Empathy, a Sentinel story, by Glacis. Rated NC17 for violence, language and homoeroticism.
WARNING: rape scene. Characters copyright Pet Fly et al, no infringement
intended. For Pris, who gave me the parameters --
thank you for asking!
He had expected it to be quiet, but even without benefit of his Sentinel
hearing, Jim Ellison could hear a cacophony of sounds around them, barely
dampened by the luxuriant growth of the rain forest surrounding them. Glancing
from side to side, he was able to distinguish nine different shades of green in
the undergrowth alone, again without using his enhanced sight. This place was a
feast for the senses, enhanced or normal, and he could well understand why his
Guide escaped to the Olympic Rain Forest as often as his duties at the
university and the police station would allow. Thoughts of Blair Sandburg
automatically drew his attention to the man, and he focused on the small figure
ahead of him, dwarfed by the tall trees.
For once, the usually frenetic anthropologist stood utterly still, his
face tilted upward to catch the faint trace of light that penetrated the canopy
of leaves high above them. He seemed to be listening, or merely absorbing the
ambiance of the ancient forest through his skin. Whatever he was doing, it was
benefiting him, for he showed a peace he seldom knew in the everyday world. Jim
smiled to himself. As much as he kicked about these
tests, it was worth it just for the opportunity to get away from the pressures
of regular life and escape to relax for a little while. He used to do that
alone, but in the three years since Sandburg had come into his life, he'd found
himself escaping more and more often with company. Funny, how the younger man
never seemed to intrude on his need for solitude -- quite the opposite.
Sandburg fit. Best friend he had ever found, and the
most unexpected as well.
Seeing the wide eyes finally open in the completely relaxed face, Jim
strode forward through he undergrowth and stopped at
Blair's side. "You ready to do this, Chief?"
Sandburg shot him a sparkling smile, enthusiasm lighting up his eyes and
firing his movements. The energy was back at the suggestion of work.
"Definitely, man, thanks for agreeing to this. It's been awhile since
we've had a chance to get someplace where it's quiet and work on single sense
trials, you know? It's like any physical action, you have to keep in practice
or you rust out, and getting rusty with your skills the way your senses work is
so not what you want to do. Way too dangerous, man."
"Take advantage of it while you have it, Sandburg. We have to be in
court at
Blair looked up at him with his best reasonable/pleading look. "I
need to isolate the sense of hearing completely, big guy. That
means muffle and immobilize everything else. Can you trust me on this,
Jim?"
"I trust you," Ellison admitted, "but no cuffs. I have to
be able to get out of it easily if I start to feel caged." His voice was
edgy. He didn't like to admit it, but some of his past experiences had left him
with a real hatred of being held helpless.
"Like with a zone-out? That's why I'm here, Jim! If you overload,
I'll call you back. I'll watch very closely, man, I promise, nothing will get
out of control-"
"No, Sandburg," he cut in curtly. A barely perceptible shiver
went through him, but Blair stilled immediately, staring searchingly at him. To
his surprise, there was no further argument, just a thoughtful look in the
sapphire eyes appraising him.
"Okay, we're flexible." A little further rummaging in the magic
backpack, and Blair drew out a soft, braided leather
rope. "Tied? Loose? You can get out of it on your own in mere
minutes," he grinned up at Jim, "but the illusion of restraint is
still tangible. It's important, Jim. You have to feel, psychologically, that
the only functioning sense you have is your hearing. We need to isolate it as
much as possible if these tests are going to work."
Ellison considered it for a moment, eyeing the rope consideringly.
"Right," he nodded finally, then smothered a
grin at Blair's small whoop of victory. He shook his head at his irrepressible
Guide, and settled himself comfortably on a mossy rock. Blair gathered up all
his testing accouterments and walked around him. They had discussed the nature
of the experiments, mainly consisting of isolating and identifying sounds alone
with all other sense cut off, on the drive up, so they were silent as Blair
began to prepare Jim. As Blair gently tied the blindfold around the Sentinel's
eyes, Jim decided to bring up something that had been bothering him for a few
weeks.
"Chief?" Now seemed as good a time as any. No distractions, and he had all Blair's attention centered on
him, not scattered over five different things at once. At Blair's assenting
noise, he swallowed and continued. "Have you noticed anything ... odd
lately?"
Blair settled the blindfold neatly on Jim's cheekbones. "How's that? Too tight? Can
you see anything through it? What do you mean by odd?"
Jim sighed. So much for not being scattered.
"It's fine, not too tight, blind as a bat, and
odd in that ... I'm not quite sure how to describe it." He could
practically feel the inquisitive gaze on the back of his neck as Blair smoothed
the gloves over his hands.
"Is it your senses, Jim? Has something strange been happening that
you haven't told me about?" 'Again' was implied but not said outright. Jim
shook his head impatiently at the line of questioning. Sandburg wasn't
following him.
"Not with me, Blair. With us."
The hands working at his wrists stilled suddenly. He could feel the pulse
through the fingertips resting on his forearms, speeding up, and the warm body
behind him was suddenly completely still. "What's wrong with us,
Jim?" There was trepidation in the low voice. He hastened to reassure him.
"Nothing's *wrong*, Sandburg, it's just *odd*." Jim gritted his
teeth. He wasn't good at this explaining stuff. To his relief, the fingers
slowly began tying the rope around his wrists again. "Sometimes, I'll ...
feel something, like I'm hungry, when I just ate, and then you'll come into the
room and say you're starved. Then, last Tuesday at the station, I was totally
pissed off, out of the blue, and had to excuse myself from questioning a
suspect because I just wanted to slap him."
The fingers stilled again, but the voice behind him was thoughtful this time. "Tuesday? That was the day I had to deal with Doctor Forbister, and he gave me all sorts of shit about my
grants. I was mad enough to spit nails, man, it was so not me. Got a handle on
it, but it was a struggle." The movements behind him picked up as the last
of the rope was tied off. "Try that, Jim, is that comfortable?"
He tugged experimentally at the ropes. They were solid, but with enough
give in the knots that he could eventually work his way out. He felt a little
silly at vetoing the handcuffs, but he was glad Blair had gone along with him.
He could deal with this, as long as his Guide was there. "It's fine, Chief." Before he could repeat his question,
the voice moved around to the front and he felt a hand pat his knee.
"You know, you may have something there, Jim. Some of my research
has indicated that the Sentinel/Guide bond has other applications, a form of
mild telepathy or empathy that allowed the two to communicate with one another
in times of battle. Kind of a built in two way early warning system, so the
Guide could send warnings to the Sentinel for self protection or the Sentinel
could send alerts to the Guide to warn the tribe. Have you noticed any
instances of empathic connection with anyone else you've been close to, Jim?
Members of your unit, your partner Jack, Carolyn-"
Jim's snort interrupted him. "No way, Chief.
The opposite, if anything." He could practically
feel Blair's grin at that one. "What about you," he went on, hoping
to distract the other man from that line of questioning. "Have *you*
noticed anything weird going on?"
"Jim," Blair replied wryly, "In the past three years I've been
shot, kidnapped, burned out of my house, dropped from buildings, medivacced out of mountains, trapped in rigged elevators,
and made any number of truly unusual acquaintances. For an anthropologist,
*all* of those are weird happenings. But, no, man, within the context of our
shared reality, I haven't ..."
The hand on Jim's knee tightened. "What?" he asked quickly,
wanting to hear that he wasn't the only one experiencing these strange feelings.
"Couple of Saturdays ago. You, uhm, went out with Sheila. Did you, I
mean did the two of you ... did you have sex?"
The blunt rush of the question startled Jim into honesty. "Yeah." He swallowed, head turning automatically
to stare blindly at his Guide. "Why?"
"About, oh, nine or so?" There was definite laughter underlying the question.
"I didn't stop to check," Jim retorted dryly.
"*Why*?" he repeated with emphasis.
"Because I was at the loft working on some exams, and all the sudden
I got the strongest urge to jack off, and I don't know about you, big guy, but
discussion and clarification of the social substructures among the ancient Gauls is *not* normally a subject that gets me hot and
sweaty."
Both men were quiet, digesting this rather unexpected development in
their relationship. "We need to find out more about this," Jim
finally stated with typical understatement.
"Well, it seems to be empathic in nature," Sandburg began
clarifying the occurrences, the scientist in him coming to the fore. "Triggered by elemental needs or emotions, hunger, anger,
sexual urges. Keep it in mind, Jim, and I'll do the same. Any time you
have an unexpected emotional reaction and can't find a reason for it in your
surroundings make note of it, and so will I, and we
can compare notes and see what kind of link seems to be forming here."
Excitement was coloring his tone, and Jim could feel the faint drafts of air
from where he was moving his hands about. "Also, try to isolate the
emotion, and whether it seems to be specific or general, and if there are any
other side effects. See if any of your senses are specifically affected -- it
might be some sort of bounce effect, where something I'm feeling amplifies
something you're feeling, or there might be some kind of unconscious or
subconscious telepathic intent."
"One test at a time, Chief," Jim broke in again. He shrugged
his shoulders significantly. "Let's get this one done before my arms fall
asleep like this."
"Oh, yeah! Sorry, man, too many directions at once again." Gentle
fingers pinched Jim's nostrils shut and the rubber clamp slid over the tip of
his nose. "Breathe evenly through your mouth, Jim."
He complied, feeling extremely silly, rather like one of those
synchronized swimmers at the Olympics. The resultant mental image of himself
and Sandburg, fully clothed with backpacks and hiking
boots on, cavorting underwater with nose clips and bathing caps, nearly upset
his equilibrium. Forcing the image away, he concentrated on breathing so he
didn't hyperventilate or smother himself, and followed the verbal instructions
Blair was giving him to regulate his breathing.
Time slowed, then stopped, fell away, unimportant, as he gradually
subsided into the warmth of his Guide's voice. Light and sensation were cut
away, until all he had to attach him to the world were the sounds assaulting
his ears from every direction, filtered, sorted, identified and categorized
with the aid of that soft, strong voice. Oddly, with his nose plugged, the
taste of the air differed, becoming flatter, until it was no problem to cut it
away as well. There was bird chatter, and rustling from the leaves as the wind
flowed through, and the fall of an occasional branch. Further within those
sounds, folded under them, was the scratch of a clawed foot on a tree limb, the
peck of a bird at a seed, the scrape as bark loosened from a trunk. Woven even
through those small sounds were the long, slow, unsteady tracks of water
droplets down the moss in the undergrowth, the sibilant shuffle of an insect
burrowing under a leaf. Nearer still, the soft sounds of
breathing, the slide of cloth over skin and the brush of hair over clothing
that signified his Guide's position.
He had no way of knowing how long had passed, but it wasn't long enough
for pins and needles to have started in his bound hands, before the relative
silence was split by the revving of a motor. Cross country bikes, from the
sound of it, coming from far away, coming up fast. Off roaders
tearing up the trails were not all that unusual, and
after identifying the intrusive noises for what they were, he followed his
Guide's instructions and tuned them out. Many of the softer sounds had stilled
at the invasion, but some remained, specifically the water and wind noises. He
was explaining what he was hearing when he realized that the motor sounds were
all around him. There was a startled exclamation, and he abruptly opened his
hearing up to its fullest, flinching from the assault on his eardrums but
trying to hear what the hell was happening. He instinctively began to rise to
his feet, tugging at his bound hands and heading toward his Guide. Before he
could so much as call Blair's name, a blow struck him from behind, knocking him
off his feet and stunning him. Ears still listening intently, even through the
violent ringing in his head, he heard one, desperate cry from his partner, then
the motors revved again and there was silence. Echoing in his mind, that last
enraged, frightened scream seemed to surround him, refracting through the empty
spaces between the trees and rebounding over and over back to him.
Shaking his head, scraping the side of his face against the rough ground
to get the damned blindfold off, wriggling and pulling madly at the rope
binding his wrists, he fought to get clear. He had to get to his Guide, had to
protect his partner. Had to save Blair. Unaware of the
blood running freely from his scraped cheek, from the abrasions on his arms,
from his mouth where he had bitten his lip, he nearly dislocated his shoulders
pulling his wrists free. He ignored the resultant burning pain and tore the
blindfold off, grabbing his and Sandburg's packs and beginning to hunt. There
were clear tracks from the bikes through the soft ground of the underbrush, and
will all his predatory protective instincts fully aroused, he was determined to
take back his Guide.
They had taken off at a dangerously high speed, given the uneven terrain.
Clenching his jaw at the thought of Blair being put at such risks, wondering in
the back of his mind why the hell anyone would make such a raid to carry the
young man off, he concentrated on his task. Less than two miles from their
make-shift lab in the forest, the tracks branched off in three different
directions. Unable to tell from the relative depths of the treads which
direction the doubly-loaded bike had gone, Ellison, knelt at the forking of the
tracks and dug his fingers into the rich soil. Pounding one fist beside the
split trail, recognizing a professional snatch when he saw one, he cursed,
half-spoken promises of retribution falling from him. Staring ahead into the
blank face of the forest, he called Blair's instructions for centering to his
mind, and deliberately calmed himself.
Settling down in the moist grass, he closed his eyes and opened his ears.
He could no longer hear the motorbikes, they were too
far gone to track through hearing. He opened his eyes, surprised at a dull pain
in his knuckles, and realized that he was driving his fist repeatedly into the
ground. Deprived of a legitimate target, his rage was channeling out the only
way it could. He took a deep, steadying breath and headed back for the radio in
his truck. He would continue to track these bastards, but he was going to need
back-up.
Blair had been concentrating so fiercely on his Sentinel that at first he
hadn't realized the dirt bikes were coming directly toward their camp. They
weren't far off a well-traveled foot path, and he had foolishly assumed that
they were going to go past. Beyond the fleeting disgust at the momentary
disruption in Jim's concentration, and a deeper dislike of idiots who befouled nature
with selfish stupidity, it hadn't actually dawned on him that they were being
targeted.
His first indication that something was radically wrong was the sudden
loud roar of an engine directly behind him. He had half leapt to his feet and
whirled around, but before he could finish standing a strong arm had whipped
out and tossed him bodily across the front of the motorcycle. A flailing hand
impacted with the hot steel of the engine, startling a yelp of pain from him,
before he found himself jerked upright and clamped in front of a guy roughly
the size of King Kong. One belated scream, "Jim!" at the top of his
lungs, and the trio of cyclists ripped through the camp and headed through the
trees.
From his unstable perch, the horizon flying past in a nausea-inducing
blur, he forced his head around, desperate to see what was happening to his
partner. He saw one of the thugs lash out with what looked like a stick and
catch Jim along the back of the head with the end before peeling out to join
the other cycles. Seeing his friend go down, he yanked desperately against the
steel band of an arm crimped around him and wailed with something close to
despair.
It was his fault. It was all his fault. Jim was
tied up, blind, injured, in the middle of nowhere, and it was all his fault. If he hadn't insisted on the damned tests, if
he'd just trusted the Sentinel not to move, then Jim would have had a fighting
chance, not been struck down, helpless to fight back. In his frenzy to help his
partner he fought wildly with his captor, nearly up-ending the bike. The arm at
his waist shifted, and he felt a huge paw clamp over his genitals, squeezing
hard enough to immobilize him and bring tears to his eyes. Barely able to hear
past the roar of the engine, he made out a threatening growl coming over his
shoulder.
"I don't gotta keep you in one piece,
pretty boy, so you just shut the fuck up and stop movin'
around or I'm gonna rip your fuckin'
balls off. You hear me?"
Paralyzed by the pain between his legs, blinded by tears and the ends of
his hair whipping in his eyes, suddenly aware of just how precarious his perch
was as they flew through the trees, he froze. The hand tightened further, and
he whimpered, then gave a tiny nod. It was enough. The
pressure eased, and before he had a chance to gasp back the wind he had lost
when he was grabbed, the arm was back around his ribs. Closing his eyes and
praying to any protective Deities who might be in the area for the safety of
his Sentinel, he held himself as still as possible and waited to see what these
madmen would do with him next.
Jim made it to the truck in one piece, quite an accomplishment
considering his state of mind. Groggy from the blow to the head, half terrified
at the possible fate of his partner, with a quickly building rage threatening
to turn his world red, he had concentrated fiercely to make sure he would be
able to lead the troops back to where Blair had been snatched. Just shortly
after beginning the trip back to the truck, his senses stretched as widely as he
could get them to try to catch a glimmer of his Guide, he had been struck with
a fierce pain in his genitals. Dropping like a stone and curling into a fetal
ball, he had shut everything down, starting with his pain receptors.
Immediately the pain disappeared, and he uncurled slowly, staring down at his
crotch in total confusion. A trace of his previous conversation with Blair
floated through his memory.
"Oh, shit. Oh, please, no," Jim mumbled, realizing that the
phantom pain had been one that his partner was suffering, not something that
had happened to him personally. Recalling how swiftly the pain had disappeared
when he closed down his senses, he decided to open them again. The risk of pain
was worthwhile if it was some sort of link to Sandburg. Gritting his teeth and
unconsciously flexing his thighs together, he extended his senses. The pain
returned, but much less intense this time, and he sighed with relief. Whatever
they had done to his partner, it hadn't been debilitating. Resolutely not
thinking about just what sorts of actions caused that kind of pain, he
continued on his way to the truck. Hitting the emergency band on the radio
immediately, he was patched directly through to Simon Banks.
"What is it, Jim?" The Captain's normally gruff tone was tempered
with concern. It wasn't like Ellison to demand access like this, and the
usually calm voice sounded on the edge of hysteria.
Jim took a deep breath and began to explain. "Sandburg's been
kidnapped, sir. We were off the hiking trail doing some hearing tests," he
didn't explain further, knowing they were on an open mike, "when these
three guys came off the trail on dirt bikes. The hit me in the back of the head
and took off with Sandburg."
He went on to give his exact position, explaining that the three bikes
had peeled off in different directions and that he couldn't follow all of them.
Banks agreed to notify the local authorities and have a search begun
immediately. Jim grunted acknowledgment and prepared to sign off.
"What about you, Jim? You don't sound too good," Simon asked,
more concerned than he cared to admit.
"I'm okay, Simon. There's no time." With that, he cut the
transmission, gathered up his cell phone so that he could stay in contact with
the back up when they arrived, and headed back into the woods.
The ride seemed to go on forever, and the hard vibration of the chassis
between his thighs didn't help the pain in his abused balls at all. After what
felt like an hour, the other two bikes cut back in to join the first one, and they
came to a halt in front of a ramshackle hut in the middle of absolutely
nowhere. Before Blair could react to the sudden cessation of motion, the thug
behind him grabbed him by the hair and held him in place. Swinging one leg over
the saddle, he dragged Blair along in front of him into the spare single room
of the hovel.
A man stood waiting for the rest of the bikers to join them, staring at
Blair the entire time. The young man did his best to withstand the scrutiny
without obviously shaking, struggling to control his fear and observe as much
as he could, so that when Jim caught up with them, as he surely would, he could
testify and put all these creeps away for as long as they were breathing. The
guy looking at him now was a prime specimen of pure criminality, with cropped
brown hair, an unprepossessing face, and the flat, glittering eyes of a snake.
He wasn't particularly big, or imposing, or otherwise memorable, being a medium
tall man with medium coloring and a medium build. Blair realized he was describing
the perfect invisible man in a crowd, and shuddered. The total normality of the
man scared the hell out of him, because those dead eyes promised anything but
normalcy.
"D'ya kill the
cop?" No inflection in the thin voice, not even mild curiosity. The big
man holding Blair shook his head in reply.
"Nope. Knocked him
on his face but didn't hurt him too bad. He was on his feet when we left."
"Ya didn't tell us they was into kinks,
Clay," one of the other bikers piped up. "The cop was all tied up and
blindfolded."
"Candy from a baby," the third one chimed in, his voice
incongruously high and childlike coming from such a fierce looking face.
"Good," the ringleader replied. He waved one hand toward a
rickety chair in the corner of the room. "Tie him up good, Beck, make sure he can't get loose."
The second biker took a step forward. "We 'bout
done here? Cuz I got things to do that don't
involve bein' stuck around here the rest of the
day."
Blair missed the next part of the conversation as he was hauled ass over
nose across the big biker's shoulder, losing his breath as the muscled shoulder
impacted heavily into his abdomen. Still trying to catch his breath, he found
himself upright again, firmly planted in the chair, held once more by the hair
with one meaty paw as the other massive arm looped rope around his torso. By
the time the wall-sized biker stepped back far enough for him to see something
other than sweat-stained tee shirt, he couldn't move an inch. Beck, the
behemoth who'd captured him, patted him none too gently atop the head.
"You just stay there and don't make no
trouble, pretty boy. Maybe Clay'll keep you in one
piece." With a grunt that could have been mistaken for a laugh, he
lumbered across the room to join the others. All four men went into the front
yard, apparently to be paid off, and Blair decided this would be the best
chance to try to get the hell out of there.
Slipping his hand into his back pocket, thanking the God of Idiocy that
allowed Berk to tie his hands loosely behind his back
and trust the rope coiled across his torso to keep him down -- it left his
fingers in good position to dig out his Swiss army knife and put it to use.
Smiling slightly to himself at the probably reaction Naomi would have to the
interesting uses he had put his Bar Mitzvah gift to in the last few years, he
concentrated on sawing through the ropes holding him in place. Raised voices
from the front of the shack reassured him that he had some time, as payment for
services rendered was being hotly debated by the bikers and the boss-man. With
a silent sigh of relief he felt the first of the ropes give way, then another,
then another. Careful to avoid any creaking of the chair on the wooden floor
that might give him away, he shrugged the ropes off and snuck to his feet,
creeping toward the side window with one eye firmly planted on the men
currently arguing in the front.
Holding his breath, eyes huge with fright and determination, he tugged at
the warped window frame until he had it far enough up to slip through to
freedom. The sudden roar of engines to the side of him jolted him badly, and he
shoved himself bodily through the small opening, knowing that his time had run
out. Sliding down the short wall to the wet grass beneath the window, he
skidded slightly, gathered himself, and turned to run.
He didn't get very far.
Two hands came out of nowhere, one buried in his collar, the other in the
back of his jacket, jerking him to a standstill. Panic lending him strength and
speed, he slipped both arms out of the sleeves and tried running again. This
time, something hard and heavy hit him on the side of the ankle, sweeping his
feet out from under him and landing him heavily on his side. Rolling
instinctively, he came to his feet a third time and tried to run, but his right
ankle gave way, a searing pain wrenching from his foot clear up into his back.
With a strangled cry, he fell. This time, he didn't have a chance to get up
before those same hands were under his armpits, hauling him up, twisting his
arms behind his back.
"Going somewhere, ya little bastard? I don't think so."
The attempt at frog-marching only got one step before the abused ankle
gave out again, and Blair couldn't quite hold back the scream. The creep
manhandling him took that as a sign of noncooperation,
and obligingly kicked the recalcitrant ankle. The shooting stars in his head
were the last things Blair saw before everything went black.
Less than a mile away from the site of the kidnapping, Jim froze, bit
back a muffled shriek of pain, and abruptly sat down, nursing his right ankle.
He'd been hiking at a near-run, all his senses on high alert, when he must have
hit a hidden hole or something, because it felt like his ankle had snapped.
Dialing his pain receptors down, he peeled back the top of his boot and
examined the joint.
Nothing. No welt, no
swelling, no bruise. Probing it gently with his fingertips, he found no
evidence of injury. Swallowing dryly, he dialed his senses back up and stood,
gingerly. No problem.
Damn, he thought with a mixture of despair and anger, they're hurting
Blair again. Got to find him, got to get to him, got to save
him. All my fault. The words repeated over and
over in his head, spurring him on, every sense he had open to the fullest,
determined to rescue his Guide ... and stop them from hurting him any more.
The sharp pain had dulled to a background roar by the time Blair came to
again. This time, he wasn't on the chair, he was on a pallet.
Ropes had been replaced by chains, old, rusted, and filthy, but still very
effective at immobilizing him. There was a little play in the chains, allowing
him to move nearly two feet in either direction, and to either sit or lie down,
but not stand erect.
And he was naked.
He gulped, and looked around wildly. His clothes were in a bundle across
the room, a small pile of his belongings heaped next to them. He didn't see his
knife anywhere.
"This what you lookin'
for, boy?" The taunting voice drew his eyes to the far side of the room.
Propped against the doorway, the ringleader of the gang was nonchalantly
cleaning his nails with Blair's Swiss army knife. "Pretty handy, this
is." He flicked it closed, then tossed it beside him onto a small table, already
littered with a variety of objects. "Think I'll keep it." Shoving
himself off from the door jamb, he wandered toward Blair, dark eyes roving
constantly up and down the trim figure.
Blair felt himself going rigid, and was unable
to stop his instinctive motion to cover himself with his hands. The scouring
eyes were making him feel unclean, and his vulnerability in the circumstances
was scaring him half to death. Determined not to show any weakness in front of
this human predator, he stuck his chin out, covered his genitals firmly with
his cupped hands, and demanded, "What the hell is going on?" He
impressed himself. It came out much more firmly than he would have thought
himself capable of speaking.
It didn't impress the criminal, unfortunately. "Name's
Clayton Fouts. In case you ain't
figured it out yet, you're my prisoner." One hand came out toward the
captive and brushed lightly against his arm as if testing the softness of his
skin. Blair flinched.
"Why?" Damn, that had wobbled. He swallowed, then
shrank away as Fouts leaned even closer.
"You're sure a pretty one, aren't ya? I can see why the cop likes
you so much he lets you tie him up in the middle of nowhere. Worked out to my
favor, that did." He chuckled coarsely, then
caught Blair's head in his hands. "This is gonna
be more fun that I thought it would be. Not as borin'
as I'd feared."
"What?!" There had to be some sort of explanation for this, Blair
reasoned wildly, besides my incredibly bad luck. "What is going ON,
man??"
Fouts settled back into a
crouch next to the pallet, absently running his hands over Blair's body. Blair
lay as still as possible under the mild assault, pulled back as far as he could
in his chains, trying not to provoke anything worse. After a moment, Fouts began to speak softly.
"Gotta cousin, good lookin'
kid, 'bout your age, maybe a little bit younger. Name of Jerry Howard."
Blair thought the name sounded familiar, but couldn't for the life of him
place it. The pressure from the hands grew, turning into rough caresses, pinching
here and there, seeming to enjoy the involuntary jerks Blair's muscles gave in
reaction to the small pains.
"Ellison got him sent down for thievin'.
Punk cop got him on a murder charge, was an accident, but an old biddy got in
the way during a job and Jerry had to get her outta
the way. Trial's comin' up this week. Ellison's the
star witness. Only he ain't gonna
be a witness, now, is he." The hand lingered, stopped, tightened around
Blair's throat. Dead eyes stared blankly into his own.
"Cuz if he is, then he ain't
gonna see you ever again."
The grip on his throat tightened, and Blair began to thrash, desperate to
breathe. Dimly, he heard another chuckle, then thankfully the fingers loosened
and he gasped in deeply past tortured throat muscles. He tried to bring his own
hands up to massage the tight skin, but found he couldn't bring them up past
his waist because of the chains. Mutely, he stared in horror at his captor. The
guy was a psychopath, and Jim had better find him damned soon, or there wouldn't
be anything left to find.
Fouts reached into his
shirt pocket and withdrew a small gray cell phone. Opening it and thrusting it
toward Blair, he demanded, "Call your cop."
Shakily, Blair took the phone and punched in Jim's cell phone number.
"He may not have it with him, man," he tried to explain to Fouts. "We were hiking, you know, getting away from it
all and--"
A clout to the cheek silenced him. His fist tightened reflexively around
the phone and he nearly brought it up to strike back, except that he couldn't
hit back because he couldn't get enough leeway in the chains for a good swing.
"Shut up and dial, kid."
He dialed.
Jim was startled to hear his phone ring at his belt. Snatching it up,
praying it was his partner, he barked, "Ellison!" into the open line.
"Jim? Blair. Listen, I've got--" A muffled thump interrupted
the hurried, shaky words.
"Blair? Sandburg?! Answer
me!" Please let him be okay, please ...
"Cop?" A new voice, one he didn't recognize. "You
there?"
"Yes," he replied slowly. "Who is this? Is Sandburg all
right?"
"Fer now," came through immediately. "Shut up and lissen. You put
Jerry Howard away for killing that old bitch in that robbery. You are not
gonna testify at his trial. You hear me? You do, and
you get the pretty boy here back in pieces."
"Who the hell is this?" Jim broke in, trying to get a fix on
the voice. He didn't recognize it at all.
"Friend of Jerry's. Don't matter. What matters is this. You gonna
disappear for a little while, 'til that trial is done. You tell anybody, you
try to find him, he's dead. Slow, and in pieces, like I said. You testify, you get a piece of him for every day you go in. You unnerstand me?" Not
giving the detective a chance to reply, he continued. "When I get Jerry
back, you get your boy here back. You got a week."
Before he could protest, or demand to talk to Blair, the line
disconnected. Very close to panic, he forced himself to calm down and
concentrate. There was no way he could give into the kidnapper's demands. In
the first place, the disappearance was already reported, so there was no way to
keep it quiet, even if he wanted to, and there was also no way he could not
testify against Jerry Howard. He didn't trust the kidnapper not to kill Blair
anyway, and his only chance to save his partner was to find him and put an end
to this as soon as possible. Hitting the send button, he quick-dialed Simon. In
a few terse sentences he put him up to date and got the computers working on
all known associates of the robber. Blair had very little time.
Opening his ears and eyes to their fullest range, he went back to the
trail.
Clayton Fouts stared at the unexpected treasure
spread out in front of him. He hadn't expected it to be this easy, and he was
prepared to take advantage of what life brought him. He'd never been much of
one for being too picky, so he was prepared to overlook the fact that the long
haired beauty he held hostage was a boy instead of a girl. Besides, turnabout
was fair play. Jerry'd had a hard time in jail, all
those big bastards in there wantin' him to be their
girlfriend. Maybe it was time the asshole cop learned what it was like to have somethin' like that happen to somebody he cared about.
Nodding once to himself, he casually backhanded Blair, sending him into
the wall, stunning him. Before the young man could shake the stars out of his
head, Fouts reached down and roughly turned him over.
Twisting the chains, he yanked the strong thighs apart and settled down between
them. The boy's hands were caught underneath him, his face was buried in the
pallet, and his legs were held tight by the chain.
He heard a muffled sound, and reached forward to pull the hair away from
the boy's face. It felt silky in his hands, soft, and nice to touch. He wound
his fingers in it for a moment, then bent forward. The
hostage's face was scrunched up into a grimace of pain, and tears fell silently
from his tightly closed eyes.
"I ain't even touched you yet, boy, why
you cryin'?
"My ankle," came the strained reply
from behind gritted teeth.
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the kid's right ankle was
swollen and bruised. Ignoring the yelp of pain his action caused, he prodded it
roughly. "Don't feel broke. Just sprained. S'okay, I'm gonna give you somethin' else to think about. Get your mind offa that little thing."
Unbuckling his belt and sliding his trousers down, he began to stroke himself quickly. Staring at that soft curly hair, the long,
smooth back, and the muscular white buttocks before him, he found himself
getting hard much more easily than he had expected. Reaching over and spreading
those buttocks with his other hand, he peered at the small pucker with some
curiosity. Feeling himself laid open like that, Blair tried to buck him off.
Muffled pleas began to spill from the head of the pallet, but Fouts ignored them.
"Ain't gonna
fit," he finally decided. "Not without some grease of some
sort." Looking around, he caught sight of the small tub of margarine left
on the table from the morning's meal. "Don't parti'cl'rly
care if you hurt, but I don't wanna wear all the skin
off my dick, either."
Efficiently twisting the chain tighter so that his captive couldn't move
at all, he levered himself up and shuffled to the table. As he turned and made
his way back to the pallet, margarine tub firmly in hand, his attention was
caught by Blair's ass. The kid was jerking at the chains, whimpering slightly
with pain whenever his ankle was jarred, instinctively trying to get away
before his rapist came back. The resulting motion was enchanting to Fouts. Each lunge caused Blair's buttocks to part and
close, so that his anus seemed to be winking at Fouts,
pulling him in. His erection surged, and he dropped to his knees again between
the boy's thighs, kicking at his ankles to pull the legs further apart.
At the sharp pain in his sprained ankle, Blair screamed into the pallet.
Before he could get his breath back from that pain, Fouts
drove into him. There was no preparation, just bony fingers clenching into his
buttocks to pry them apart, erection slamming into him with all the force of
the man's back in it. With no breath for another scream, Blair's mouth widened
silently, as he felt as if he was being ripped in two. It had been a long time
since he had last been with a man, and even then it had been gentle, not this
insane rutting that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with pain.
At the fork of the bike trails, Ellison had to make a decision. Going
with the odds, he followed the middle trail, and moved as quickly as he could.
It was nearly
The backup had arrived, about a half hour behind them, and he updated
them on the cell phone about his tracking. They agreed to take the other two
trails and keep him informed of any progress. Snapping the phone shut, he
headed deeper into the trees, straining to catch a glimmer of his Guide. Less
than a yard into the new trail, his body arched, an incredible pain catching
him at the base of the spine and sending him to his knees.
When his eyes cleared from the pain tears, he took stock, and realized
that the pain hadn't been centered in his back at all. It was lower. Squatting
slightly, following the trail of fire, he discovered that it was centered in
his gut, radiating up from his anus. An overpowering rage took hold of him as
he understood the ramifications of that particular pain. Not content with
taking his Guide from him, the son of a bitch had hurt him, and was now raping
him. An unfamiliar sense of helpless frustration combined with the rage until
he was nearly paralyzed with the strength of the emotions. Conflicting urges
ran riot through him ... track, hunt ... kill, maim, rend, tear ... protect,
comfort, nurture ... hunt - kill - protect - hunt - tear - comfort - protect -
hunt - kill - hunt --
He was on the move, blindly flying through the trees, every sense on
high, searching, hunting, to protect, to find his partner and stop the pain.
Vision and hearing at preternatural levels, nose sniffing the air for the scent
of his Guide, unaware of the small branches that flogged him as he passed, he
made his way through the trees. Aware of the waves of pain pounding at his
buttocks and his gut, growing in intensity with each step he took, he fought
through them and used them to find his way.
Three miles of pain and blind running later, he felt an unexpected rush
of blood through his veins. His cock hardened, but it felt confusing,
accompanied by the strongest feeling of denial he had ever known. He knew it
didn't come from him, and guessed that the kidnapper was using Blair's own body
against him. A maelstrom of emotions swirled just under the surface of his
thoughts, feelings of animal anger, helplessness, horror, a vulnerability and
blanket of shock not his own. Rage at having his gentle Guide abused so badly
spurred him on even harder, running at full speed now, uncaring when his body
jerked and semen flowed across the front of his pants.
He was close. He could smell them.
Fouts was grunting in
time with his thrusts, uncaring of the damage he was inflicting, surprised and
carried away with the pleasure of the tight ass surrounding his dick. He'd had
no idea butt-fucking felt that good, or he'd've done it years ago. Feeling his climax gather, he
closed his eyes and shoved as far as he could into the hot passage, then threw
his head back and howled as he came. Collapsing onto the boy's back, he groaned
as he felt his withering dick expelled from the clenching asshole.
"GodDAMN, that was good." He pulled
himself up, slapping the shaking flank under his thigh approvingly. "Gotta do that again." He examined his limp penis,
somewhat surprised to see blood on it. "What the fuck?" Reaching over
to pull Blair's thighs up to where he could see better, he spread the buttocks
and saw a small trickle of blood trickling from the reddened ring of muscle.
Curious, he prodded at it with his finger.
"no, please, don't" came softly from
the quivering boy.
Perversely, this made Fouts even more determined
to satisfy his curiosity. He leaned forward to see better, and was surprised
again by the scent rising from the sweaty skin. It smelled good, musky and
dark, and he found his erection returning. Reaching under the upraised hips, he
searched out the boy's dick. It was good sized, but completely limp. Smiling
nastily, he began to pump it. With his other hand, he played with the still
bleeding anus, stretching it with his finger, diving inside with one, then two,
prodding at the shrinking flesh.
Blair was in hell. He'd never known such pain in his life, and he'd
never, ever been so helpless to stop it. He withdrew as far into himself as he
could, but he couldn't escape completely. When a rough hand grabbed at his
penis and began to work it, he clenched his fists into the chains and tried to
distract himself any way he could. To his utter horror, his body was paying no
attention to his mind. He felt himself harden, and nearly vomited at his own
body's betrayal.
As he felt the climax being forced from him, and the invasion of hard
fingers thrusting into him at the same time, he sobbed into the stinking cloth
under his face and prayed to pass out. The probing fingers were occasionally
stabbing into his prostate, and the unexpected kick was adding a surreally
arousing flavor to the whole nightmare scene. Unable to fight, unable to will
his body to stay inert, completely out of control, he sent up a series of
prayers from the depths of his heart. They were all addressed to his Sentinel,
and they all begged for help.
His orgasm ripped from him, and he gagged. Before he quite came down from
it, the fingers were wrenched from his ass, and he heard Fouts
say something, he couldn't make out what it was over
the pounding in his ears and the pain from his body. In a last ditch effort to
escape, he jerked away from the hands, but his resistance was no more than a
minor inconvenience to his tormentor. Easily held, he felt the burning begin
again as hard flesh was forced back into him, and those damnedable
hands were back at his groin. Trying not to choke on his own tears and mucous,
pulling weakly at the chains with no effect at all, he gasped for breath and
prayed once again to pass out.
No one seemed to be listening.
"Don't want ya thinkin' I'm selfish, here,
boy. You gonna get some too," he crooned with
mock concern, dipping his fingers into the margarine and using it to lube up
the flaccid flesh.
Blair buried his head in the smelly pallet and tried not to respond, but
years of masturbation had given Fouts a certain
mastery of the art, and an unwilling erection was the result. Accompanied by an unsteady stream of 'no's from Blair, Fouts pulled harder, slapping at the flesh, squeezing the
head and pumping steadily. Against his will, the younger man's hips
began to twitch, then thrust, until with a single deep moan of denial he came
into Fouts' hand.
The rapist smiled at that, enjoying watching the struggle, and rubbed the
hot cream into the boy's balls. He stared at the muscle spasming around his
fingers, then looked down at his own resurgent
erection. Still holding the balls in his one hand, he removed the other fingers
from Blair's ass and reached for the margarine, slathering it on the stretched
opening. The boy reacted with a hiss of pain, and
another involuntary attempt to escape. Fouts
tightened his hold on the balls, and Blair stilled.
"Let's see what that feels like from the inside, pretty boy,"
he growled, then slid himself back into the abused
asshole.
Holding himself still, buried to the hilt, he
began to milk the kid's dick again. From the sound of it and the shaking in the
shoulders in front of him, the boy was crying, but his body was reacting
anyway. Fouts could feel a pulse beating around his
engorged dick, and it was the most incredible feeling he'd ever had. Bending
over his captive, he wrapped both hands around Blair's dick and started working
it. The resulting muscular reaction in the tight channel around his own dick
nearly blew the top of his head off.
It was great, and weird, like fucking and jerking off all at the same
time. Soon, the strong thighs held tight against his own began to buck, and he
found himself thrusting back in time with the boy's rhythm. The hard dick in
his hands began to spurt. When it did, the muscle around his own dick clenched,
and the spasms felt like they were pulling his dick inside out. Dropping the
kid's dick, he grabbed hold of the soft ass cheeks and thrust in hard, yelling
out his pleasure as he climaxed hard enough to make his ears pop.
Finally drained, he felt his emptied dick pop out of the kid's asshole
with a soft plopping noise. "In-fuckin'-credible,
boy," he managed, then slapped the shivering ass
hard. "Damn fine! May not kill you after all. May keep you around for awhile. Best damned fuck I think I
ever had."
Pushing himself to his feet, he wandered unsteadily over to the table and
picked up his cigarettes, lighting one and drawing deeply on it. Staring with
approval at the shaking body of his hostage, he smiled contentedly. Yup, this
had been one of his better ideas. Jerry got off, and he got his rocks off, all
at the same time. Laughing at his own joke, he stepped outside for a breath of
fresh air. When he was recovered, he thought he'd go do that again.
By the time he came to the clearing, Ellison was no longer completely
human. Each rasping breath out sounded like the low growl of an enraged jungle
cat, and his entire body was tensed to pounce and destroy. Fouts
looked up in startled fear, without time for as much as a shout, before the
Sentinel was on him.
The scent was strong, blood, semen, sweat. Blair, and fear, spread all
over the rank skin. Strong hands came out, long
fingers curled into claws, and caught his prey against the splintering doorjamb.
Fouts tried to fight
back, but Ellison gave him no opportunity. The pain and anger, mixed and merged
from both Sentinel and Guide, fed back and amplified through their empathic
link, exploded from Ellison in one great rush of retaliatory violence. Fouts' head fell forward, staring in dumb disbelief as a
clawed hand clenched around his genitals and ripped them completely off his
body. A moment later, incredible pain blossomed throughout his nervous system,
and he threw back his head and opened his mouth to scream.
Reacting on instincts from a millennia of
primitive rage, Ellison grasped his enemy by the throat and shoved the bleeding
mass of flesh into the man's gaping mouth. Fouts
scrabbled at his jaws, trying to unclog his esophagus, but the shock of pain
and blood loss was too much. Before he could clear his throat complete, he
passed out. His body began to convulse as it suffocated, but he died from blood
loss before the lack of oxygen could kill him, the mangled genitalia falling
from his slack jaw to lie at his side. Ellison was already past the twitching
corpse and into the shack before the convulsions stopped.
The growling was still continuous, and increased in pitch when he saw his
mate. Operating with incredibly enhanced levels of adrenaline, he didn't feel
the skin on his hands tear as he pulled the chains from the wall. Blair was
shaking, his eyes closed, his buttocks and thighs smeared with blood and sperm.
Wrapping the chains around his Guide, Ellison scooped him up and headed back
down the trail. He had to get him safe, had to get him warm, had to clean the
blood off. Had to take him home.
Simon Banks headed the team of sheriff's deputies and park rangers on the
hunt for the kidnappers. Scouring the forest around the bike trails, they
followed them northward, until a crashing sound in the trees caused him to call
a halt. Signaling the men to get down and covered, he crouched down behind a
concealing tree. To his intense shock, he recognized his friend Jim Ellison.
Jim was holding what looked like Blair Sandburg, naked and tied up in some sort
of chains, and both men had blood all over them. Jim was chalky white with
shock, and Sandburg looked to be unconscious.
Stepping into Ellison's path, he was very nearly bowled over by the determined
detective. "Jim! Hold on, there! What's going on? What's wrong with
Sandburg?"
Ellison managed to stop his headlong flight, staring up at Banks with
dilated, glazed eyes. Finally seeming to recognize his Captain, he gestured
with his head back the direction he'd come. "That way," he ground
out, his voice sounding husky and raw.
Simon gestured for the men to continue their search, then gathered Jim up
and led him with his burden over to the side of the trail. "Jim? What
happened?"
He was stripping out of his long coat as he asked, draping it around
Sandburg's still form, fighting to get the warm material around the naked man.
Ellison didn't seem to want to release his hold even long enough to cover the
young man. With a start, Jim seemed to come back to himself, and reached around
to pull the coat closer around Blair.
"I ... I'm not quite sure, Simon. I was ... we were ... there was a
..." He seemed distracted, confused. Banks put a steadying hand on his
arm.
"Report, detective," he said firmly, hoping to jolt his friend
back into some coherency. It worked, to an extent.
"I don't really know, captain," Jim managed, huddling Blair
close to him. "I was heading into a clearing, it hurt, I could smell him,
knew he was close. This guy was on the porch, there was blood everywhere, Blair was inside. He was chained to the wall. I got him out,
and ran." Dazed crystal blue eyes looked up at Banks. "There was so
much blood," he finished faintly.
"Okay, we'll find out what happened. First things first, you get Sandburg
back to the main trail.
Less than a half hour later, standing next to the ambulance watching the
paramedics prying Jim off of Sandburg long enough to get him strapped into a
gurney, Simon's cell phone chirped.
"Banks," he answered.
"Sir, this is Deputy Longly.
We, uh, found a corpse, sir." The voice on the other end of the line
sounded ill.
"What happened to it?" Simon was not feeling patient. After all
this, they didn't have a live suspect? What had Jim done to him?
"Looks like a wildcat got to him, sir." There was a pause, and
an audible swallow. "Some sort of big cat, anyway, from
the claw marks. Disemboweled the guy. No signs
of a struggle either, so it must've come up quick. One of the rangers here says
that happens once in awhile, not very often, but every now and then. Your
detective must've got here shortly after the attack, or else his friend
would've probably been gotten by the same cat."
Banks was quiet for a long moment. The mental image was disturbing, as
disturbing as Jim's blank state earlier when they'd found him. One thing he did
know for certain -- Blair Sandburg had been in no danger from the 'cat'.
Shaking himself back to the present, eyeing his detective through the open
hatch of the ambulance, he cleared his throat. "An
animal attack? Not a human?"
"No way a man did this, sir," came the
emphatic reply. "This guy was ripped to pieces."
"Thank you, deputy." He disconnected the line, and folded the
phone, staring thoughtfully at his friend as the ambulance pulled away. As far
as he was concerned, the case was closed. There were some things he just didn't
want to know.
Blair half expected them to keep him overnight at the hospital, but they
didn't. After a thorough, and uncomfortable, examination, he was pronounced in
good shape. They put two stitches into the torn wall of his rectum, gave him
antibiotic cream, strapped up his sprained ankle, took blood tests and swab
tests for everything from HIV to chlamydia, gave him
a tetanus shot for where the rusty chains had bitten into his flesh, and told
him to take it easy for a few days. They also took photographs in case of a court
case for the rape, and a soft-voiced young woman with concerned eyes talked to
him about trauma and repression, and gave him her card.
He just wanted to sleep for a week.
Then Jim came in, with a set of sweats for him to put on and his sneakers
in one big hand, and the need to sleep mutated
immediately into a need to hide.
His memories of the flight through the trees was
shaky at best, but he knew who had rescued him. Knew what sort of state he'd
been in when he had been rescued. And knew what his partner must think of him.
Determined not to cry, angry and frustrated with what he perceived as his
weakness, he forced himself to act as naturally as possible with Ellison.
"Hey, big guy. Thanks for making like the cavalry." He was momentarily proud that
his voice had sounded so normal.
Jim didn't react to his teasing thanks the way he had expected. Instead
of making a funny comeback or telling him to run faster next time,
or even bawling him out about tying him up in the first place so he hadn't been
able to help during the kidnapping, the big man simply reached out and gathered
him up in a hug. Feeling the incipient tears threatening, again, he hesitated
for a minute, then reached around and hugged Jim back just as tightly. They
held each other for what could have been hours but was in actuality only a few
moments, then slowly disengaged.
"Let's go home, Chief," Jim suggested quietly. Blair simply
nodded, and, with his friend's assistance, settled gingerly into the wheelchair
for the ride out to the truck.
It was a silent ride home, both men distracted by their own memories, and
the emotions those memories stirred up. They each had a lot of heavy thinking
to do, but by the time they reached the loft, they'd come to separate but
identical conclusions. They had to talk. This situation had changed their
relationship, made them both face some unexpected hard truths, and it was only
fair to get it out in the open.
Neither knew where, or how, to begin. Eventually, Blair was comfortably
settled on soft cushions at the end of the couch, herbal tea was brewed and sat
cooling on the side table, and complete darkness had fallen outside. It was the
usually nonverbal Ellison who finally caved in and started to talk. Somehow,
the darkness made it easier.
"I know what happened, Blair," he said gently, scootching over on the couch until his thigh just touched
his Guide's leg. He had to have some physical contact to ground him or he'd
never get through this.
"Guess it was kinda obvious, huh, man?
Especially with the way you can smell things." Blair's voice sounded
strangled. He shifted, wincing, then settled down again, but his hands were
moving, fingers roaming over the material of his pants, picking at loose
threads, pleating the material and smoothing it in a repetitive movement.
"No, that's not what I mean," Jim continued uneasily. Not
thinking about it, just needing to feel Blair's presence as strongly as
possible, he picked up one of the younger man's hands, stilling its restless
movement. "I mean, when it was happening." The hand in his suddenly
froze, and he could feel the tension in the quivering muscles along his leg.
Blair's heart rate skyrocketed, and he found himself wrapping an arm
comfortingly around the smaller man. "It's okay, Chief," he soothed
automatically. "You remember what we were talking about when the tests
began? Well, it kicked in big time. I could feel your anger, and your fear, and
your pain. I knew what he was doing to you when he was doing it."
Blair started to jerk away, trying to hide away from the bright eyes
staring down at him. "This is not happening, it just can't be." Of
all the times for an empathetic link to kick in, the one time he *so* did not
want it to happen was when he was getting off on getting raped. At least, that was how it looked to him, and if he felt like that, then how
could Jim feel any differently? "It wasn't like it seemed, man, it
wasn't. I hated it, I was, like,
freaking out, Jim, I was fighting so hard and it wasn't helping and I couldn't
help it, man! It wasn't my fault!" Then how come you came, Sandburg? He
tried to quash the mocking little voice, but he couldn't answer it, and
couldn't kill it.
"No, no. It wasn't your fault, Blair." Jim wasn't letting him
escape. He had both arms wrapped around him now, careful not to jar the injured
ankle, and was rocking him gently. "Don't blame yourself for what that
sick son of a bitch did to you, Chief. There wasn't a thing you could have done
to stop him."
"And why couldn't I stop myself, Jim?" The question was ragged,
and softly self-recriminating. Jim's arms tightened in response.
"You couldn't. A body is a set of muscles and nerves, Blair, and
they're going to respond to stimulus if it's applied, whether the mind wants to
go along with it or fight against it. You were in shock, and in pain, and he
raped you. End of story." Jim's firm reassurance helped, but Blair still
couldn't get the memory of Fouts' hands out of his
mind.
"I came, Jim," he admitted shamefully. "Twice.
He made me come twice." He swallowed hard, although whether it was to keep
from crying or throwing up, or both, he didn't know. He wanted to hide his face
in the larger man's chest and hide there, but he forced himself to meet Jim's
eyes. The warm glow he found there took him by surprise, and eased some of the
ache in his chest.
"You said it, Blair. He made
you. I felt that too," Jim continued, his words sending another jolt of
shock through Blair's system. "I felt the orgasm, but more importantly, I
felt the denial and the horror you were feeling. I felt you fighting, Blair.
I've never felt anything that strong. You fought with everything you had-"
"It wasn't enough," he blurted out, miserably.
"- and that was all you could do." Jim reached forward and
caught Blair's chin with his free hand. "All anyone could have done, Blair."
Before he could react, the older man leaned forward and captured his
mouth in the most tender kiss he had ever felt.
Stunned, he felt his jaw go slack. Jim leaned back, looked searchingly at him, then, with a slight smile, tipped his mouth shut with one
finger under his chin.
"Don't you get it, Chief?" Blair shook his head,
uncomprehendingly. "It's more than a Sentinel/Guide thing. It's a
Jim/Blair thing." Jim smiled sweetly down at him. "You're home,
you're safe, and you're going to stay that way."
Swallowing several times to try to get his mouth back in working order
again, Blair cocked his head and stared at his Sentinel. "What, exactly,
are you trying to say here, Jim?"
One large hand came out and cupped his face, and clear blue eyes met his
own. "I love you, Blair. And no one is going to hurt you, ever again, if I
can help it. The Blessed Protector fell down on the job, and you paid for it.
That isn't going to happen again."
He read the depth of commitment in those eyes, and felt his breath coming
quickly in his lungs. After a moment, Jim settled next to him, and pulled him
closer. "You okay with this?" Jim finally thought to ask, when there
was no reply forthcoming from his Guide.
"Yeah," he finally replied absently, mesmerized by the touch of
Jim's strong fingers along his shoulder and the sense of utter security he
found wrapped up in those long arms. "Yeah, I think maybe I am. Just ... not right away?"
A sigh ruffled the curls along his cheek, and he finally relaxed into his
Sentinel's hold. "Whenever you're ready, Chief.
I'll be here."
<epilog -- eighteen months later>
The therapy was going well, and the nightmares were much less frequent.
Jim was always there to hold him, and that feeling of security was helping the
healing process immensely. His Blessed Protector had even come with him to
several of his therapy sessions, and they were working through the emotional
fallout from the rape together. The tests were all negative, and the unkind but
undoubtedly true reaction was that Fouts had probably
not had sex with anything but his right hand for years, so he wasn't a great
risk for STDs. Blair had healed, physically, and was bouncing back to his
standard enthusiasm for life. The two men had even returned to the rain forest
and done some field tests, although they had had to work hard to overcome the
fear that nearly prohibited them from entering the area. Throughout the days,
the empathic link grew steadier, and they added its existence to the arsenal of
Sentinel/Guide tools. It came in very handy, especially in dangerous
situations, giving them almost a sixth sense that enabled them to watch out for
one another in a way that was almost uncanny.
But Blair was still contending with two drawbacks stemming from his
ordeal. Both were tied directly to Jim Ellison. It had taken several weeks for
him to convince Jim to stop treating him as if he was made of porcelain, and
now that he had gotten him to stop hovering, Blair was finding that he was
getting nowhere in his quest to have Jim follow up on the implied promises made
so many months previously.
He knew the detective loved him. Jim made no effort to hide the fact,
touching him even more frequently than had been his wont, and simply *being*
there all the time. At first, the other detectives had thought he was simply
being over protective, in reaction to what had happened. Given the physical
closeness Blair and Jim had shared before the kidnapping, they didn't see
anything unusual at all. As the days turned into weeks, then months, and the
attention didn't waver, a few tumbled to the fact that this partnership was
closer than the usual partnership, but nothing was ever said. Don't ask, don't
tell was as alive and well in the law enforcement community as within the
military. The Cap was okay with it, so the troops were okay with it. The only
one who *wasn't* okay with it was Blair himself, and that was only because he
was getting the name without ever having played the game.
That was about to change.
Talking had never particularly convinced his Jim of anything. So he
steeled himself, talked it to death with his therapist, and came up with a plan
that would deal with his own fear of his sexuality, stemming from the rape, and
his frustrated need for Jim. With no little trepidation, he checked the loft
one last time and took a deep breath. As he heard the key turn in the door, he
finished lighting the candles and turned out the lights, waiting for his plan
to either hit pay dirt ... or blow up in his face.
The first thing Jim noticed when he walked in the door was the scent.
Sandalwood, and jasmine, melting wax, alfredo
sauce, fresh bread, chocolate, and Blair-scent. The tinge of arousal that was
always underlying Blair's normal scent had been strengthening in the last
several weeks, but he had held back. The first move had to come from the
younger man, had to be at Blair's pace, at Blair's comfort level. Jim had
wanted this too long to truly trust himself, and Blair had been so badly shaken
by what Fouts had done to him that he didn't dare
push the issue. As he closed the door and leaned against it, taking in the low
lighting brightened by splashes of candlelight, he grinned. Looked
like Blair was ready. He knew he certainly was.
"Hiya, Chief," he growled softly,
Sentinel vision easily picking out the still form leaning against the counter
in the far shadows of the kitchen. The younger man was wrapped in Jim's silk
robe, the material draping over him, sliding against his skin in a way that
sent Jim's pulse pounding in his veins.
"Hiya, big guy," Blair responded
throatily.
A match flared, and a final candle was lit, a fat green serenity candle
that added a hint of pine to the combined aromas in the loft. In the flickering
light, Blair's face looked unearthly, all wide azure eyes and slanting
cheekbones, full, tempting mouth and dark curls framing his face. Jim felt a
jolt of arousal sizzle through him, and found himself speaking before he could
stop himself.
"God, Blair, I hope this is a seduction, 'cause if it isn't, you
might as well just take me out back and shoot me now."
The solemn eyes crinkled suddenly as the fey face stretched into a wide
grin. "That's one of the things I love about you, Jim. You are, like, *so*
subtle, man."
Jim wasn't aware of moving, but he must have, because he was just inches
away from his Blair. Of their own volition, his hands rose and cupped the
rounded chin, fingertips sliding gently along the smooth cheeks to alight on
the short, crisp sideburns before curving around the edge of his ears. "I
love you," he whispered, and the grin on Blair's face melted into the
softest smile he had ever seen.
"I love you, too, Jim, you have to know
that by now."
Carefully, as if afraid that too quick movement would shatter the moment,
Jim leaned down and captured that full mouth with his own. They had kissed,
lightly, in the past few months, but he had held back, taking his cue from his
Guide as always. There were no restraints on this kiss. When he felt the fire
begin to blaze out of control, he tried to pull away, but strong hands caught
at his skull. Long fingers crushed the short hair and pulled him closer still,
deepening the kiss even further. When Blair finally allowed him to breathe
again, both men were panting.
"Let's take this into the living room, Jim," Blair suggested
huskily. All he could do was nod in response.
The next hour was a daze for him, a stream of kisses, candlelight, finger food in dripping sauce, licking fingers and lingering
caresses. By the time dinner was thankfully finished, Jim had been hard for
what felt like forever, and judging by the flush and the heat rising from his
partner, Blair wasn't far behind him. Catching flecks of chocolate falling from
one another's lips led to more kisses, and the robe found a home on the floor,
joined quickly by every stitch Jim had on, shed as quickly as possible. While
the pace was fast, it was never frantic, and Jim was pleased to see that there
was no fear in Blair at any time.
Scarcely able to keep himself under control, he was to the point where
he'd either have to get Blair in his bed or excuse himself for a quickie in the
shower, when Blair rolled off of his chest and reached out a hand to pull him
to his admittedly shaky feet.
"Bed?" Please? Blair's eyes glowed.
"Yes." God, yes. Or take me now, Jim
added silently, here, anywhere, I'm yours.
They made it up the steps, barely, among many tiny pecking kisses, and
Blair pushed Jim gently onto the bed. Recognizing his Guide's need to stay in
control of the lovemaking, he relaxed into the firm mattress and willed the
tension from his muscles. This was Blair's night, as he had hoped and as his
partner needed, and Jim would do nothing other than what Blair needed. They
kissed for a very long time, exploring one another, mouth to mouth, to chest,
to neck, to groin, to thigh, to calf, to shoulder and wrist and palm. Jim's
first orgasm took him almost by surprise, Blair's hand firm and gentle on his
flesh, Blair's mouth against his throat, their legs entangled. Blair used the
ejaculate as a lubricant, working his fingers deeply into Jim, then slowly,
with great care, entering him.
Lying on his side, his face buried in the pillow that smelled like Blair,
one leg bent forward, Jim clenched his fists into the softness of the pillow
and gave himself up to the intense satisfaction of being possessed by his
Blair. He felt full to the heart, the pressure, not quite pain, transforming
into the most exquisite pleasure he had ever known. He was hard again, but the
urge to climax wasn't as intense, given his recent release, so he concentrated
on pleasuring Blair, manipulating his internal muscles to rhythmically massage
his Guide's length, until the iron control the younger man was showing finally
broke, and he began to buck unevenly into Jim. Riding out the storm,
encouraging Blair with every moan he gave, Jim shuddered as Blair finally lost
himself, clutching at Jim's hips with his fingers, burying himself as deeply as
he could reach. The sensation was incredible.
Eventually, the clutching hands relaxed, Blair slipped from him, and Jim
was able to turn himself around and gather his lover up close to his chest.
Blair roused, a smoky, sated look in his deep cerulean eyes, and smiled sweetly
up at Jim. Lifting a hand to caress the broad chest, Blair bumped his wrist
against Jim's still turgid erection. He sucked in a breath at the feeling, and
his Guide looked at the swollen cock, then up at his face.
"Make love to me," he said almost under his breath, knowing
Jim's hearing could pick it up.
"I thought that's what we were doing," Jim managed to squeeze
out as Blair ran a lazy fingertip in small circles over the head of his
erection.
"I need you in me," came the reply,
stronger this time. Jim looked at him with a flare of hope and concern.
"You sure about this?" Please be sure, the thought flashed through his mind, I couldn't bear to
hurt you.
"Yes," Blair answered, easing himself onto his back and
spreading his legs, one knee nudging Jim on the trip. "I need to see your
face, but I want you in me." Jim stared at the sight of his lover opened
before him, and swallowed heavily, feeling the blood surge low, making his cock
jump. "Now!"
Well, there hadn't been a trace of hesitation in *that* command. Reaching
beside him for the tube of lubricant that had shortly before been used to ease
his own passage, he quickly warmed a generous amount with his fingers and eased
them into Blair's opening. Those bright wide eyes stared intently up into his
face the entire time, as if his love was attempting to memorize his features,
or reassure himself of just who it was in bed with him. In response, Jim slowed
and deepened his movements. He could read the reaction as Blair's eyes deepened
to lapis, pupils expanding until the iris nearly
disappeared. Convinced that Blair was ready for this, he relaxed a little of
his tight control over his senses. This first time, especially, he wanted to
feel everything. Needed to make it as good as he could, to
replace the nightmares with something wonderful.
Careful not to zone out on any one sense, he allowed them all free rein,
mapping Blair's responses by touch and sound and scent, concentrating
completely on his Guide. Every ripple of skin, every flush of arousal, every tiny whimper was given its due. By the time he was
through tasting, teasing and tempting, Blair was wild in his arms, clutching at
his flanks, pressing himself in harsh need against Jim's bulk. Not wanting the passion
to go far enough to become pain, Jim returned his attention to Blair's anus.
When the puckered muscle was sufficiently relaxed, he shifted, easing himself
into the tight channel, watchful for any indication of pain or hesitation on
his Blair's part, but there was none. Fully ensheathed,
he rested, then in response to Blair moaned urging, began a steady driving
rhythm.
By now Blair was fully erect, the end of his cock weeping, bouncing
lightly against his stomach with each thrust. He was moaning with each
exhalation, no longer capable of coherent speech, and Jim felt his own control
slip away at the sight. Reaching one hand down between them, he grasped Blair's
erection firmly, and began to squeeze him, running a thumb into the tiny
opening, spreading the fluid around the heated flesh. At the same time, he
changed his angle of entry and rubbed his ridge of his cock against Blair's
prostate with each stroke. The constant stimulation after the extended foreplay
made it impossible for either man to hold out for very long. Blair came first,
sighing Jim's name through tightened throat muscles. Jim felt the onrush of the
orgasm, and stilled, held deeply inside Blair's body, fighting the urge to come
himself. The spasming of Blair's sphincter around his cock overcame his
determination, and as Blair was coming down from his climax Jim fell into his
own. The muscles spasms continued irregularly, milking the last of his orgasm
from him, and Jim curled around Blair, gathering him up against him. Blindly,
he sought his partner's mouth, and as his cock was pushed from the tight heat
of Blair's body his lips opened into the welcome heat of Blair's mouth.
Holding his Guide close to him, Jim settled back against the pillows,
exhausted and exhilarated. "Did you feel that, Blair?" he roused
himself to ask. A soft rumble of laughter from mid-sternum answered him.
"Id've had to've
been dead not to, big guy," Blair managed to get out between chuckles. Jim
pinched his left buttock, gently.
"Smartass. I meant ...
did you lose yourself there? I'm not saying this right," he broke off in
frustration.
"I think I know what you mean, Jim," Blair answered seriously,
if a bit sleepily. "No boundaries. I felt what you were feeling, like
there was no you or me, just us. Couldn't tell where I stopped and you
began."
Jim nodded, satisfied. "That's it, exactly." He reached down
and kissed the top of Blair's curls. When there was no answer, he listened for
a moment to the even cadence of the other man's breathing, and smiled.
Gathering his sleeping lover to him, safe and contented, he settled down to
sleep himself. Deep in the darkness of the loft, something began to purr.
~~~~finis~~~