A Sentinel story
by
Destina Fortunato
Author's notes are at the end of the story.
If the night had gone on forever, things might have been easier for Jim Ellison all the way around. Instead, the sun insisted on following the moon, arriving right on time in the eastern sky. The dawn illuminated every mistake made in darkness, erasing illusion, shattering assumptions made in the absence of words.
Jim dressed slowly in the shadows of his bedroom, watching the ordered patterns of early morning light shimmering through the skylight. Dust stirred weakly as he moved quietly about, collected clothing strewn across the room and deposited it in the hamper just inside the closet. He tucked the edges of his shirt in, buckled his belt, straightened the legs of his pants.
In his travels around the room he paused often to look down at the man in his bed. Blair's limbs were tangled in his sheets, wound in and around the blankets; his face rested against Jim's beige pillowcase, relaxed in sleep. The dark bruise under his eye stood out in stark contrast to the smooth skin surrounding it. Jim caught himself reaching out a hand, drawn by the impulse to touch. His fingers hovered there, moving fluidly in the air just above Blair's cheek as though caressing the small injury.
Without making contact, he pulled his hand away.
Blair stirred, and Jim stepped back, still studying him. There were shadows beneath the lowered lashes, dark circles that would become more pronounced when Blair woke. His lips were still swollen. Jim could clearly remember the small noise of need Blair had made as he'd kissed those lips apart, gently opening them.
He grabbed the corner of the comforter and pulled it up over Blair's shoulders. The loft was chilly in the mornings. Blair snuggled down beneath the warmth of down and cotton, murmuring Jim's name.
Jim picked up his badge, closed his hand around the cold metal. It was heavy against his palm; the edges bit into his skin. He looked a moment more - after all, there was no harm in looking - and then descended the stairs slowly. Jacket in hand, he left for work, pausing in the open doorway to look at the broken door propped against the wall.
Silence filled the loft, creeping into the corners, latching on to unspoken doubts and regrets.
*****
"You with me, Jim?"
"Yeah, Simon...yeah. Sorry." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, trying to forestall his impending headache. He could feel Simon's eyes on him, concerned, curious.
"What's with you today?" Simon closed the case file he was holding and tossed it down on the conference table. "And where's the kid?"
"Blair's at home. I wanted him to get some rest."
Simon gave Jim a long, hard look and nodded once. "Let's get through this, then, make sure you've got the details down."
"You don't want me to lie, do you?"
"I want you to give them what's relevant. It's only a shooting review board."
"Are they expecting Sandburg to testify?"
"They have his statement; that should be enough."
Jim nodded, satisfied. "Let's get this show on the road."
"Just pretend I'm IA." Simon leaned back against the edge of his desk.
"Not possible. You have some integrity."
"Save it," Simon said, but a smirk played across his lips. "Let's start with what you saw as you entered the building."
"They're going to want the whole story, Simon, starting at the loft." Jim could feel the muscles in his jaw tightening.
"One thing at a time. Inside the building. What did you see?"
"It was what I heard, actually." Jim called the details to mind without effort. "Blair was taunting Lash, egging him on, distracting him. It worked for a while, but then Lash lost his patience and decided it was time to end the conversation."
"Go on."
"I could hear Sandburg choking, gasping for air. I figured he was being drugged, so I made my move." Ineffective though it was. Anger heated his face as he recalled the sight of Blair, chained and helpless under the control of a complete lunatic.
"Did you order him to stop?"
"Of course I did. I identified myself. I kept my weapon trained on Lash as I approached but I lost my footing when the stairs gave way."
"And you fell."
"I dropped the gun when I hit the ground. I never had a chance to pick it up again."
"Where did you obtain the weapon you killed Lash with?"
"I was carrying a secondary weapon."
"Are you aware that's against departmental procedure?"
"My captain has made that clear to me on numerous occasions, yes." Jim smiled slightly.
"Did you call for backup before proceeding into the building?"
"No. The arrival of other officers on the scene would have alerted Lash to the fact that we were on to him. He would have killed Sandburg right away to eliminate a potential witness." Jim took a slow breath, easing the deep tension in his muscles. Anger simmered in his heart, fueled by a need to be with Blair, doing something much more important.
"When this is over, you and I are going to have a serious talk about these loner tendencies of yours."
"Whatever."
"You fell; you lost your weapon. Then what?"
"I couldn't allow Lash to get his hands on the gun, so I tackled him. We struggled. When he realized he was on the losing end he made a break for it. I pursued; he attacked me with a piece of wood, at which time I eliminated the threat."
"You mean you shot him."
"Yes."
"How many times?"
"Five, I think."
"How many of your bullets found their target, Jim?"
Mild surprise caused Jim's eyebrow to lift. "All of them. I don't miss, Simon."
"Why five shots?" Simon asked quietly.
Jim's hands closed into fists; he relaxed the involuntary motion, stretching his fingers out across his thighs. He said nothing, since the answer was self-evident. In one corner, Blair Sandburg, with his opinions and ideas about the modern-day Sentinel, full of life and warmth and enthusiasm, making the world a habitable place again. And in the other, David Lash, cynical and insane, bringing only fear and danger, putting his hands on Sandburg, *touching* him, trying to become him.
There was no contest, hadn't been from the beginning. One was precious; one was breathing air that was best left for someone else's consumption.
Simon reached back across his desk, grasping a half-chewed cigar to turn between his fingers, and waited.
"It was instinct." Jim closed his eyes. "I pulled the trigger until I knew the threat was removed. I didn't analyze it, Simon." He sighed, leaning back in the chair. "I just...took care of it."
"Then what?"
"Then I went back to Blair, found him chained up like a fucking dog." He forced himself to take a deep breath. "I had to climb down in there with Lash to get the key to the shackles. That's when I called for backup."
"Was Sandburg conscious?"
"He'd ingested just enough of the sedative to make him sleepy. He was covered with bruises." Jim didn't elaborate on the examination he'd done, checking Blair with his hands and his eyes, seeking injuries Blair might not have even recognized in his struggle for survival.
"Looked like there was one hell of a struggle at the loft. The kid must have put up quite a fight."
Broken furniture, scattered books and papers all over the loft. If Jim hadn't been scared half out of his mind for Blair's safety, he might have been impressed. "No question."
"Tell me why you felt a duck pond was a likely location for the killings to have taken place."
Jim looked Simon square in the eye. "I played a hunch."
"And what if you'd been wrong?"
"Why do I get the feeling you're not playing IA anymore?"
"Because I want a real answer this time, Jim." Simon leaned back in the chair, resting one elbow on the arm. "You seemed sure right from the get-go. Were you?"
"Reasonably sure, yes." Jim's head was aching; he hadn't had a headache of such proportions since before he met Blair. "Enough that I can withstand the inquisition today, if that's what you're asking."
"I suppose it is," Simon answered. "Mostly."
"What?" The pressure in Jim's skull was nearly blinding him.
"Want to explain to me why you wouldn't let anyone else touch the kid?"
"No, I don't." Jim swiveled the chair to the left, toward the window facing the bullpen, away from Simon.
"Want me to speculate?"
"Simon..." The name emerged as a growl. "Leave it alone."
After a long moment, Simon stood up, back to Jim, looking out the window at the sun-bright city. "All right. I trust you, Jim, so I'll let this go. For now."
Jim said nothing. His hands moved across the fabric of his dark slacks, pressing invisible wrinkles out of the material.
Simon returned to the table and pushed the case file until it rested against Jim's arm. "The hearing is scheduled for 10. Take some time to review the facts of the case."
"This isn't my first shooting review." Jim snatched up the file and dropped it carelessly into his lap.
"No, but things are different now. There's more at stake."
Jim let the file folder fall open slightly in the palm of his hand, catching a glimpse of Lash's face. He snapped it shut and rose from the chair. "Anything else, sir?"
"Just one thing." Simon pointed with his cigar in the direction of the bullpen. "What's Sandburg doing here, looking like that?"
Jim didn't bother to answer. Instead, he pulled open the door and made his way to Blair's side, casually, slowly, like a man who has all the time in the world. Blair looked up and saw what was headed his direction, and his eyes lit with pleasure. Jim ignored the fact that Blair was a mess of worn flannel and flyaway hair; instead, he concentrated on those eyes, on the joy there, the spark of something he could never acknowledge in this public place.
They spoke without speaking, until Jim smiled slightly, and Blair's entire body relaxed. "Hey, Jim." Blair set down his backpack and sank into a desk chair.
"What are you doing here? I told you not to come in today."
"Yeah, but I came down with a terminal case of independence, you know?" The blue eyes searched his, narrowing in response to what they saw on Jim's face. "Just thought I should be here in case they needed my testimony."
"It won't come to that."
Blair swallowed hard, fiddling with the strap of his backpack, picking at the tiny nylon threads. "Are you worried that I'll give something away?"
"You know exactly what I'm worried about, and it's not the case."
"I'm all right," Blair said. It was that tone of voice that brooked no argument, that informed Jim the entire issue had just been resolved. "I don't have any classes today, so I'm sticking with you this morning, like it or not."
Jim considered that for a moment, turning over the various implications before giving his approval to that decision. "Oh, I like it." He swatted Blair's hand away from the strap of the backpack. "I like it just fine. Stick with me."
Blair snorted, but the smile at the edges of his lips widened a bit. "Did you get any sleep?"
"Enough." Jim perched on the edge of the desk and put down the file folder, pushing it behind him. "You make that follow-up appointment with the department shrink yet?"
Blair sighed. "Don't need a shrink. He'll just patronize me, or tell me that I should expect some kind of, you know, major wig-out. It isn't going to happen. I'm not traumatized. I'm fine."
"I just thought...it might not be a bad idea, considering."
"Jim, I'm fine." Blair's expression was unguarded, so much so that Jim could see the complete truth of his belief.
"Okay." Jim picked up the file folder again and stood, fidgeting. Oddly, the squad room seemed very small, even claustrophobic, and it made him a little restless. "I'm going to go look over this file, and then I'm heading for the hearing. You'll be here?"
"Right here."
Jim did give in, finally, to the impulse to touch, laying his hand on Blair's shoulder, sliding it over the fuzzy flannel, ghosting his fingertips across the back of Blair's neck. Subtly, Blair's head tipped back for him, a gesture reminding him of the moments just before he'd become lost in his senses the night before, in the sight and sounds of Blair Sandburg.
He squeezed Blair's shoulder and released him as he made his way to the door, out into the wide corridor on his way to one of the interrogation rooms. The handle rattled in his hand, cold and shaky, as he opened the door and closed it firmly behind him.
It seemed to be an unwritten rule that all interrogation rooms had to be dimly lit. Either that, or naked bulbs had to be blazing with too-high wattage, but in this particular room, there were shadows. Jim stepped forward, laid his file on the table, and paused there, staring at the manila blandness of the folder.
Small pencil marks; doodles of names, telephone numbers, bits and pieces of information written hastily when no scratch paper was around, erased moments later. The folder was covered with evidence of their frustrating, fruitless search for David Lash.
With two fingers, he lifted the cover, looking down at the picture of Lash clipped to the inside front. His attention slipped to the right, drawn to the most recent documentation inside the file, information not yet consigned to the particular order decreed for an investigation file.
Blair's face looked back at him, courtesy of a police photographer. One small cut, above his left eye; one tiny bruise, beneath.
Slowly, Jim exhaled a long breath; sweat was cooling on the back of his neck, dotting his forehead and his upper lip. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to gain some perspective.
Lash's picture was obscured by Blair's a moment later when Jim shifted the contents of the file, moving on. A picture of Lash, sprawled across the rotting sub-basement floor of the warehouse. Jim flipped the picture over and continued reviewing. There were a few of Simon's notes about his weapon, about the number of spent shell casings recovered at the scene, about the various cuts and bruises Jim had sustained from his fall.
He'd spent ten minutes shaking out shards of glass from his clothing the night before, watching the splintered pieces cascading to the ground. Blair had swept them up, efficiently, quickly, depositing them in the trash and moving on.
A brief note from the hospital physician who'd seen Blair, discussing Blair's groggy presentation, his various injuries - presence of a powerful sedative in his bloodstream, but not enough to incapacitate. No broken bones, no evidence of serious trauma. Minor lacerations and several bruises to his face and torso, including the imprint of fingers dug deep into the flesh of his upper left arm.
Jim yanked the chair out from beneath the table and sat down, re-reading the doctor's notes one word at a time, no longer skimming. Simply amazing, the way some things never occurred to him. He liked to think he was a sharp guy but occasionally, his world was remade as chaos, thrown into upheaval by circumstances he'd never anticipated.
He thought back to the way he'd needed to have his hands on Blair, to eradicate his subconscious fears, to eliminate the spark of hatred he felt for Lash when he saw the bruise beneath Blair's eye. Lash's scent clung to Blair's clothes, his skin; it had been hard to ignore the impulsive rage triggered by the knowledge Lash had touched him, had pressed his body against Blair's. Other impulses had been triggered, too - a need to claim Blair, to erase that scent from his body by any means necessary, to take back the horror and replace it with reassurance.
Blair hadn't objected, so he made no attempt to hold back. It was something they both needed in that moment, the comfort of touch, of their bodies pressed together, seeking asylum. Jim could feel his heart rate rising as he looked at those notes, and back at Blair's photograph half-hidden beneath the papers he'd laid on top of it.
It struck him suddenly with incredible clarity, the idea that his desire for Blair been beyond his power to control. Instinct had driven every movement, every touch, every moan of desire, even the starburst of tenderness he'd felt when Blair whispered his name, the emotion he'd been on the verge of revealing...
He stood, knocking the chair over in his haste, and backed up, moved away from the table until his shoulders connected with the door and he was firmly against something solid, something tangible. His head dropped back and he closed his eyes, shaking, not thinking about it, not thinking at all.
*****
Blair bent his head over his paperwork, glasses perched granny-style at the end of his nose. He would have to get the prescription changed soon, since these particular specs weren't really doing the trick anymore. He supposed he might get around to it, eventually, probably after he'd gone blind in one eye from reading Jim's illegible handwriting.
Jim's scrawled report reflected his haste; he'd written it as Blair was being treated at the hospital. Photocopying had only added to the blurring. The original was off somewhere being neatly typed onto a form by a secretary who was no doubt grumbling about Jim's sloppy work. Blair had been allowed to slide with just a brief statement of facts - Taggart had probably never taken so many notes off a victim interview - but there was always a reckoning.
With a sigh, Blair read through the report, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. The bruises on his stomach were aching. He could feel each mark left by Lash's knuckles. In fact, he'd taken a critical look that morning at the imprints of violence on his body; each smallish purple circle was fading to yellow already, the edges disappearing into his natural skin tone.
He picked up his pen and traced Jim's words on the paper. *During a lengthy struggle S1 (Lash) ran away, attempting to evade arrest. I pursued him through the warehouse with my weapon drawn. S1 attacked this officer, attempting to obtain my gun by striking me with piece of sharp wood. Lash did not respond to my commands to stop. The use of deadly force was required in order to ensure officer safety and the safety of V1.*
V1. Victim One. Blair Sandburg.
Blair put the pen down slowly. It rolled away, gaining momentum until it found the edge of the desk and dropped into nothingness, landing with a tiny click, barely enough to be heard.
"Won't do any good tryin' to get rid of the pen; Banks'll just make you type your stuff instead." Henri ambled over to the desk and bent over to retrieve the fallen pen. He tossed it back to Blair with a quick grin.
Blair mustered up a smile from somewhere, but it rose slowly, bringing no warmth to the sudden chill surrounding him. "Thanks, H."
He reached down and buttoned the front of his over-shirt, fingertips slipping through the stitched holes, strangely clumsy.
The hands of the clock on the far wall were moving far too slowly, caught in a peculiar kind of time warp. Nearly eleven o'clock.
Jim felt that shooting reviews were subtle, unrelenting torture, a campaign of harassment against good cops. He had said so many times before. Of course, they hadn't discussed this particular hearing much. There hadn't been time. They had been busy with other things.
Blair sat back in his ancient desk chair. It creaked and complained without giving an inch of slack - obviously the Cascade PD had never heard of ergonomics. His discomfort caused a new round of shifting and adjusting. He was sore in ways that made sitting the least desirable thing he could think of just then, but the memory of the cause made him smile.
His hands opened and closed over his stomach, fingers lacing together and flying slowly apart like a flower unfolding quick-time in light and darkness.
After a few moments, he reached out and brushed Jim's report aside, scooting it along with careless fingertips, exposing the blank case closure form beneath. Simon had written in Blair's name and the case number, but the rest of the details would have to come from Blair. He picked up the sheet of paper and studied the required entry fields with interest. Nothing there he couldn't explain, nothing he didn't recall.
He put the form down and popped the cap off his pen. Eventually he began to write, scratching out the details with the ease of frequent practice. Documentation was something he could do.
Midway through, he glanced up at the clock. Eleven forty-five.
Too much information; he couldn't fit it all in to the space provided. Blair dug around inside the desk, rifling through manuals and white-out and other mundane items, finally coming across a stash of forms in the bottom of the largest drawer. For an organized and compulsive guy, Jim had an incredibly messy workspace. Blair smiled, imagining Jim's reluctance to spend any more time at that desk than necessary.
By half past noon he was done. Four pages and only one small mistake, eradicated with the benefit of white-out. For his first official police report it wasn't half bad. Still, he went over it several times, reading his own account of his abuse at Lash's hands until it seemed to be someone else's voice, someone else's words. No longer Blair Sandburg, but some third party whose agenda was only to report the facts.
A pang of longing made him look up and scan the room for the fiftieth time. No Jim. Not many people at all, in fact - lunch hour had arrived with a vengeance. In the far corner, Taggart was having a conversation on the phone, eating a ham sandwich and munching on a piece of celery with a dutiful expression. Probably talking to his wife. Blair mused for a moment on the benefits of having someone to pack your lunch, to comfort you after a bad day. The thought launched him from the chair and sent him moving carefully toward Simon's office.
One knock, just as he'd seen Jim do, and he broke open the door a crack, sticking his head in. "Captain?"
"You finish that report, Sandburg?" Simon gestured him in with impatience. "Here, let me see."
Blair closed the door behind him and handed over the report. "I was wondering...how much longer do you think it'll take?"
"What?" Simon asked, but he caught up within the space of a moment. "Oh, you mean the hearing." He checked his watch. "Should have been over already. They must really be giving Jim hell."
"That's too bad," Blair said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
"Jim's been through several of these. He's a pro." Simon scanned through the report. Blair saw his eyes skipping back and forth, double-checking facts. "You forgot to sign the last page."
Blair reached out to take the last page. His muscles screamed protest, which resulted in a hissed breath of pain. Simon homed in on that sound immediately.
"You all right, Sandburg?"
"Yeah." Blair bent at the waist and signed the report with an awkward flourish.
"I want you to go home. Take it easy for the rest of the day."
"I'm waiting for Jim."
"No way to tell how long he'll be. This thing could go all day. You can't help him here."
"You don't know that. You don't..." He caught himself, barely, on the edge of saying too much. One deep breath to center himself, before speaking again. His stomach was twisted in a knot of epic proportions. "I promised him I'd be here."
Simon stapled the pages of Blair's report together. "This is my little corner of the world, Sandburg. I call the shots here. Game over. Go home."
Blair frowned. Simon did have a way of putting an end to a discussion. It was annoying as hell - would have been even more so if Simon didn't have Blair's best interests at heart. "All right. Will you-"
"I'll tell him I sent you packing."
With a nod, Blair let himself out of the office and went to collect his backpack. The curious emptiness of the office only made the place seem more lonely, as though Blair were the sole object out of place in a neatly ordered curio collection. The loft would be empty, too, with its broken door and its broken furniture, and Jim wouldn't be there, and Blair knew he didn't want to be anyplace Jim wasn't, right at that moment.
"You heading home, Blair?" Taggart brushed off his tie and slid the remains of his sandwich - crust and lettuce - into the trash can.
"Simon's orders. When Jim gets done, will you tell him I'll see him at home?"
"He's done. I just saw him a few minutes ago."
Blair experienced a curious sensation of vertigo, not unlike the sensation of falling in a dream. His mind slipped sideways while the rest of him kept plummeting down. "Where'd you see him?"
"Outside the men's room."
With a growing feeling of urgency, Blair picked up his backpack. "Thanks," he called back, already out in the hall and moving, faster with each stride. No way he could have described it, or explained it, but that knot in his stomach was twisting, tightening, closing fast.
By the time he reached the restroom door, he was sure some sort of weird intuition was at work, and because of it, he pulled up short outside, staring at the gold letters marking the room.
He pushed the door open with one arm and went inside, assaulted immediately by two things: the stale, false scent of cleanser and air freshener; and the sight of Jim, standing at the mirror, arm outstretched against the sink, head tucked against his arm. His face was twisted with pain.
"Jim!" Blair dropped his backpack. He went through the room, checking each stall hurriedly, before returning to Jim's side, before placing a hand against Jim's cheek. "Jim, what is it?"
"My head is killing me." The words emerged almost as a moan, a gritty sound of agony pressed out through clenched teeth.
"Is it a sensory spike, or something else?"
Jim shook his head slightly, eyes screwed shut. Tension arched the lines of his body. "Headache. I'll be all right."
"Oh, man." Blair had heard Jim dismiss his own pain many times, but never so unconvincingly. "Listen, we have to get you out of here, get you home."
"I'm all for that." Jim straightened, wincing as though the slight movement hurt him. He opened his eyes and fixed Blair with a weary look. "The sooner, the better."
Blair scooped up his backpack and held the door open; Jim shouldered by him. They passed through the hallways and down to the parking garage in silence; Jim gave a tight, false smile of greeting to each person who spoke to them. Blair moved closer, closing the gap between them.
*****
Jim sank his head into his hands, trying desperately to block out the sounds of traffic and the other assorted noises of the city. Blair had hijacked his keys before he even got near the truck and he'd surrendered without protest. The presence of Blair beside him seemed to cast a circle around him, an invisible barrier pain couldn't cross.
"Almost there." He could feel Blair's eyes on him, feel the weight of the worry in that gaze. It pained him worse than the headache, and the tension at the back of his neck sprang back full force.
"I'm all right. It's probably just stress."
"I'm not so sure. You're not prone to headaches. Not like this. Maybe if we can figure out when this started and what triggered it, I can find some way to help."
"Can we just drop it for now?" Jim made an immense effort, picking up his head and smiling at Blair. "Really. It's better."
"Right." Blair's lips thinned into a straight line. "You know, this would be a *really* bad time for you to shut me out."
"I'm not shutting you out." The words escaped so quickly that Jim blinked with surprise. Almost automatic. The denial tumbled off his lips gracefully with the confidence of repetition.
Worst of all, he was doing the one thing he'd sworn to himself he wouldn't do. He could feel his heart shutting down, sense his emotions recoiling into a tight ball in the pit of his stomach, hidden underneath doubt and frustration and heavy regret. It made him cringe.
"Can this wait until we're home?" he asked.
Blair turned his head, looked at Jim, and Jim met that intense blue scrutiny with calm acceptance. "Sure," Blair said finally, nodding once for emphasis, returning his gaze to the road ahead. "Sure, Jim."
Jim closed his eyes again, letting the frown manifest itself, trying desperately not to allow his feelings to take control of his better judgment. He willed himself to stay still and quiet and not reach out and yank Blair into his arms.
It wouldn't serve any purpose. The damage was already done. It was in the set of Blair's jaw, the tilt of his head.
They were silent together for the rest of the journey, for lack of words or fear of them, Jim wasn't at all sure. Blair hustled out of the truck as soon as they were parked, sticking doggedly by Jim's side as they ascended the back stairs to the loft. Jim allowed it, permitting the businesslike tug at his shoulders as Blair pulled Jim's jacket right off his body and hung it up. "Go sit down," his partner directed, and Jim moved to obey.
It had come on them by degrees, this command-and-response scenario. Blair spoke, Jim listened, and his body acquiesced without so much as a muscle twinge in protest. Blair's voice was a smooth override to Jim's objections much of the time, enough to overcome reluctance and a host of other conflicting feelings. Hell, Blair had only been living there a few weeks, barely long enough to settle in, and already it seemed as though he'd been there forever, taking root and spreading out in every direction across Jim's life.
Jim tugged the blinds down over the long windows, filtering out the bright daylight until only pinstriped remnants could be seen along the edges. He gave himself permission to sink into the couch, sighing into the cushions like a man too tired to be bothered with breathing.
Blair was making tea in the kitchen. Jim closed his eyes and listened to the scratching of the spoon through the sugar bowl, the faint beginnings of a howl as steam pushed through the tiny hole at the top of the teakettle. It felt wrong to have Blair doing this for him, impossibly backwards and inside out, just like everything else that day.
Footsteps drew near. Through lowered lashes, Jim watched Blair move stiffly around the room, noticed the way Blair cast a momentary glance at the gaping hole where the door should be. Blair deliberately picked his way through the mess surrounding them without looking, without seeing. It made Jim crazy. It took him back to that place he'd been last night, that place of anger and fear and insane need.
"I'm going to call that place down the street. You know, the guys who patched up the windows of the laundromat when they had that break-in. Maybe they can get the door fixed on short notice." Blair handed Jim the hot mug of tea.
"It'll keep. I'm armed. Nobody's coming near this place without me hearing."
"I know." Defensive, and just a little fast.
Jim sipped the tea and looked at Blair, who was looking at the door again. "Come over here and sit down."
"Just let me-"
"Come on, Sandburg, sit. Rest a minute, all right?"
The soft request froze Blair in his tracks, held him in place. Blair lifted a dishtowel and twisted it between his hands like a talisman. Jim waited and tried not to give in to that same impulse, that need thrumming through him to capture, enfold, protect, deny.
Finally, Blair came closer and settled down on the opposite edge of the couch. "How's the tea?" he asked.
"The tea is perfect. What I can't figure out is how you knew I wanted tea, when I didn't know it myself." Jim sipped again; the ache in his brain was receding one sip at a time.
"Good question." Blair smiled. "A lucky guess."
Jim set down the mug and leaned forward. "How's your back?"
Blair hesitated. Jim sought his eyes but they had dropped down, gone somewhere distant. "Sore."
"I should be making you tea." Jim smiled.
"I can make my own tea." Blair folded the towel in neat rectangles, matching the lines of the linen with matching lines on the opposite side. "So, the review. Is it done with?"
Jim nodded. "I've been dissected, analyzed and grilled ten different ways. I don't think there are any other questions for them to ask me."
"Nothing you couldn't handle, right?"
Jim shifted sideways on the couch, moving back into the corner. "The usual. No big deal." He lifted his hand and covered his eyes, rubbing lightly. The tired ache was beginning, the one that always followed his monster headaches. He listened to Blair, catching the tiny exhalations of breath, sub-vocal grunts of pain, as his partner settled his unduly battered body against the pillows. The sound of it forced words from him. "You should be stretched out somewhere, resting."
"I'm resilient." Blair cracked a grin that didn't match his tone.
"I know." Jim lowered his head and locked his eyes to Blair's. "Indulge me, all right? Take a nap or something."
Blair's gaze shifted up for a fraction of a second, toward Jim's bedroom. Jim's eyes drifted closed as Blair stood, hovering beside the couch just a moment longer. Slow footfalls led away to Blair's bedroom, followed by the sound of the curtain pushed aside, then dropped.
Jim exhaled slowly. The wreck of his home nagged at him, exhorting him from the couch and to his feet. One item at a time, he straightened the furniture, settled displaced cushions into alignment. When Blair emerged, everything would be back to normal.
*****
Meditation wasn't helping. Nothing was helping, in fact, and that tiny ball of tension was forming again in Blair's stomach, churning and growing in size. He shifted restlessly in the bed, determined to ignore the thoughts keeping him alert, but his brain refused to turn off.
Shutting down his thoughts - acting with his body instead of his mind - was the source of the problem from the very beginning. He supposed if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit he didn't really want to think about it any more. Jim, however, wasn't going to make it easy on either of them.
He went through the scale of "if only", counting backward from the least important of the list. If only he hadn't given in to the need to be touched. If only it hadn't seemed more important than anything else, in that moment, to feel alive and whole and to belong. If only he had stopped, insisted they talk, insisted they sort things out before he'd let Jim kiss him, soothe him, devour him. If only he could muster up some sort of regret.
If only Jim didn't have enough regret for the two of them combined.
Two hours ticked by, marked by a check of the clock every few minutes. He dozed for a while in a kind of twilight awareness, comforted by the sounds of Jim rummaging in the living room, by the smells of coffee in the kitchen. Without much effort, he could picture Jim puttering around, cleaning up, putting things right. He could practically see him bent over the coffee table, tweaking the corners until it hit a perfect 90 degree angle, looking up in surprise as David Lash burst through the open doorway and shot him twice in the chest, killing him without effort.
Blair's shout was muffled by his pillow, mercifully; the half-awake hallucination burned in his mind like the afterimage of the sun. "Fuck," he muttered, flipping over on the bed and hurling his pillow across the room. It thumped against the wall as it landed.
He knew what would happen next, just as it had happened the night before; knew what would happen inside him, knew what his reaction would be. The curtain veiling his doorway was yanked open, revealing Jim on the other side.
"You all right?"
"Yeah, fine. Leave me alone." Blair hurled the other pillow; Jim caught it.
"Blair." Jim said his name, making Blair aware of ghosts from the darkness of fever dreams, evoked by the simple sound of the word. When Jim said it the night before in this place, the place that was both of theirs and no longer just Jim's, they had been so far across the threshold of belonging to each other that they had been lost.
Blair stood up, took a step toward Jim, and stopped with surprise when Jim backed away, a single step. Jim's arm curled up toward his chest, pressing the pillow against his body. "I...I heard you shout."
Blair's heart climbed into his throat, making a break for it, but he pushed it back and spoke with measured calm. "Just a dream, Jim. Really, it's cool."
"How about some dinner?" Jim tossed the pillow back and retreated gracefully from the small room. "We could order out, if you'd like."
"Better than your cooking," Blair grumbled. Jim said nothing and Blair could feel more words rushing to the surface, straining to be spoken, to fill the unaccustomed emptiness between them. "I mean, what is there in the fridge? Beer? Leftovers?"
"There's some kind of brown mold in a container, Chief, but I'm not sure what it was when you made it."
"Oh, man, what was that?" Blair grinned. "Can't remember. We can take the smell test, see if it rings any bells."
"I'll pass, thanks." Jim tossed Blair a bottle of water. "What are you in the mood for?"
Blair froze momentarily in the act of twisting off the cap to give Jim a startled look. The implications sorted themselves out instantly in his brain and he gave the first answer that came to mind. "A little conversation would be nice."
Something passed over Jim's eyes, a chilly, remote look of haunted desperation. "I'm talking about food here, Sandburg."
"I know, Jim. That's the problem."
Jim opened a drawer and took out a stack of take-out menus, crumpled and stained with soy sauce and ketchup. He set them on the counter without turning around. "So talk."
"That's not quite what I had in mind. Conversation. I talk, you talk, I talk, then you talk some more. Not me spilling my guts."
"Fine. We'll talk." Jim rested his hands on the counter and leaned forward, stretching tension out of his shoulders. "After dinner. All right?"
"Sure." Blair cast an eye toward the doorway. It drew his attention constantly, like a flash of something just at the edge of his vision. "I vote for Chinese."
"Egg rolls and curried chicken?"
"Works for me." Blair grabbed the water and wandered into the living room. "You cleaned up in here."
"Having things out of place was driving me crazy." Jim picked up the phone and dialed.
"Yeah, I can see how that might make you a little nuts," Blair said softly.
*****
The food arrived half an hour later. Blair picked through the boxes with feigned enthusiasm, eating two eggrolls and a little rice and finding he was full. He watched his partner eating and noted that Jim's appetite had vanished, no doubt chased away by the prospect of their little after-dinner chat.
The bruise on Blair's cheek was throbbing a bit. He poked at it experimentally, wondering if it was less noticeable than the day before. He looked up to ask Jim and found Jim staring at him, eyes unfocused and fixed on Blair's face. That look made Blair's throat go dry. It transported him to the bed upstairs, to the sensation of Jim's hands on him the night before, to his own soft, panting breaths as he succumbed to that touch.
"Hey, Jim." He said it quietly; Jim was very far inside his own private space, somewhere in memory.
With a start, Jim snapped back into the moment, face undergoing a swift and stunning transformation as he composed his expression. Blair watched him speculatively, but said nothing more.
"You done?" At Blair's nod, Jim picked up the paper plates and the boxes and carried them to the kitchen.
Blair's attention returned to the wide-open doorway almost without conscious awareness. His eyes roved the splintered wood around the lockplate; the image of the door bursting open was permanently imprinted in his mind like an unwanted tattoo. He rose off the couch and grabbed up the phone. "I'm going to call about the door. Where's that card for that construction company? Did I put it in the kitchen drawer?"
Jim's terse reply pulled Blair up short. "It's after five. Just leave it until tomorrow."
"I think...I don't know. Let's call tonight. I'll sleep better if we get the door hung."
"I told you it would keep. I'm here; no one is getting past me. Lash is dead. There's no threat." Jim paused. "I don't want anyone else in the loft right now. Not tonight."
Blair snorted softly. "No kidding. It doesn't even seem like *you* want to be here."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"There's only so many things you can do to avoid me and you're doing a hell of a job."
"Christ, Sandburg. I'll call tomorrow about the door."
"It's not about the fucking door, Jim."
Jim looked away.
A small hiss of breath, drawn in on the heels of disbelief, and Blair was in motion. Jim backed into the kitchen, trapped, with no avenue of escape. Blair pulled up short just at the edge of the counter, his determination bleeding out of him in a rush. He felt pale, half-opened, vulnerable to what was coming next but unable to avoid the collision. "Don't do this. Don't shut me out."
With a shudder, Jim lurched forward, then stopped, hands clenched into fists. "You don't understand."
"Then talk to me. Tell me what's going on." Worry added palpable weight to Blair's plea.
Jim fastened a hand to the edge of the counter and dragged himself a step closer. He extended an arm, hesitant, reaching for Blair, but Blair stepped away, and it felt as though he'd been falling forever but hadn't noticed, hadn't been aware until just that moment, when he struck the ground. He caught Jim's gaze and held it, ready to confront the impossible, frightening thing that was spinning out of their control.
Jim leaned against the countertop, braced there like a battered tree in a storm. "I'm not sure I can put it into words."
"Try."
"All right." A muscle in Jim's cheek twitched, heralding his slow, deliberate answer. "Last night. I think...I think I was fucked up. Out of control."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning..." Jim shook his head, frustrated. "I think it was more than just wanting you." His voice dropped low. "I wanted you too much to stop, too much to...to care."
"Are you saying it was a mistake? That last night shouldn't have happened?" Blair looked at him defiantly, hoping to be contradicted.
"You don't understand."
"I'm listening, I'm really right with you, I'm just waiting for the rest."
The shadows were deep inside Jim's eyes, turning them black. "It wasn't a mistake. I was just...I was afraid for you, that I couldn't get to you in time."
"Like I wasn't afraid?" Blair chuckled, a sound without joy. "Oh, man. Like I wasn't out of my *mind* with fear? Like I wasn't paranoid and freaked out and totally out of fucking control? Do you think that means what happened between us wasn't real?"
Jim's jaw tightened even further, clenching so hard it looked as though it might shatter at the slightest touch. "I don't know."
Blair closed his eyes. "Okay." He willed himself to take a deep breath, not to react, not to show the thousand gut-twisting emotions churning through him at just that moment. "I need a little more information, here."
"Goddammit, Sandburg, why the fuck do you have to analyze every fucking thing?" Jim's voice was low and exasperated, but tinged with desperation, a sound Blair understood all too well.
"Because you just told me that you aren't really sure why you wanted to fuck me, Jim, that you don't know *why* you did it, and I feel kind of compelled to ask you why the hell you did it *anyway*." Bitterness infested the explanation, but Blair didn't mind; it produced a satisfactory look of shock and dismay on Jim's face, and so it served its purpose.
"Something happened to me in the warehouse when I found you. I smelled Lash on your clothes, on your skin. I could almost taste him on you."
"So?"
Like the words were being forcibly dragged forth, Jim spit out the rest. "I had to...had to know you weren't...that he hadn't touched you, really touched you. I had to be *the only one*."
Blair stared at him. "So what you're saying is that it was your protective instincts, nothing else. It was primitive, right? It was out of your control." A flush of desire heated his skin; he was both repulsed and attracted by the thought of Jim's instincts in overdrive, all focused on him.
"No." Jim stressed the word, and it seemed to set him in motion, bringing him to Blair. He accentuated his point with his fingertips as they brushed over Blair's lips. "I think instinct triggered my reaction. I might not have acted on what I felt if I hadn't smelled his scent on you."
"I don't have to tell you how fucked up this is, do I?" Blair was still as a statue under Jim's hand. "How incredibly fucking wrong this feels now?"
"It's not wrong. But maybe it happened for the wrong reasons."
Blair rose from the chair and retreated a step. "So you're saying it had nothing to do with your feelings? It was all because of Lash, and not because-"
"That's not what I mean. I wanted to make things right again, but I couldn't. I just fucked it up." Jim sighed, an eloquent sound full of pent-up tension. "What I'm saying is that maybe we should back off, just...see what's happening. Maybe just...take it slow."
Somewhere inside, Blair could feel himself coming undone, losing definition. He shook it off, desperate to get beneath Jim's hooded look of self-protection. "We already crossed the line, man, there's no point in trying to go back from here. There isn't anyplace to go but forward."
Jim only looked at him, the strong muscle at the side of his jaw twitching lightly, lips pressed together, giving nothing away. Until subtly, softly, he closed his eyes and spoke.
"I can't do this. Not now."
Devastation swept through Blair's life in an instant, taking everything he'd begun to build on this new foundation and wiping it away, leaving only the smallest traces, faint indications of disaster. Blair nodded once, communicating an inner agreement reached and held to. "You'll still need help with your senses. I'll stay for a while, until we can get a handle on some of the things you're still having trouble with."
"Blair," Jim began, but Blair was stuffing things into his backpack, notes and stray pieces of clothing and a book here and there. "Where the fuck are you going?"
"My office. I need some time to think. I'll find a place as soon as I can and maybe we can keep going with the project once we've got some distance from what's happened."
"For Christ's sake, Sandburg. I don't want you to move out." Jim rubbed three fingers over his forehead. "Why the melodrama?"
"This means too much to me to fuck around any more." Unvarnished, with an edge of hurt, the truth slipped out at maximum velocity. Blair's feelings shattered against the barriers Jim had thrown up, keeping him at a distance. "I'll see you later."
It felt wrong to leave, strange to pass through the open doorway and into the night without Jim there, but it made sense to Blair that the feeling of emptiness was exactly why he should keep moving, keep going. Not running away, just gaining some distance.
He listened for footsteps behind him as he waited by the elevator, counted off the moments he'd been waiting with a sense of expectation that Jim would stop him.
It wasn't until the elevator doors closed behind him that he gave up that tiny bit of hope.
*****
From one pile to another, and yet another - Blair's research refused to organize itself neatly, and instead became a fluttering, confused group of stacks in the middle of the floor. Blair absently shuffled a small batch of clipped and stapled loose-leaf papers from the top of one heap to the next, not caring where it should go.
He'd managed to kill approximately four hours, give or take a few centuries, and was no closer to cataloguing his research than the moment he'd walked in the door of his makeshift office and locked it firmly behind him. There wasn't much comfort to be found in the empty rattle of paper, the scratchy sighs of crumpled notes sliding to the floor when the stacks grew too high. Clutter was apparently his natural state of being, and there was order in the particular chaos that infested the office.
Meanwhile, his roving and active mind craved distraction, and he found himself triangulating between the phone, the door and the window. Hand on the phone - not too long, just long enough to play over the possible conversation, which wouldn't go well, and to remind himself that self-torture of the emotional sort had dubious benefits at best. Wander to the door, check the lock. Head for the window, glance out at the street below, looking for any sign on Jim's truck, or Jim in the flesh, staring up at the window like a troll hot for Rapunzel's hair.
The street was always deserted, and that brought him right back to the middle of the floor and the circle of research, and the dismal knowledge that it all seemed theoretical and impossible without Jim.
And the project really wasn't all that important, anyway. It still held the sparkle of the unknown, the attraction of something so big it was almost beyond belief, but that shine had waned. It had taken on specific dimensions, lost its polish, and grown into something so much more necessary. There would never be a place for a dissertation on the subtext Blair had been studying.
He crawled over to the filing cabinet in the corner, yanked out the bottom drawer and heaped the closest bunch of papers in, cramming them together until the sharp corners stuck out in protest. One hard shove and the drawer was back in place, evidence safely concealed until the next go-round of sorting mania overtook him.
Which left him free to wander.
Blair sighted in on his first target, settling his hand around the phone. Jim was probably asleep. Nothing could be accomplished by raising the subject again. Maybe it would be best to -
The first ring startled him into batting the phone away. He retrieved it with a grin, chuckling at himself. "Blair Sandburg."
"Come home." Jim's hoarse command was the best sound Blair had heard all day, although possibly the worst idea.
"We should probably take a little time to-"
"Dammit, Sandburg, get in the car and come home. I don't want you sleeping in that fucking desk chair."
"It lacks a certain appeal. Comparatively speaking." Blair let the remark drop, then moved on smoothly. "You going to be awake when I get home?"
"Depends. You going to interrogate me?"
"Probably."
A long moment passed, then, "Yeah. I'll be up. You forgot your keys."
"I guess I did. Don't need them, anyway."
"Right." Jim cleared his throat. "Well, see you."
"Yeah." Blair hung up and wondered vaguely, as he was banging at the lock in his impatience to get out, how much he could shorten the ten minute drive home without killing anyone on the way.
Apprehension didn't set in until he was around the corner from the loft, getting ready to look for a parking place. As had been the pattern with most of his relationships, his common sense hadn't begun to scream at him until his heart had already taken ten giant leaps forward. He gripped the steering wheel a little harder and took an extra lap around the block, slower this time, knowing Jim was probably listening for his car.
There were going to have to be compromises. Someone would have to bend or step away. Blair knew he could do it. He was an expert at it; he'd known what he was getting into. Jim was the most difficult research subject he'd ever had, and the most cooperative, and the strange paradox only made him more attractive. He wasn't a talker. And the man couldn't change his nature, could he? Even if he wanted to.
Maybe he wanted to.
Blair snorted to himself and parked the car half a block from the loft. The wind kicked at him wildly as he entered the building and headed straight into the elevator. It would be drafty upstairs. Yet another reason for Jim to get the front door put back on its hinges, but Blair resolutely frowned the thought away. He was going to let that go. A few drafts were nothing, really, compared with the potential for misunderstanding. It was still Jim's home, Jim's call. And he couldn't have articulated *why* he needed that door put back up, or what he felt when he looked at it, or why it had nothing to do with Jim's presence, or-
He stopped, tilted his head, and stared.
The door was back in place, solid as ever.
His heart jumped a beat, keeping time with the small smile of astonishment he felt creeping up on him.
Of course the door would be unlocked; he didn't have his keys, as Jim had pointed out, in a whopping verbal clue he'd completely missed. So he let himself in, not really surprised to find Jim just inside the door, stationed like a greeter in a reception line, ready to take his jacket and backpack and make him feel welcome.
Door-hanging by way of apology, by way of explanation - yep, that was the way to go, all right. Blair ducked his head down and tried not to grin as Jim finished hanging up his things and left him standing there, back against the door, while he retrieved a beer from the kitchen.
"How's your headache?" Blair asked in a relatively normal tone of voice.
"Gone."
"You've been busy."
"I started to see your point."
"I'm sorry." Blair followed Jim into the kitchen, maintaining a respectful distance. It would be easier to cope, all the way around, if he could just manage to hover at the outside edges for a while. Safer, for them both. "Taking it slow isn't a bad idea. To sort of get things straight."
Jim took a long sip of his beer. "When I said I can't do this, I didn't mean this - us. I meant, all this talking. Analyzing. I don't want to think that hard about it."
"Thinking about this is what's getting you into trouble, y'know."
"Yeah. But I don't see that I'm going to be able to talk my way through it, either." Jim took another swallow from the bottle and offered it to Blair, who declined with a wave of his hand. "I should have been thinking last night instead."
"What's bothering me is that you seem to feel it would never have happened if you'd been thinking. As if we wouldn't have ended up in bed if you'd been operating your brain instead of your body."
"Maybe." Jim looked almost deliberately relaxed, a stark contrast to his earlier posture. No longer caught off guard, no longer wary.
"I don't think it matters what triggered things. All that matters is that there was still something left at the end when that first impulse passed." Blair paused, stopped by a thought, and he hurried to put it into words when Jim's questioning gaze landed on his face. "It did pass, didn't it? That impulse?"
Jim nodded, looking just past Blair as though seeing a phantom, an afterimage of some remembered moment. "I just don't know how much of it I could have controlled."
"Control isn't the issue. You couldn't have touched me if I didn't want it. And I did." Blair took a deep breath, making up for the moments in between Jim's words when he kept forgetting to draw in air. "The issue is what you felt today, when you saw me at the station. What you feel now."
"Come on, Sandburg. You know I'm not good at this."
"'This' is not about you protecting me, Jim, and being thrown off by that. 'This' is about you protecting yourself." As soon as the observation was spoken aloud, Blair realized he'd only just figured it out. Some researcher he was. Too caught up in his own pain to have a clue about the real issue.
"You think I don't care?" Jim asked softly, as though it were a revelation.
"I think you don't know *how* to admit you *do* care."
Jim's eyes sought his and the shutters fell, exposing the most vulnerable parts of his soul. "I care. And I know you don't need protecting."
"Bullshit. I needed rescuing. Needed it pretty seriously, in fact. I didn't page you 911 for no reason. So that's all just you, trying to make me feel better."
"You did everything right," Jim said. "You managed to keep him off balance long enough for me to get there and that's what saved your life."
"Sure, okay. But what made it worthwhile was what happened after, what happened *here*. You gave me back something he tried to take away - a sense of identity, a sense of *belonging*."
"You don't need me for that."
"No, but I wanted it with *you*. As much as you wanted it. I need for you to see that." Jim shook his head again. In the space of a second Blair had Jim by the arms, shaking him. "This isn't you the Sentinel and me your little jungle prize, Jim. This is you the man, wanting another man, and some other confusing stuff that you're avoiding by getting into that whole primal headspace."
Exasperated, Jim said, "Will you please stop being a fucking anthropologist for ten seconds?"
"As soon as you hear what I'm saying."
Jim processed the information slowly, weeding through guilt and desire to get at the central points. Blair could almost see the gears turning in his head. "I felt like I had used you," Jim said.
"More like I used you." Blair reached out, grabbed a handful of Jim's t-shirt, hauled him close. "But it wasn't because of some instinct, Jim. Don't let Lash into this. This belongs to us. Like I belong to you...like you belong to *me*."
Blair was touching him now; his hands were underneath Jim's t-shirt and they were moving across his back. The muscles in Jim's arms strained against him, wanting release, needing permission.
"Blair..."
"How complicated do you want this to be?" Blair searched Jim's skin with his fingertips, mapping muscle, feeling the fine tremors of restraint beneath. "I'm trying to make it easy for you."
"It's not easy. It won't be. Not with me." Jim closed his eyes, and Blair felt a surge of protective denial, fierce and unexpected.
"I don't need it easy. I just need it. We can work on the rest of it as we go along."
Arms lifted, folded around Blair's body, and he sighed with relief as his reluctant partner gave in just an inch, just enough to open a pathway for them.
"It'll take a lot of work. More work than you think."
"Shut up, Jim, and put that mouth to work."
"First you want me to talk, and now you want me to shut up."
Blair was pressed against him, stretched out across his body, and their lips touched. "Mostly I want you to kiss me," Blair breathed, punctuating his words with touches, providing an illustration of craving and gentle persuasion.
Jim held him there, so close they were almost one person, and opened Blair's lips with his own, pushing them apart with subtle, insistent pressure. He invaded Blair with a kiss, just as Blair had invaded Jim's life, his loft, his entire world. Blair yielded under the exploration just for a moment, long enough to capture Jim's face between his hands and guide the kiss, the slow exploration of one another, the quick chase of tongues and breath between them.
Blair heard Jim's soft, desperate moan, and his own immediate response as he arched against Jim. "You don't think this is too fast?" Blair murmured against his lips, producing a low sound from Jim. "Okay, never mind...sorry I brought it up..."
Blair found he was walking backward, propelled by the push of hands at his hips and the subtle sub-vocal commands his body was absorbing without hesitation. His heels found the stairs and levered up, one at a time, until he was overpowered by the larger frame hurrying him along and fell, sprawled across the stairs, grinning into a kiss that seemed unhurried. Jim seemed entirely too pleased to find him there for the taking.
"Off...me," he panted, knocking Jim's insistent hands away.
"Make up your mind." Jim was biting him, not at all subtly, pushing Blair's shirt aside and sinking his teeth in time after time down Blair's bared chest, worrying a nipple with gentle precision.
"Let me up!"
Jim immediately pulled back and Blair scrambled out from beneath him, snatching a fistful of shirt and yanking it like a leash. "Come on," Blair panted, crawling up the next few steps, hauling Jim up after him on hands and knees.
They landed on the floor, tangled together on the hard wood, breathing into each other with frantic intensity, entirely focused on the world created by their need. Blair ripped through the remaining buttons on Jim's trousers, freeing him to hands and eyes and quiet adoration, and found himself subject to the same kind of loving scrutiny as his own clothes were stripped away.
Somehow they managed to fight their way onto the bed, throwing coverlet and blankets aside in their haste and making room for their urgency amongst the pillows and sheets.
Blair was lifted, prepared, filled so deep he could feel it inside his soul, taken in a way that made him say Jim's name again and again as though he could make the ecstasy last by simply evoking the cause of it. He dimly heard Jim's voice, hoarse and rough and entirely out of control, saying things to him, agreeing to anything he might need just to keep him there, just to make it official, to give what they had done a permanence beyond this transitory moment of bliss.
And when fatigue made it impossible to continue without sleep, Blair sighed and stretched out, marking his half of their territory, smiling when Jim curled around him, marking his territory as well.
*****
Moonlight streamed in through the downstairs windows, vanquishing darkness with gentle illumination. Pale light filtered across the loft, highlighting the shadows in the corners, coloring the edges of a space procured for one and shared by two.
Jim sprawled across his half of what was now their bed - his and Blair's - and propped his head up on one elbow. Blair stirred underneath his hand but quickly settled in silent contentment, soothed by the possessive touch against his skin, by the gentle patterns of devotion he would someday take for granted.
It had been a long night full of stops and starts and momentary lapses, but they had reached their compromise, found the balance of taking and giving. Jim was certain nothing would be as difficult, or as easy, ever again.
With one finger, Jim traced the bruise beneath Blair's eye, defining the edges, memorizing the strangely diffuse pattern where the boundaries broke and spread into the larger expanse of skin.
Sometimes the destination was worth the journey. Not always, but in this case, Jim thought he might just have a case for making a map of Blair's heart. It certainly seemed worth it just to know his territory, to understand his responsibilities, what he was protecting.
He was familiar with the concept, but it had never been so personal before.
A soft sound drew his attention; his name drifted out among the expressions of Blair's dreams like a prayer. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Blair's temple, leaving a gentle kiss to ease the path into peaceful sleep.
He where he was meant to be, and that was all that mattered.
End
Feedback welcomed. Email DestinaNotes: A whole cadre of people helped this story along at various stages. I would never have finished this if it weren't for Merry Lynne, who gave comprehensive beta and wonderful support. Special thanks also to Virg for giving me the idea that broke the impasse. Thanks to resonant, Sigrid, and Indy for their excellent suggestions, Francesca for early pointers, and to Livia for diving in where others fear to tread. *g* I didn't take all their advice, but not because it wasn't good.
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