the gun away. Trust me. You can trust me on this.”

A long moment of silence passed and then another knock sounded, louder than before. Blair heard Simon’s muffled voice from the other side of the door, but his attention was fixed on Jim whose body was rigid, humming with tension against his own.

“Jim,” he breathed again softly, “It’s clear, man. You can stand down. There’s no threat here.”

Slowly, moving stiffly, Jim finally lowered the gun, thumbed the safety and holstered it. Only then did he seem to breathe, letting the air out of his lungs in a long, shaky exhale. Blair eased out from behind him just as a third knock came, and Simon shouted something. Blair made out the words: “kick this door down!” before he shouted back: “Hang on. I‘m coming.”

But he didn’t move. Instead he locked eyes with Jim and held his gaze for a long beat waiting for the dangerous edge in Jim’s eyes to dissolve into a grim, slow-dawning gratitude.

“All right?” He finally asked, softly.

Jim gave a jerky nod.

~

Simon pinned him with a steely look.

“What the hell took you so long? I was starting to think-- Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Blair widened the door and glanced at Rafe. “Everything’s fine. Hey, Brian.”

“Hey,” Rafe murmured, but he was gazing over Blair’s shoulder, eyes fixed on Jim, awestruck. “Jesus,” he whispered unsteadily. “He’s-- it’s him…”

His voice trailed off and he shook his head. Jim looked back at Rafe, his expression stony, completely unreadable. When Rafe stepped forward, something stiffened in Jim’s expression and Blair felt a curl of unease in his stomach. This was too much too fast, he realized suddenly.

“Ellison,” Rafe said, and then he was crossing the loft, advancing on Jim. “My God, man, I can’t believe it.”

Jim’s face drained of color and he took a quick step back but bumped into the kitchen counter where he was forced to stand trapped as Rafe caught him in a brief, hard hug. His eyes flew, panicked, over to Blair’s.

“Easy,” Blair heard himself murmur. He was halfway across the room without realizing he‘d moved.

“Brain, take a step back, will you?”

Rafe didn’t seem to hear Blair’s quietly voiced warning but he pulled away anyway and the strange urgency of the moment eased when he moved.

“Jesus,” Rafe said again, but this time he was grinning, his eyes glistening with tears he didn’t notice. “You’re alive. Thank god. I can’t believe it.” He reached out and touched Jim arm as if to reassure himself that he was real. “Thank *god*, Jim, I--.” His strangled voice choked off and he shook his head, at a loss for words.

Jim’s throat worked. Blair saw him try, but utterly fail to say something. He knew Jim wanted to speak but was completely incapable of doing so. Rafe didn’t seem to mind, he was looking at Jim as if he was some kind of glowing angel.

Simon intervened, walking over to Rafe and physically pulling him back another step.

“Yes, he’s alive and I’d like him to stay that way.”

“Yeah,” Rafe nodded, dazed, “Right. We’re not going to let anything happen to you, Jim. Everyone at the station‘s volunteered to take shifts here at the loft. We don‘t care how long it takes to flush this bastard out, we’re gonna--”

“No,” Jim croaked, looking stricken. He shot a wild glance at Simon, then Blair, “No. I don’t want this.” He shook his head stiffly. “I can’t risk this--.”

“Risk what?” Rafe interrupted, but Jim was looking around in what Blair had quickly come to recognize as his cornered attempt to find an escape route.

“We do this for a living, remember?” Rafe said, “And we want to protect you--.”

His voice cut off when Jim pushed him, hard, sending him stumbling back against the kitchen island. Simon made a grab to steady him, and then Jim was around them both, making a rush for the door. Blair saw it all happen with uncanny clarity and he knew, without a doubt that Jim was acting purely on instinct-- he was not seeing the loft anymore, or his friends. Right now he was seeing only prison walls.

“Jim! Wait!” Simon bellowed, and then, faster than Blair would’ve thought possible, Simon was on him, catching Jim’s arm, spinning him around.

The gun came out with lightning speed and the whole world seemed to stop for a terrible, dizzying moment. Blair felt his blood freeze. Then with a huge shudder of impact, Jim slammed Simon up against the wall and planted the Glock smack dead-center in the middle of his forehead.

“Don’t you FUCKING TOUCH ME!” he roared, his hand flexing around the gun. Simon’s eyes flew wide and he held up both palms away from Jim.

“No,” he wheezed, his airflow constricted by Jim’s forearm pressed hard across his throat, “Not touching you.”

Rafe’s hand dropped instinctively to his sidearm but Blair held out a palm to stop him. His heart rocked inside his chest so hard he could feel its beat in his fingertips, but when he spoke, it was with desperate calm.

“No,” he murmured, “Brian, don‘t.”

“*Sandburg*--,” Rafe hissed frantically but Blair ignored him and locked eyes with Simon.

“He’s not seeing you. You‘ve got to make him see you.”

“What?” Simon’s voice shuddered, “How?”

Blair took a slow step closer to Jim, watching his every move. Jim’s chest was heaving, his face hot with rage.

“Jim? Can you hear me?”

Jim didn’t budge.

“Listen to my voice, Jim. I want you to look at Simon’s face. Look at him. He’s your friend, Simon Banks, and he doesn’t want to hurt you because you two go way back… and you could recognize the smell of his cigars anywhere, right? Even after all these years. You know it’s him. He‘s your friend.”

Jim’s breathing changed and Blair knew he was starting to get through to him.

“Yeah,” he said, “remember how we used to go over to his house for poker night? Remember his kid-- his son-- Daryl? Daryl’s in college now, can you believe it?”

The gun faltered just slightly and Jim blinked, disoriented.

“You’re in the loft,” Blair reminded him, dropping his tone to a soothing murmur. “And everything’s all right. Just lower your weapon, Jim. Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

Jim pulled the gun away from Simon’s forehead and looked at it as if he didn’t have a clue what it was doing in his hand. Then he looked, dumb-struck at Simon and an expression of blooming horror spread across his face.

“What?” He said numbly, taking a staggering step backward. Simon reached out quickly, with shaking fingers, for the gun.

“S’okay,” he said airlessly.

But Jim was turning away, weaving unsteadily, the gun still held precariously in his hand. He raised his knuckles to his mouth and cast helplessly around, looking for--.

“Blair?”

“I’m right here.” Blair was at his side instantly, taking his arm. With his other hand, he captured the gun carefully and passed it behind him to Rafe. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Jim’s stomach lurched and Blair turned him in the direction of the kitchen sink but they didn’t make it two steps before Jim threw up into his hand.

“Simon?” Jim croaked miserably, and then, amazingly Simon was there, sliding his arm around Jim’s waist and helping to propel him the rest of the way to the sink.

Jim retched some more while Simon stripped off his long overcoat and let it drop limply to the floor-- he was still shaking, Blair saw, and the shirt underneath his coat was soaked-through with sweat, but he helped hold Jim steady and he spoke to him in a gruff, kind voice.

“I know, Jim. I know. Just relax, man. It’s okay. It was my fault. I jumped you. You just reacted. Perfectly natural--.”

Jim straightened and groped out for Simon, grabbing the collar of his shirt. His breathing was rough and uneven.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean--.”

Simon touched Jim’s cheek with his palm briefly, very tenderly, and looked at him with speaking eyes. “I know,” he said again, enunciating the words. Then his gaze cut urgently to Rafe.

“Get a chair,” he ordered. “Hurry.”

Brian hustled over with one from the dining table and set it behind Jim just as his knees gave out. Blair and Simon both eased his collapse, and it was Blair who guided Jim to lower his head.

“Breathe,” he said, crouching down beside the chair. “Deep breaths, Jim. Nice and easy.”

Blair glanced up gratefully at Simon, wanting to thank him, -- but then he saw the sheen of sweat on Simon’s face, his dazed eyes, and he turned quickly to Rafe.

“Better bring another chair,” he said.

**

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