Target, a Sentinel story with a focus on the Guide, by Glacis. Rated NC17 for explicit depictions of
sexuality and a bit of violence, no copyright infringement intended to Pet Fly
et al. With thanks to and especially for Marnee and
Ruth; this is their auction request. Thank you for supporting our Sentinel with
your letters! Set between the episodes Fool Me Twice and Storm Warning.
For some reason, Phil Collins was rolling
around in his head. Just another day in
Life was funny, that way.
Since hooking up with Jim Ellison (and by
extension, the Major Crimes Division of the Cascade Police Department) he
couldn't say that life had been boring. But he could wonder, every once in
awhile, if there would be something more for him somewhere down the road than
falling for crime lords' daughters and untouchable
human rights activists and unattainable cops.
Woah.
Back up.
He hadn't meant that. Hadn't
meant to think it. Certainly wasn't gonna act
on it. Besides the fact that he liked living at the loft and wasn't financially
or emotionally ready to be looking for other quarters, there was the fact that
Jim was about as clueless as asparagus when it came to sex. Women tended to
confuse him, and Blair sometimes thought his roommate took them to bed just so
he didn't have to try to figure them out. A guy with the hots
for him was just as apt to get his clock cleaned clear into the middle of next
month. And there was his dissertation to think about, and the not inconsiderable
fact that Jim, much as he was able to keep a handle on his senses most of the
time, still needed some fine tuning. Blair wasn't quite ready to give up and
offer himself on the sacrificial altar of heterosexual shock just yet.
Maybe next year.
Sighing, flipping off the computer with one
toe on the power bar, he stretched and felt every vertebra pop out, then back
in to place. Enough brooding, enough sighing, and most
definitely enough paperwork for one morning. Time to
wander down along the Ave and see if there was anything new at GreenGrowers. He was almost out of echinacea, and completely out of goldenseal, not a good
thing in Cascade in the winter. And who knew? Maybe Chandra would be working
and he'd get lucky.
After all, if a guy couldn't scratch one itch,
he could always scratch another. He grinned to himself, shouldered his
backpack, kicked the door shut on his way out and headed into the weak watery
light trying desperately to imitate a sunny day. By the time he made it to the
herb shop, he was humming under his breath.
"Hey, Chan, how's it going?" he sang
out as the bell over the door clanged behind him. By the time his eyes had
adjusted to the dim light, his mind had processed both the lack of verbal
response and the unnaturally still way his friend was standing. That's when he
recognized the gun in the only other customer's fist.
Shit.
Two and a half years as a cop's ride along
partner kicked into action.
"C'mon, man, you so do not want to
do this. She'll give you any money she's got, right, Chan?" A frantic jerk
of her head agreed. "See? It's cool. It's easy. No need to hurt
anybody." He was edging closer as he spoke, trying to calm the jittery man
and pull his attention away from the terrified clerk. "Just put the gun
away, man, no need for it here, we can-"
Before he could finish the sentence or get
close enough to try to disarm the robber, the door bell clanged again. With a
muffled, "Fuck!" he dove for the man's gun arm as three young college
students chattered their way in the door. The gunman panicked at the noisy
intrusion, firing once directly into Chandra, her body jolting back with the
force of the impact. Her choked off scream was drowned out by the screams of
the two girls and one boy who now found themselves in the middle of an armed robbery.
Blair was too busy fighting for his life to worry about it.
He didn't know what the guy was on, but from
the strength of him he'd bank on PCP. He was just managing to keep the barrel
away from his body, when the guy grabbed hold of his hair and yanked him into
position in front of him like a human shield. Blair wasn't able to restrain the
yelp of pain as he felt a clump of hair ripped from his scalp. The cold circle
of the gun barrel jamming into the soft skin under his jaw cut off any further
sound.
"Get the fuck outta
my way!" the man screamed past his ear. Blair stared, wide eyed, tears
starting from the corners of his eyes from the grip on his hair, as the man
backed away, dragging him with him by his grip in Blair's hair. Blair threw his
hands out in a shooing motion, hoping to at least convince the kids to escape.
One of the girls did just that, ducking back out the door behind the cover of
her friends. Blair tossed a brief prayer up to whatever gods might be listening
that she didn't just run, that she'd go get help, and save Chandra before she
bled to death. Then he and his captor were out the back door and into the
narrow alley that connected the service entrances of the shops along that
section of the Ave. The grip on his head finally eased and the gun stopped
digging into his throat. Seizing what little chance he could, he ducked his
head and kicked backward, lashing out, aiming for the man's groin.
He didn't connect. The gunman did. There was a
sickening crack as the butt of the gun whacked him on the side of the skull,
and the world went gray. Then the sky swung sideways, and his face hit
something dirty and hard that smelled like greasy oil, before the gray faded to
black and took the pain with it.
Chicken breast, alfalfa sprouts, red leaf
lettuce, havarti cheese and hot mustard, with a side of apple chips. And the
kid thought he ate weird shit. Jim Ellison spared a single disdainful
glance for the inoffensive brown paper bag sitting on the passenger seat, a
surprise 'thank you' he'd decided, spur of the moment, to take to the
University and feed his partner. After all, Sandburg had missed a few meals on
this latest case, and if not for some oddball stuff about hemp and body paint
the kid had come up with (not to mention about half a ton of paperwork) Jim'd still be stuck behind the computer trying to figure
out what the hell a five leafed plant, circles and dots on a girl's belly, and
a corpse with its tongue cut out all had in common. He grinned with
anticipation of the reaction Sandburg would have to Jim not only remembering
his favorite lunch, but actually taking the time to bring it to him. Sandburg
had a tendency to look about three years old when he was really happy -- bounce,
beam and babble, that was his partner. A squeal on the
radio snapped him back to attention.
Recognizing the code for a shooting and
robbery in progress, less than six blocks from his own position, he reached for
the handset with his right hand and cranked the wheel around with his left.
Calling in his location and intent to pursue, he headed for the scene, a small
shop a few blocks from
Three steps into the shop he froze. Something
didn't smell right.
Blood. He looked over at the crumpled form of a
slender young woman behind the counter, scenting the scene automatically as
Blair had taught him. No, not hers. Something
different. Something more. Something
… familiar. His eyes focused in on a black and teal lump halfway between
the back of the shop and the ruined counter.
A backpack. Sandburg's backpack.
Son of a bitch.
Turning abruptly, he caught one of the
uniforms by the shoulder. "Were there any witnesses?" The woman
nodded toward a boy and a girl, huddled together by the side of the shop, both
staring with ghastly fascination at the corpse. He nodded his thanks to the
uniform and headed for the couple.
"My name is Detective Ellison. The police
woman tells me that you saw what happened here?" As soon as he got an
affirming nod, he cut across their excited chatter about what they'd seen and
asked bluntly, "Was there anyone else here? White male,
about five nine, hundred and forty pounds, long curly brown hair?"
"Yes," the girl answered quickly,
her voice shaking from stress. "The man who shot the girl behind the
counter, he had Mr. Sandburg, I know him from school, I took one of his
classes! The man had him by the hair and he dragged him out the back like a
caveman or something. We couldn't do anything, he had a gun and he just shot
that girl! Shot her and she wasn't even doing anything!"
Not taking time to deal with the incipient
hysteria in the girl's voice, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket and hit
quick dial button two. "Simon?" He didn't give his captain time to
say anything, either. "Send Rafe or Brown out to
Greengrowers,
There was another scent, too, one made up of
dirty automotive oil, pine, and some sort of fecal matter. Dog shit, probably.
Jim didn't stop to identify the smells, just cataloged them and locked on them.
When he was positive he had them down, he ran for his truck. Cranking the
window down, Jim concentrated on the unique mixture of smells and started
hunting. They were already fading. He didn't have a lot of time.
One little thing. He tried to do one little thing and some bozo
freak gets in the way and screws it all to hell and back. Garsten
muttered to himself as he pulled the feebly fighting bundle of denim and hair
out of the back of his van. No gas money now. No food money now. Spent a whole
damned week fishing around those stupid college kids looking for someplace
easy, finally found a place and a time and a target, and did his damnedest to
finally get one goddamned thing right and what happens?
Goddamned hippie freak. Now what the hell was
he supposed to do with it? He tossed the bundle on the floor and stared at it
in disgust. Couldn't even tell if it was a boy or a girl.
Sheer frustration pulled at him, and he drew one heavy booted foot back and
planted it midway up the bundle. The grunt was a baritone. The figure rolled
over, instinctively covering its crotch. He stared at the flat chest, getting
angrier and angrier. A boy. Figured.
Couldn't even fuck this one for his trouble.
A sense of unfairness and aggravation hit him
all at once, and landed on the focal point for his rage. Doing what he'd always
done, running on instinct, he reached down, grabbed the bundle of boy by the
front of his shirt, and started whaling the hell out of him.
It felt really good. Almost
made up for screwing up his one attempt at getting himself some food money.
The world stopped jolting right about the time
he regained full consciousness, but before he had a chance to gather his
scrambled brains and put up any sort of a fight. Blair landed over something
bony and broad, then the horizon tilted crazily and
crashed to a halt as he was thrown on the floor. His stomach was revolting by
this time, and he'd just taken a deep breath preparatory to losing his
breakfast when a foot caught him squarely in the ribs. He lost the breath,
would have screamed given half a chance, and did what any man in his situation
would do -- rolled up in a ball and tried to cover his nuts.
It didn't help.
A fist the size of an Easter ham took hold of
his shirtfront, hauled him to his feet, and shook him like a terrier shaking a
rat. His head, already aching from the beating it had taken, threatened to
explode, and his hands came up instinctively to try to fight back. After the
first blow clipped his jaw, he gave up the concept of self defense and
concentrated on covering up, just like Sweet Roy had taught him so long ago. He
took a blow to the stomach that had him choking on acid and bagel bits, several
to the ribs that had him gasping for air. All through the assault, the shaking
never abated, he could never catch his breath, couldn't focus his eyes. He was
vaguely aware that he was screaming something, 'Stop' he hoped. The psycho who
was beating him was screaming, too, something about screw ups and god damn him,
and now what was he supposed to do?
Blair had a few suggestions. Die topped the
list. Let go and go away were up there in the top five, too.
All he could see was red, and his chest hurt,
and he wasn't sure, but he was afraid he'd wet himself. And the crazy man never
stopped. Finally he did something he hadn't done since he was a little kid. He
pulled his knees up as far as he could go, letting all his weight fall on the
man holding him up by the shirt, ducked his head, and bit the wrist that was
holding him. In response, the crazy bastard screamed, swung him around, and
literally threw him against the wall. He hit with a dull thud, and slid down,
dazed and half conscious. Knowing it wouldn't do any good, but compelled to
try, he rasped out, "JIM!" as loud as he could. Then he closed his eyes,
dragged his arms over his head, and waited for the psycho to kill him.
Thankfully the truck, or van, or whatever it
was that smelled like Sandburg and blood and oil, hadn't gone very far. He
nearly went off the road several times driving the twelve miles he did go,
before pulling up in front of a tiny ramshackle house in one of the poorer
parts of Cascade. He heard the heartbeat before he rounded the corner onto the
street.
Sandburg.
Scared half to death. Pulse jumping all over the
map. Hurt. And being hurt, still.
He heard more than that unsteady beat. There
was the congested whistle of air through a clogged nose and a throat tight with
fear. The heavy, irregular thump of a fist on flesh, and he knew whose flesh
was taking the beating. Cop instinct to come in silent warred with Sentinel
instinct to rip whoever was hurting his Shaman into little bloody bits. A
compromise was reached in the fastest, quietest approach he had ever made in his
life. As he sliced through the bushes alongside the back of the house, he heard
an odd shuffling noise, then something that sounded like a dog biting into a
bone, then a scream of pain and rage, followed by a loud thump, and a muffled,
pained "jim".
Fuck silence.
He went through the window in a diving roll,
coming up directly into the tall frame of the man who smelled of oil, dog shit
and Sandburg's fear. The figure fell back, and he saw the barrel of a gun
raised in his direction. Showing superb reflexes, he dove to the side, drawing
fire away from the hostage and narrowly avoiding taking a shot in the chest.
His own gun came out and he returned fire, but his aim was off due to his
awkward position half on his side behind a rickety overstuffed chair. Before he
could sight again, the man disappeared. Poised to vault the chair and continue
the chase, a small noise stopped him in his tracks.
"jim?"
Then a muffled moan, then silence.
He changed directions again, this time heading
toward his partner. Sandburg was a mess, bruises coming out along his face, his
throat, what could be seen of his chest through the torn tee shirt. Blood was
trickling over his forehead and matted in his hair. He even had blood on his
mouth, although Jim couldn't see any wounds in that area. Maybe he'd bitten his
lip when he was getting pounded on. Expertly checking limbs for breaks,
assessing the wounds he could see, Jim laid a hand on Blair's throat as if to
reassure himself that the pulse he was hearing was actually there.
Shaking his head at his own idiocy, he grabbed
the cell phone out of his jacket again and punched the button for Simon. A
quick description of the scene and request for back-up, no chance for further
questions, and he disconnected and dialed 911. A terse explanation, succinct
directions, and the promise of an ambulance later, he finally allowed himself
time to relax. Gathering up his now unconscious partner, he rocked him gently,
not even aware of his own actions.
Laying his cheek lightly against Blair's sticky,
matted hair, he took a deep breath. "Hang in there, Chief. I've got
you." This time.
Captain Simon Banks stared at his cell phone
in disbelief for half a second before bellowing for Rafe
and Brown. Twice in one day. Ellison was losing his marbles. Twice in one day
he'd called up, yelled something incomprehensible (or nearly so) into the
phone, barked something about Sandburg and hung up before Simon could get a
word in edgewise. Sloppy, very sloppy. He was going to
have to have a word with his best detective about that.
His second best team peered nervously around
the corner at him. He barked the address of the shop at them, told them to get
on it, and grabbed his coat. He was practically stepping on their heels as they
headed toward the garage.
"You coming in
on this one, sir?" Brown asked doubtfully. Simon shook his head no.
"Off to the hospital. The hostage they
took at the store?"
Rafe nodded, showing he, at least, had been
listening to the barked briefing. Brown gave him a 'yes?' look.
"It was Sandburg."
Identical expressions of dismay stared up at
him, and he sighed. "Ellison's at the hospital now. I'll let you know how
the kid's doing as soon as I find out." And as soon as I kick Ellison's
ass up around his ears, he thought but didn't say out loud.
"Thanks, Simon," Brown said softly.
"Hate seeing Hairboy get hurt." Rafe nodded, and they parted ways at the parking garage.
"Yeah," Simon agreed softly, in the
privacy of his car. "Me, too. And Jim's going to
be a basket case. If he isn't already."
He used the lights and the siren on the
way to the hospital.
Coming into Emergency, he wasn't surprised to
hear a Jim Ellison-sized commotion coming from the nurses' station, although he
wasn't expecting it to be Jim slamming the phone nearly through the countertop.
Casting an apologetic glance at the nurses, shrugging as if to say 'what can
one do with grown children?' he caught up to his detective.
"First things first,
Jim. How's the kid?"
Haunted ice blue eyes stared up at him.
"I don't know, Simon, they won't tell me."
A nurse with a daunting aura of authority
around her said, not unkindly, "We don't know yet, Mr. Ellison. As soon as
we know how your partner is doing, the doctor will inform you. Until then,
please try to remain calm." Her tone made it clear as crystal she'd expect
that when the moon turned blue. Simon sympathized.
Placing one hand under Jim's arm in what
looked like a light touch but was in actuality a hold used to immobilize crazed
junkies, he gracefully manhandled Ellison over to a
bank of plastic chairs by the window. "Who was on the phone, Jim?" he
asked mildly. "Or who wasn't?"
Jim growled in frustration. "Naomi! I can
never find that woman! I swear, one of these days something really bad is going
to happen to Blair and by the time I find her we'll have already scattered his
ashes over the ocean!" Then he swallowed, turned green, and looked like he
was going to throw up. Simon increased the pressure of his hold.
"Get a grip, Ellison," he ordered
almost under his breath. As he'd hoped, the ex-soldier reacted well to the
command tone. He still looked like he was going to fall over and puke, but at
least it wasn't imminent. "Now, tell me what happened!"
Ellison recited the days
events like an automaton, complete to the alfalfa sprouts and the smell of dog
poop. Whatever one could say about the detective, he was damned good with the
details. By the time he'd finished reporting, Simon had a clear picture of
everything that had happened in the last three hours, and Jim was much steadier
on his feet.
Then the doctor came through the door, and Jim
nearly burned rubber making it over to her.
"Is he okay, doc? What's wrong with
him?" Is he broken? Can you fix him? Simon was irresistibly reminded of
Daryl and a Tonka truck he'd smashed to pieces as a small child. If he hadn't
been so worried about the kid himself, he would have smiled. Instead, he simply
stood behind Ellison and loomed quietly. It usually worked when interrogating
criminals. It should work with members of the medical profession as well.
She didn't even notice. "Are you Captain
Banks?" she asked Jim.
"No, I'm Detective Jim Ellison,
Sandburg's partner. Is he okay?" He was crowding the woman now, and she
stared up at him, not intimidated in the least.
"Well, Detective Ellison, your partner is
a very lucky man. No broken bones, numerous contusions and abrasions, a bald
patch where some scalp was torn and some hair was pulled out, and Mild
Traumatic Brain Injury. Computed tomography, the initial MRI and routine
neurological evaluations appear normal. We'll be doing an electroencephalogram
later this evening and a second MRI tomorrow to make certain there's no
permanent physical damage."
"Brain injury?" Their voices
overlapped. She nodded.
"There is evidence of contusion of the
frontal and temporal lobes, from the brain hitting the inside of the skull. He
was shaken up quite a bit. His neck is strained. We'll be keeping him overnight
to check for concussion, and as I said, we'll be running another MRI to look
for any edema, hemorrhage or hematoma. He's awake
now, if you'd like to see him for a few moments. And we're trying to keep him
calm and quiet, so no more than ten minutes." She turned and headed back
down the corridor, the two men trailing along in her wake. Jim was shaking ever
so slightly, and Simon moved a fraction closer, uneasy at seeing the normally
stoic man so off-balance.
When they entered the room, he understood
Jim's shot nerves a little better. Sandburg looked like hell. His eyes were
swollen, and blackened so that he looked like a scruffy raccoon. There was a
huge bruise making one side of his jaw puff out, and his head and torso were
wrapped in bandages. There was an IV in the back of one hand, a pulse clamp on the
index finger of the other hand, and an oxygen tube wrapped around his face and
stuffed up his nose. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with Tyson and barely
escaped with all his body parts intact.
Just then, bleary blue eyes liberally shot
through with red opened and gazed lazily around the room. They lit on the
doctor, slid off her, took in Jim, slid off him, and landed on Simon.
"Hey, Cap'n,"
Sandburg slurred out. His bottom lip was swollen, looked like he'd been stung
by a bee, and he couldn't talk very well. "How's't hangin'?" He
sounded bizarrely cheerful considering the shape he was in. Must
have been the drugs. At least he hoped so, although he wasn't sure
patients with 'brain injuries' were given drugs. Simon opened his mouth
to answer, wondering why the young man hadn't greeted Jim first, when Sandburg
went on. "Who's the buff dude?" The eyes were frankly appreciative
now, almost lecherous. Simon looked around to find out who the hell Sandburg
was talking about, when a choked noise from Ellison alerted him.
He was talking about Jim.
Oh, fuck. This was not good.
Sandburg was looking very interested in his
now cherry-red partner. Ellison looked like he was having a heart attack, his
mouth hanging open, partial syllables tumbling out but no complete words. Simon
got another death grip on his detective, smiled with utterly false cheer at the
man in the bed, and yanked Ellison back out into the corridor. The doctor
followed them, this time.
"Wha--,
what--" Jim was sputtering, still not quite making sentences. Simon looked
pleadingly at the doctor. She looked kindly at Ellison.
"Cognitive defects, such as traumatic and
retrograde amnesia, are common among patients who have suffered brain injury of
this sort," she said quietly. "Is it possible that Mr. Sandburg might
associate you with any traumatic events, Detective?"
Jim stood there, mouth opening and closing, no
sound coming out. Simon came to his rescue. "More probable than possible,
doctor," he offered. Jim gave a strangled whimper and looked at Simon like
his boss had betrayed him, then wandered off to stare out the window at the sun
setting over Cascade. Simon raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and went
to stand vigil with his friend.
This was not going to be an easy recovery.
Okay, so a tank came busting through his
window and spoiled his fun. The threat was still there. And Mathew Garsten knew how to deal with threats. He'd been doing it
his whole life.
Getting into the hospital was easy. Some
flowers for cover, a sad look on his face, and he was in the door. Well, the
door of the hospital, anyway.
The tank was at the door to the hippie's room.
All he needed was ten minutes. A little privacy. And a pillow.
Surely the tank had to sleep sometime.
Yeah.
In a chair next to the
hippie freak's bed.
Any time Mathew got too close, the tank would
start sniffing the air like some kind of mutant hunting dog or something. He'd
back away, the tank would un-tense, he'd wander closer, the
tank would tense up again. It was like baiting a rabid pit bull.
Two days of playing tag with the tank without
ever getting close enough to touch the little bastard who could identify him, and Mathew was forced to withdraw. Obviously the hippie
hadn't talked yet or he'd be in jail already. Maybe he was lucky and had really
messed the little punk up. He'd have to wait and see.
Mathew was very good at waiting.
He remembered other times in the hospital,
most of them recent, but he couldn't remember why he'd been there. He
remembered Captain Simon 'Taller than a Tree' Banks, Joel Taggart who brought
him maple syrup candy, a good looking guy named Rif
or Rafe or Rife or something, and Henry
Brown-I-am-and-cute-besides, who smiled a lot. Every time he looked at the man
who'd been identified to him as his partner, he popped a boner, but no memories
sailed to the surface.
Two days of poking and prodding and taking
pictures, blood and more pictures later, they let him escape.
Home with the Stud.
Only he had a sad feeling said Stud was not
only straighter than a ruler, he was also feeling really guilty about whatever
the hell it was that put Blair in the hospital. Which was not
a good sign. If Studly had anything to do with
him getting his head nearly knocked off his shoulders, he wasn't sure that
hanging out with the Stud was a good idea.
Except he couldn't seem
to convince his body of that.
Studly had his hands all over Blair. Constantly. It was like Blair's body was covered with rubber
cement and the guy was cat hair, or Blair was one big magnet and Ellison was an
iron filing. Zap-bingo, Blair breathed and Jim was touching him somewhere.
The mixed signals were driving him nuts.
The first evening, Jim had cooked dinner,
cleaned the cleanest loft Blair had ever seen, even if he didn't remember it,
and was now hovering around him like a mother hen with one chick. Blair growled
up at him.
"Sit!" Damn, but it worked. Jim
plopped down on the edge of the couch, poised for flight, but motionless for
once. "Relax, man, I'm not going anywhere."
Jim's hands fluttered helplessly, once, then settled into his lap. Big crystal blue eyes stared at
him, as if asking for help somehow, and he felt compelled to answer, even if he
didn't have a clue what was being asked.
"It's okay,
Jim," he said softly. "Whatever it is, just say it, please?"
His friend, or so he must be if they were
living together, swallowed twice before he spoke. "I'm sorry about
Chandra."
Blair flashed on a pretty young woman with
brown hair and brown eyes, surrounded by wonderful smelling herbs. "What
happened to Chan?" he asked, genuinely confused. The last time he'd seen
her she'd been fine. Jim closed his eyes briefly as if in pain.
"You don't remember." It was a
statement, not a question, and he didn't bother responding, just watched,
waiting for further explanation. Jim obliged. "She was killed, Blair. I'm
sorry. In the same robbery where you were taken prisoner.
You tried to protect her, but the guy shot her before you had a chance to get
the gun away from him."
Blair sat very still, trying to process this. Chan, dead? A robbery? None of this
rang a bell. He took a deep breath. "Well. Shit." His head started to
spin, and he put out a hand for balance. Jim instantly took it and held on
tightly.
Another flash, this one
frightening the hell out of him. A blond guy, no, a brunet, no, he was blond. Whatever he was, he was
completely insane. A wheelchair, a wig, a yellow scarf.
Water. A vile taste in his mouth,
coating his tongue, making his head swim. Chains.
A shout, crashing wood. An incredible feeling of
relief. Gunshots. Strong, gentle hands holding
on to him.
The flash mutated, and he was floating this
time, not swimming, Cold cement under his butt, head exploding in weird golden
visions, fire all around him. Surrounded by cool strength, caught up against a
steady wall, arms wrapped around his shoulders, head cradled against a pulse
that anchored him, kept him from floating away.
Oh. So that's who Jim was. At least every once in awhile.
He squeezed the fingers holding his own, and
released his grip. "Thanks, man. For telling me, I mean. She was a
friend." He smiled unsteadily up into the worried face less than a foot
from his own. "It's gonna
be all right, Jim. I just … need to process this, you know?"
Ellison nodded, let go of his hand with
obvious reluctance, and settled back into the corner of the couch, still
watching him like a hawk. With what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Blair got
up from the couch, walked into his room, and pulled out his candles.
Big time meditation scene needed for this one.
Not so much for Chandra, although he would say
goodbye to her and wish her a good journey wherever she might go. But there
were other concerns in the here and now that had his head going around in
circles. And he had to put the pieces together before they made him totally
nuts.
Usually the soft chanting music and the
dancing flames mesmerized him, put him into a different place, settled and
centered him. They put him in another place that night, all right … one he
wasn't sure he wanted to go. Unbidden, memories came to him, all revolving
around fire.
Standing at the feet of a beautiful Black
woman, listening to words of justice and retribution as a streak of fire lit
the sky and an oil barge on the Sound exploded. Peaceful, relaxed, laughing at
a monkey, or was it an ape? With a bowl of popcorn in his lap and the
comforting presence of Jim beside him, then a shouted warning, and hell broke
over his head as his home exploded around him. Heat, and fear, and too many
people caged with death hanging over them, crazed blue eyes boring into his,
the earth rolling under his feet as a downtown office building was reduced to
rubble in the name of liberty.
A place of worship become a killing ground, as bomb after bomb
destroyed church after church. A madman with a jones for fire taking out warehouses, killing guards,
nearly killing Jim, and a woman with him. The heat on
his face, making his eyes water, squinting against the glare, heart in his
throat at the sight of two figures weaving through the inferno toward him.
The skin on his palms itching from contact with the hot
material as he helped his partner from the middle of hell.
Another tiny place, too
many people, free falling, only to jerk to a stop that made his teeth rattle. Fire, eating through the floor, under his
control, the only thing under his control, then fire in the hole, as the
explosion rocked the metal floor under his feet and singed the material along
his back with the backlash. A creak, then running, watching helplessly, unable
to leave, unable to do a damned thing but stare as the electronic scoreboard
crashed two stories down onto the middle of the basketball court, barely
missing half the damned Jags and the mascot.
His eyes popped back open, and he snuffed the
candles hurriedly. Holy shit. Did everything Jim touch
blow up? And was he always so fucking close? Gulping to get enough spit in his
mouth to be able to speak, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
"Going … "
he coughed and tried again. "Goin' for a walk, Jim. Be back in a little bit."
He was out the door and on his way, trying to
make some peace with his thoughts, never noticing that he had a shadow. Or two.
Finally! He'd known the little bastard had to
come out sometime without the tank wrapped around him. Had to be a couple of
queers, the way they were wrapped up in each other. Well, he was sorry for the
tank, but the little playmate had to go. He knew too much.
Lining up the gun carefully, he aimed for the
mop of brown hair and cocked the gun. Best chance he was gonna
get, had to make the most of it … He squeezed carefully.
The tank came out of nowhere and tackled the
hippie, and the bullet missed, burying itself in the brick wall behind his
target.
"Fuck!" he howled. The tank's head
came up, and for a second he was sure he'd been spotted. Putting his head down,
he ran like hell to his van, tossed the gun in the passenger seat and squealed
the tires getting out of there.
Goddamned tank. He was gonna have
to kill both of them now.
Jim hadn't liked the spooked look on
Sandburg's face as he headed for the door at high speed. The kid looked like
he'd just seen a whole family of ghosts and all of them were after him. His
chest tightened at the thought that Blair's memories of him should be so
traumatic, then pushed the thought aside in favor of immediate concerns.
Sandburg shouldn't, and wouldn't, be allowed to roam the streets on his own. Even in the best of health, he was a trouble
magnet. Half rattled, still shaken up from the kidnapping and moving at half
speed from the bruises all over his body, he was a sitting duck.
He paced his friend, not wanting the younger
man to feel too crowded, but still close enough to be able to help if, or make
it when, trouble found Sandburg. Stalking along silently behind him, Jim
mentally cataloged the stiffness in the walk, the unnaturally subdued bounce,
the careful way Blair held his head. His arms were wrapped protectively around
his ribcage, not to keep out the cold, but to minimize the jostling. His head
was down, and he appeared to be counting the cracks in the sidewalk in front of
his feet. Jim took a deep breath, cutting out everything but his partner. He
didn't smell the acrid tinge of fear, but he could still smell the blood from
the healing cuts, the liniment he'd rubbed into the knotted muscles of his back
that afternoon at the hospital before Blair had been released, the medicinal
salve on the torn scalp and absorbed into the bandages over the stitches in his
shoulder and abdomen and along his hairline.
Cranking up the hearing a notch, he monitored
Sandburg's heart rate. A little elevated, partly from
exertion, considering his condition, but more than it should be. Adrenaline, maybe, from some memories? More trauma associated with being Jim Ellison's Guide? He inched
nearer, answering his own need to be in close proximity, and it was a good
thing he did, as he caught the one sound that was completely out of place in
the middle of a peaceful afternoon in suburban Cascade.
A gun cocking.
Instincts kicked in, and Jim practically flew
to Blair, knocking him to the ground, one hand under his head to cushion the
impact, the other wrapped around his bruised ribs to keep from hurting them
further, his full weight pushing the younger man down flat and his bulk
covering him like a human shield. He heard the whine of a bullet cutting the air,
close -- too close -- then the splinter of brick as it plowed into the wall
right where Blair's chest had been.
He caught the scent, then, the one that had
been at the crime scene, the smell of the son of a bitch who'd been beating on
Sandburg when Jim found him. His head came up, and he caught the flash of
movement down the block, but it was gone before he could react.
Even Blair heard the bellowed
"Fuck!" that followed, and the sudden rev of an engine as a car
peeled out.
Gradually he became aware of the heat rising
from the body beneath his. Looking down, he saw huge azure eyes staring at him
in what looked an awful lot like pure unadulterated lust. And he wasn't quite
sure, but … he shifted. Yeah. Nice hard-on, there, too. He blushed. Adrenaline
would do that to guys. Hell, it had happened to him often enough. He didn't go
into the reasons why he didn't make a move to get off his partner. It just felt
too good to ruin it with thinking.
"Jim?" Sandburg's voice was really
husky. Jim gulped.
"Yeah?" His own voice
sounded like it was rusty.
"Think we should, I dunno,
report this or something?" No humor, that he could hear, just a lot of
confusion. Jim winced. Well, hell, of course they should. Where was his brain?
Shifting to finally move off Sandburg, he was made vitally aware of his own
erection, and knew where his brain had gone.
Wordlessly giving Blair a hand up, he pulled
the cell phone out and hit the rapid dial button. Again.
By the time they made it home, Simon had
arranged for a patrol to watch outside the loft when they were there, and Jim
was on bodyguard duty. Brown and Jim had a long conversation about the
murder/robbery at the shop, and Jim gathered Blair up and headed for the crime
scene. Maybe being on the scene would stir something up in Sandburg's memory.
Being shot at hadn't, at least, not that he was willing to share with Jim. And
other than being put in jeopardy and watching ball games, there wasn't a whole
heck of a lot more Jim could think of that they had done together that Blair might
remember. It was a very depressing thought.
He knew he should respond to the little
confused looks Sandburg kept shooting over at him, but for the life of him he
didn't have an idea what he should say. Sorry? I'll keep you safe? That was a
joke, and a bad one. I don't mean to put you in danger? Cascade really is the
most dangerous city in
He didn't really want an answer to that last
question. He was half afraid of what it would be. So he simply drove, parked,
ushered his partner out at the scene, and clamped one hand down on Sandburg's
shoulder. No way under the sun was he able to walk into the place where he'd
nearly lost his partner and actually let go of the man.
Jim felt the muscles under his fingers tense,
and looked down to see a very pale face staring around at the outline on the
floor, the yellow tape, the bloodstains still visible
on the wall. He squeezed as reassuringly as he could. "Help me through
this one, Chief?" he asked quietly.
Blair looked at him like he was speaking
Swahili. He licked his lips and tried again. "I use my senses to find out
what happened. You keep me from zoning out on anything. Ring any bells?"
He could almost see the light go on in those bright eyes.
"This sounds very familiar!"
Sandburg chirped, and Jim barely restrained himself from clapping a hand over
that distracting mouth.
The thought tripped him up for a second, then
he shook it off and said, "Not so loud, Chief,
it's a secret, remember?" Oh, good one, Ellison. Of course he
doesn't remember. Before he could apologize, his partner piped up again, a
fraction quieter this time.
"Yes!" He stared at the expression
of intense concentration on Sandburg's face. The kid was remembering something,
all right. Hopefully nothing to do with death and
dismemberment. "The dials." Blair
looked askance at him, and he nodded encouragingly. The look eased into
surprised comprehension. "Shit, yeah, man, I remember the whole project. I
just didn't remember that you were the center of it!"
Something inside Jim twisted at the artless
confession. It hurt, inside, to think that Sandburg really didn't remember,
didn't want to remember, their friendship. There really was more to it
than gun fights and kidnappings and murder and peril. He stopped. Not a heck of
a lot, on the surface, but it was all the stuff below the surface that made all
the scary times worth the ride. He wished he had a way to explain that.
Stuffing the thought back down with everything else he couldn't think about
when he was trying to work, he concentrated on gathering evidence.
Two hours of sniffing, tasting, feeling and
listening later, he had a massive headache, Blair was bouncing as much as a
rubber ball wrapped in elastic bandages could bounce, and Rafe had enough forensic evidence to pin down somebody,
eventually, as soon as they found the hound and the particular type of pine
trees attached to a specific sort of needle. Jim just wanted to go home, drink
several beers, and not think for ten hours or so.
Blair wanted to go back to the U and read up
on some notes, get a handle on this whole Sentinel schtick.
Jim lost the toss. As usual.
Blair finally remembered Larry the Barbary Ape. This was because he was starting to share many of the
same characteristics as his erstwhile lab subject.
He didn't eat alone. He didn't go to work
alone. He had a new (older than the usual model) student in his classes. He
practically had a second hand holding his dick when he peed. The only time he
was alone in a room was when he was in bed, and if he so much as sneezed Jim
was in the doorway.
It was starting to really piss him off. It was
also turning him on something fierce.
He toyed with the idea of jerking off just to
see what the reaction would be. Except he had a sneaking suspicion Jim would
simply stand sentry in the doorway to make sure nobody took a potshot at him in
extremis.
Not that it was all bad news. Jim was paying
for the brake job on his classic Corvair since Jim,
after all, was the one to smell the brake fluid from the cut lines. Somehow, it
didn't seem completely fair that the man should have to literally pay for saving
Blair's life, but considering the way Jim had bodily yanked him out of the car
then proceeded to sniff all over it like a dog evaluating a fire hydrant right
in front of pretty much every living member of the Anthro
department, Blair couldn't find it in himself to bitch. Much.
And the police department was 'donating' the
cost of a new office window after the Mad Robber (whoever the hell it was who
was trying to kill Blair) had taken it out with a .22 rifle slug aimed at the
student. Missed, of course, because the Sentinel had gotten
him down in time by the simple expedient of rolling him up in a ball and
stuffing him under the desk. For a moment, Blair drifted off into
tactile memory.
Jim had been all over him like a second skin
for two weeks, ever since the first attempt on his life. Big, long-fingered,
strong hands wrapped around his arms, his head, his legs, and most memorably,
as he was being crammed into the cubbyhole under his desk, all over his
ass. That little incident had popped the lid on a few more repressed memories,
too.
He'd been sitting there, grading papers,
ignoring the snap-snap of pistachio shells as Jim indulged his oral fetish in
the corner of the office. Staring at him. God. He could practically feel those eyes mapping his skin.
He wasn't even certain if Jim knew he was doing it, but the effect was
undeniable. He was half hard all the time, any more, from those eyes. He found
himself drifting off, ignoring the
everything-but-the-kitchen-sink attempt at an essay on the role of Mayan women
in religious life (how many ways could a student spell 'sacrifice'?). The heat
from that gaze had him thinking of icebergs, and snow, and cool mountain
streams.
Which somehow propelled
him into a fishing trip. Him, Simon, and Jim in waders. With
automatic gunfire in the background. While he was busily trying to
figure out why this didn't seem odd, he flashed on a wooded area, and
water, lots of water. His head hurt, and he was scared shitless, and he was
running, and Jim was … holding him? He calmed, only to panic again as he was
suddenly plummeting through the air, off the side of a cliff, into a river.
Under, under, wet, scared, snarfing water, then
snagged by a strong arm and pulled to shore, resting against the strength he
knew would always be there in his partner.
He jumped off cliffs for this guy?
That really must be love.
For some reason, that
thought made his heart rate go completely bonkers. Jim's head came up and the gaze sharpened, if
that was humanly possible. His mouth dropped open, to explain something, even
if he didn't have a clue what. Then Jim's head swung around toward the door,
and that big body was moving toward him at full speed. He had time to duck,
that was about all, before those long arms bundled him into a small ball,
wrenched the chair out of the way and tucked him under the desk. Then rifle
shot shattered the window in the door, and all Blair was aware of was
long-fingered hands pressed up against him, one cupping his ass, the other
circling the top of his thigh, and warm weight against his back, and hot breath
against the side of his neck, and an ache in his groin that wasn't helped at
all by being tied up like a pretzel.
A small noise brought him back to the present,
and he looked across the couch to see a brightly blushing Jim valiantly
ignoring the bulge in Blair's jeans. Blair looked down at his own lap, and
nearly jumped as he suddenly saw a lizard. Not literally, of course, but he had
a very vivid impression of digging a lizard out of his pants.
When the hell had he had a lizard down his
pants? And why, for god's sake?
Looking up again, and over at Jim, all set to
ask him no matter how totally embarrassing it might be, he stopped dead. More
memories were coming back. Lush, verdant forest, striking
mountains, blood, pain, smoke, fear, quiet peace beside a camp fire. The jungle. The night sounds of animals chittering
in the branches of trees and burrowing through the undergrowth all around them.
Gripping the arm of a dark haired man with bright, dying eyes
and red streaks on his face and his chest, some paint, some blood. An infusion of energy and purpose sweeping through his veins,
complimenting the sheer unadulterated terror at the thought of a future with no
guideposts to guide the Guide. Aboriginal drums pounding in his ears, fingers bruising his forearm, and the sensation of falling, cartwheeling through space, screams ripping from his
throat, feeling like they were coming from his toes.
He jumped out of planes for this man?
What the flying fuck was up with that?
By now Jim had reacted to his unspoken
distress by moving until he was practically in Blair's lap, hovering over him,
hands lighting on his shoulder, his thigh, his hand, his hair. Blair didn't
know whether to pull Jim's gun on his partner and put them both out of their
misery or jump him, rip off his clothes, and fuck him through the couch. Either
course of action had its own appeal.
"I gotta get outta here, man," he finally managed, tearing himself
away from his hovering partner before he gave into either
temptation and heading for the door. Jim beat him there.
"I'll get the jackets. It's cold out
there."
Blair freaked.
Sandburg had been antsy all day. Not that Jim
could blame him -- after all, some nutcase was trying his best to kill the kid
and they still had no idea who it was. Rafe wasn't
getting very far on the investigation, even with the leads Ellison had given
him. So he waited, and watched Sandburg, and tried to look every direction at
once, hear everything, smell everything, practically tasting the air like a
snake to keep any possible harm from his partner.
Whatever invisible string there was between
them was thickening. Pulling them together, or at least
reeling him in. Sandburg seemed pretty unfazed by the whole thing.
Except … every once in awhile he looked over at Jim as if he was seeing him for
the first time. He'd get these really odd looks on his face, puzzlement,
concentration, appalled fascination, nausea, dizziness, disbelief, then back
with the puzzlement again.
And he kept getting hard. Leaking
pheremones like crazy.
It was very distracting.
Jim was having too hard a time keeping all his
senses on hyper-alert twenty four/seven to worry about why it was so
distracting. He just knew it was.
Then the kid did something really weird. He
popped a woody, stared at it like he didn't have a clue what it was, looked at
Jim like he was going to ask him what it was, stopped with his mouth
hanging open like the village idiot, blushed like crazy and headed for the
door. The whole time, Jim's senses were tipping sidewise trying to find out
what the holy hell was bugging his partner so badly. Had he remembered
something? Was he in pain? Was it his head? His ribs?
His pulse was off the scale, he was sweating, he was
even shaking. Jim didn't know which question to ask first, so he didn't ask
any, just reaching out both literally and with his senses to try to figure out
what was wrong with his Guide.
Then Sandburg made the absolutely ridiculous
pronouncement that he was going for a walk.
Yeah. Right. With a crazed psycho murdering scumbag out there just waiting for a
clear shot.
But Jim didn't argue. He simply gathered up
their jackets and offered to go with his obviously over-stressed partner,
willing to throw his body between any harm that might be aimed at his partner
and the oblivious young man.
And Blair threw a tantrum.
"I so do not need a damned
babysitter, man! I'm almost thirty years old. I've been walking for a long
time, I've been looking after myself just about as long as I've been walking,
and I'm not a complete idiot, nor am I completely helpless, and I swear to god,
Jim, if you do not fucking well back off I am gonna
shoot you! Enough is enough, man, and you are suffocating
me!"
He didn't hear all the words. Just the tone, battering at his dialed-up hearing, every nuance of
frustration, rage and decision telling him only one thing.
He had failed. Again.
His Guide had taken enough, had been punished enough for being part of his miserable
life, and he was leaving Jim alone. Every sense he had went haywire at
the thought. Lost. Abandoned.
Alone.
No fucking way.
Something snapped,
something that had been prowling around in his head and in his gut since he'd
walked into that shop and found nothing left but a backpack and some blood.
Something that had clicked into place when Lash had first threatened to take
his Guide from him, that had broken free when the Golden had nearly poisoned
his Guide and taken him away for good. Something that growled
and snarled any time Blair was threatened, something with no mind, no
coherence, simply decision and possession and desperate craving need.
Jim had no idea that he dropped the jackets.
Moved toward Blair, caught him up against him, walked him across the narrow
expanse of floor and pinned him down against the couch. He was making a strange
little noise with every exhalation, a weird cross between a growl and a
whimper. His instincts had taken over. Not all of them were centered in
himself.
He listened for every heartbeat, measured them
with his own. Heard a muffled 'ouch' when his fingers pressed too hard on a
bruise, and shifted until there was no pain. His entire body surrounded
Blair's, not that he really understood that. All there was in his world was
scent and sound and taste and the feel of the hard muscle and soft skin under
his hands, his chest, his groin, his legs. Spice and
apples in the darkness under his mouth, a tongue pushing against his, and he
devoured that, too, sliding along and under, suckling on it until it pushed
back.
There were hands at his shoulders, pushing him
away, pulling him forward, he didn't know and didn't care. There was cloth
under his hands, ripping, catching, giving way, tossed and gone from his
attention. Shoes, over the side, a crash, maybe a lamp, what was left of his
conscious mind noted before giving up and going under. Then
simply skin, tasting of sweat and faintly of liniment, mint and aloe.
Soft swirls of hair, the softer still crinkle of a nipple. Wet
satin of Blair's erection, licking along the slit, greedy for the sweet salt
there.
The body under his hand was thrashing, and
there were sounds coming from above his head, but they made no sense to him. He
pinned the torso down with one hand, licking the groin below his face
thoroughly, nudging aside the cock slapping against his cheek to find other
scents, other tastes. His hand slipped between the tensed thighs, tilted and
parted them, and he rooted further back. The sounds increased, a note of
desperation in them, joining the wild high note keening through his own veins.
His hands turned, flipping his prey over,
pinning him down with one hand flat in the small of the back. The other hand
returned to his feast, parting the heavy muscled cheeks and diving between,
licking and prodding everything he could reach. The writhing was strong enough
to distract him now, and he rose above the prone body, replacing tongue and
fingers with his own erection, easing the ache in the hot clench of muscle. One
hand wrapped around the bony protrusion of hip below him, slapping that sweet
warmth against him, the other slid around the sturdy waist to explore up the
length of soft hair on the sternum, spreading over the frantically beating
heart, covering it as his body covered the length of Blair's back.
Time disappeared in a swirl of color and heat,
musk and sweat rising until he was high on it, tasting the moans and broken
mutterings from the face buried in the arm of the couch, every nerve ending in
his body concentrating on the clenching around his cock. He eased forward,
raising Blair away from the sofa onto his knees, burying himself as far in that
restless heat as he could go, wanting to climb in completely and never come
out. Never wanting to stop, wanting to do this forever, connected like this for
the rest of his life, their lives, never lose him, never let him go, never let
anyone else near him ever again.
He wasn't expecting the orgasm, either his own or Blair's. So wrapped up in the act itself,
in the incredible sensations pulsing through his cock to his balls to the base
of his spine to the crown of his head to the soles of his feet to the ends of
his fingers, when the tunnel around him spasmed it
shattered reality and pulled his soul out of his body. He was dimly aware of wet
heat splashing the back of his hand where it was splayed across Blair's heart,
but everything else was liquefied, molten bones and flesh and muscle dissolving
into a pure red haze of heat.
"Sweet Jesus, Jim, what the fuck are you doing?"
It took three times playing the words over in
what was left of his mind before he realized what Blair had said. Twice before
he realized Blair had said anything. Four times before the guilt hit.
What had he done? Oh, not much. Just raped his best friend.
No, nobody else had to drive his Guide away
from him. He could do it all on his own.
The world collapsed around him again, but
there was no light, and no heat, in the gray shell where he retreated. Nothing, no one. A hell of his own making.
No colors, no comfort, no words.
He couldn't even say he was sorry.
He'd wanted to escape. Walk away before he
jumped his partner's bones and shocked him to death.
Look who got the shock?
Blair found himself grinning into the side of
the cushion, yanked up against Jim's body, licked all over like an ice cream
cone on the hottest day in July, and nailed so hard and so deep he could feel
the aftershocks in the tips of his toes. He couldn’t say yes, no, maybe, or
even fuck me harder; all he could manage was the occasional scream and a hell
of a lot of moaning and groaning. Didn't seem to slow the big guy (and he sure
as hell earned that moniker) down a bit. Every fading bruise disappeared, the
nagging headache he hadn't been able to shake for two weeks was gone like
dandelion fluff in a windstorm, and he felt more relaxed than he had in ages.
He'd come so hard he'd nearly given himself a nosebleed.
Then he realized three things simultaneously.
One, Jim was lying over his back like a grizzly who'd
been shot through the heart. Two, he finally remembered everything and knew
why he'd forgotten the most important thing. And three, nobody was saying
anything. Half giddy with relief and satiation, he asked, grinning like a
madman, "Sweet Jesus, Jim, what the fuck are you
doing?" Like he didn't know. Like
he didn't appreciate every hot, pounding, intensely mind-blowing second of it.
Without a word, with very little care, in
fact, his warmly stuffed ass was suddenly un-stuffed. Jim undraped himself and
flew back to huddle in the corner of the couch. Blair felt suddenly cold and
abandoned. Not liking the feeling, he twisted around to peer at his partner
over his shoulder.
Jim looked like somebody'd
just wrecked his truck. And torn down the last Wonderburger stand.
It hadn't been that bad, had it? Blair'd thought it had been pretty, well, fantastic,
actually. He looked closer.
Uh oh. Zone. "Was it
something I said?" he asked tentatively. No response. Okay. Deep zone. He sighed, winced, wriggled and unceremoniously
wiped his leaking butt on the cushion. They could clean it up later. He had
more important things on his mind. Like getting his Sentinel out of a zone the
size of the
Scuttling closer, he tried sitting next to the
utterly immobile Sentinel and talking to him. Low voiced. Command voiced. Guide
voiced. Whining voice. Demanding,
pleading, cajoling, seducing, screeching, whispering voices.
No go.
Staring at Jim in frustration and not a little
fear, not liking the increasing coolness of the skin beneath his hands, Blair
stared down at his naked self, stared over at Jim's naked self, and thought,
what the hell. It's not like either of us are virgins. And since this got him
into it … maybe it'll get him out of it.
Abandoning all pretense of objectivity, he
crawled into Jim's lap and began licking and kissing every inch of his face. In
between licks, and nibbles, and pecks, he talked. Continuously.
"You know, of course, that I love you. This can't come as a surprise."
He paused to make a nice meal of Jim's jaw, up to his earlobe, then down along
the side of his neck. Tasty. "I finally figured
out why I couldn't remember you. Wasn't anything outside that had happened to
either one of us, man. It was us." A playful nip at the end of Jim's nose. Was that a glimmer
of light in those frozen eyes? He sure as hell hoped so.
"Listen up, Jim, 'cause this is
important, and you gotta hear it. Thought I didn't
have a chance, but I've been wanting you, like this,
you know, making-love-like wanting, forever, feels like. Didn't
think it was your scene." Another pause, this time to spend some
time along those cheekbones, a whisper kiss along the line of his eyebrow, back
down the temple and over to the other ear. Very tasty.
"I'm not really sure I even admitted it
to myself, but it was there, you know? Unrequited love really sucks. But I
guess, now, it's requited after all, hm?" He
wriggled around on Jim's lap, getting comfortable, straddling his thighs and
pressing his renewing erection into the hard muscled ridges of Jim's abdomen.
"At least you want me. Maybe if I play it right you can love me,
too?"
"Not playing, Blair," came the
strangled reply, and Blair pulled back just long enough to look hard into Jim's
face. Yes! He was back. A huge grin split his face, and he leaned forward and
kissed Jim as hard as he could. Strong hands caught his shoulders and pushed
him away, holding them a good foot apart. Blair froze. Maybe he'd misread it
after all?
Although, come to think of it, how the hell
could he misread something as obvious as getting the stuffing fucked out of
him? He stared at Jim, confused.
"I'm sorry, Chief."
Don't do this to me, Ellison. "Why?"
Don't you fucking well do this to me. Don't
dangle paradise in front of my face then tell me it was a mistake.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. Ever."
Oh, was that all. He opened his mouth to make
a flip reply and saw the genuine anguish in those incredible crystal blue eyes
staring back at him. He shut his mouth, swallowed, thought fast, and tried
again. "You didn't." One big hand cupped his buttock, fitting
perfectly into the fingertip bruises that were already coming up on the creamy
skin. "No more than I can take, Jim, than I wanted to take."
He could see it wasn't getting through. He could practically see the walls
going up, brick by brick. Taking Jim's face between his hands, he leaned
forward and feathered kisses all over his mouth and jaw. "Make it up to
me, then, man. Don't close up. Make it better." Like it could get any better.
"How?" The resistance was still there, but it was
melting. There was a chink in the wall. Blair set about turning the chink into
an irreparable breach.
"Do it all over again. My
way, this time, Jim. Do me my way." A quizzical
look, rewarded by Blair brushing kisses over Jim's eyelids, closing those
disbelieving eyes. More kisses, Blair's fingers cupping Jim's skull,
massaging the tension away. Kneading down Jim's nape, onto
his shoulders, all the while kissing and licking again, bathing his face, his
neck, the hollow at the base of his throat. Moving
against him, never still, transmuting his signature energy into a full body
seduction. Tensing and relaxing his legs, circling his ass over Jim's
awakening erection, rubbing his own cock into Jim's belly. Teasing
the peaked nipples on Jim's nearly hairless chest with the soft mat of curls on
his own. Angling his head to dust Jim's shoulders,
then across his face with his long hair.
In very short order, if Jim had any
objections, Blair couldn't find them. Apparently, neither could Jim. Still
stretched and wet from their first wild mating, it was no effort at all for
Blair to rise up, center Jim with one hand, and settle down onto Jim's full
length.
Jim howled. Blair grinned, and moaned, then
started his own unique version of a lap dance. The howl crested, broke, and
started all over again.
Blair took his time. The edge was off, for
both of them, and he took full advantage of the fact. In counterpoint to his
hips' movement, burying, half-releasing, then swallowing Jim again, his hands
stroked everywhere, and his mouth ate everything his hands didn't reach. He was
whimpering softly, continuously, just under his breath, drowned out by Jim's
guttural howling, and it felt as if there was only one person on the couch, one
circle of flesh, one soul in one writhing body, loving itself, completing
itself, finding itself and burrowing into itself.
When climax came it took Jim first this time,
and he arched up as far as he could under Blair's weight. Obligingly, Blair
rolled his pelvis and pushed down as hard as he could, one hand finally
dropping to his erection. As Jim shot into him, he pushed himself against that
hard stomach, pulling and rubbing frantically, until he came as well, straining
back into Jim's shaking arms, then falling against Jim's chest. One of Jim's
hands slid up his sweating back to tangle in his hair, cupping his skull and
drawing him forward. Blair opened his mouth, shut his eyes, and kissed Jim back
as deeply as he was being kissed. He was starting to black out when Jim finally
released him.
They sat there for a what
felt like not nearly long enough before Jim softened and slipped out of him.
Blair gave a muffled groan of protest, and Jim kissed him again, lingering over
his mouth. It almost made up for the emptiness inside. Funny.
He hadn't been taken that way for years, and hadn't particularly liked it then.
But now that it was Jim, he felt like he could do this forever and never get
tired of it. A sudden mental image of them walking into the bullpen with Jim buried
to the hilt up his ass hit him, and he got the giggles. Jim released him just
far enough to give him a puzzled look. So he shared the thought. After a good
three seconds of looking horrified (and more than a bit intrigued) Jim cracked
up.
"You're insane. I love you." Solemn
words, spoken softly as they sat, forehead to forehead, arms wrapped around one
another.
"I know," Blair agreed equally as
solemnly.
"Which?" Unholy
laughter in those bright eyes, now. Blair beamed at him.
"Both." Before Jim could think of a
follow-up, the door shattered and a spray of gunfire filled the room. Blair
found himself tossed up off Jim's nice warm lap and over behind the sofa, not a
hell of a lot of protection against a semi-automatic weapon, but better than
nothing. Jim reached for the (naked) small of his back. A man entered the
doorway, gun raised for a second assault. Jim made a noise unlike anything
Blair had ever heard, something wild and fierce. The next move he made was one
Blair would swear to under oath, after the fact, and still not quite believe
he'd seen.
Laughter, heat, and
connection. A strange trio to think
of when he thought of Blair, but he knew that was precisely what would always
come to mind. He was trying to think of something, anything, to say that would
make Blair understand, wondering if he even needed to try, since his partner
was so damned good at reading his mind anyway, when all hell broke loose.
He smelled it before the man opened fire. That
instant of warning, the instinctive perimeter guard he always had now where
Blair was concerned, was all he needed to get his Guide behind the couch, out
of the direct line of fire. After that, things seemed to move at one quarter
time.
His gun was across the room, not in the small
of his back in his belt holster like it usually was, of course, since he'd been
making love to his partner, not his usual activity, although that would change.
In order for it to change, this threat, this son of a bitch who was stupid
enough to try to take his Guide from him, would have to be removed.
He scanned the room in a millisecond, every
neuron firing and every nerve singing. His weapon was a splinter of wood from
what had been the coffee table, sheared off by gunfire, eight inches long and
two inches around, pointed at the end. He swept it up,
drew it back, and threw it like a hunting knife the way he'd been taught, first
by the army, then more thoroughly by the Chopec.
His sight arrowed in and his aim followed its
path, directly across the six feet between himself and his target, through the
soft tissue at the top of his throat and out the back at the base of his skull.
Cut his throat and severed his spine at the same time. Then Jim dropped over
Blair, covering him as the last spasmodic jerk of the dead man's finger on the
trigger loosed another wild round. It came to a halt with the end of the barrel
pointed at the wall, round after round going into the plaster and burying
itself in the frame.
Jim calmly lifted himself off Blair, checked
him quickly for any injury, then hopped over the couch and wrenched the
corpse's hand from the firing mechanism. Looking up as a new figure barreled
into the doorframe, he tagged the newcomer as a friend and checked to make sure
his kill was, indeed, dead.
The threat to his Guide was terminated. Stupid
son of a bitch should have known better than make Sandburg his target.
It had gone down so fast the uniforms in the
patrol car hadn't seen a thing. If Rafe hadn't been
on his way upstairs to go over some photos of suspects with Ellison and
Sandburg at the time, he wouldn't have had an idea what was going down.
As it was, he was almost too late even being in the building when it happened.
He heard the gunfire, then the weirdest sound,
like the scream of some big jungle cat or something from a Tarzan movie, then
nothing. Rounding the corner on the third floor, he pounded up to ruins of
Ellison's door, and skidded to a stop.
Mercy. Lord have mercy.
Ellison was crouched over a dead body. The guy
looked familiar, and one corner of his mind linked him with one Mathew Garsten, a drifter seen in the area of the Ave on the day
of the murder/robbery attempt at the herb shop. The other ninety eight per cent
of his mind wondered where the hell Ellison had gotten those love bites all
over his body, how a guy managed to get that much semen all over him, if
Ellison knew he smelled like an all nighter in a
whorehouse, and why the other detective should suddenly remind him of a tiger
that hadn't been fed in a very long time.
Sandburg answered all the questions except
maybe the last. Given the protective way Ellison moved in front of Sandburg,
even with Rafe, he had a good idea that even that
question was wrapped up in the kid.
Besides. Blair had even more come on him than Ellison
did. Holy shit. His mouth opened, closed, opened, and
closed again. What to say?
Sandburg calmly moved up beside Ellison,
pointedly ignoring the corpse, and began to examine a long, shallow wound along
the side of Jim's ribcage. Looked like a bullet had taken a
slice out of him. Starting at the sound of pounding feet coming up the
stairs, Rafe swung around, blocking the view inside
the loft from the curious eyes of the uniforms.
"This one's secure, you guys search the
premises on the other floors and around the building for anyone else carrying a
fucking Uzi that nobody saw come in!" he barked, neatly turning
responsibility for the whole mess onto the other cops for not seeing and preventing
this, and diverting them from making a truly noteworthy discovery in the form
of a detective and his partner who'd obviously been interrupted in the middle
of something other than a hot game of Scrabble. Gathering his thoughts, he
cleared his throat and glanced nervously back over his shoulder.
"You guys might wanna
clean up some before the rest of the cavalry gets here. You know, like,
clothes, maybe?" He deliberately looked at the corpse, not at his friends.
Ellison sort of snarled at him, making him jump slightly, but Blair said,
softly, "Thanks, man!" and went up the stairs at the back of the
loft, carefully avoiding shattered glass and wood splinters with his bare feet.
He nodded, then
stepped back into the hall, not watching them dress, keeping an eye out for
what he figured should be long enough for them to get decent before calling in
the crew. Flipping his cell phone shut, he stepped further into the hall and
took a deep breath. He was not going to think about it. Not going
to think about Ellison and Sandburg. Not going to think about them,
together, making love, moving against each other, doing all the things they'd
have to do to get as messy and as wet and as covered in spunk as they'd been.
Not to mention all those … marks. And he most certainly was not going to
think of joining them.
Good lord, no, of course not. He swallowed,
surprised to find his mouth was so dry, and shifted, not surprised to find he
was hard as a rock. He grinned, almost against his will. Sexy
bastards. Under his breath, he whispered, "About time you guys
figured it out. Good luck. You're gonna need
it." Shaking off both his unwanted arousal and his distraction, he
clattered down the stairs to meet the ME and the forensics team and lead them
upstairs.
Fussing around Jim now as his partner had been
fussing around him for the last two weeks, holding a bandage against the
seeping wound on his side, zipping and tucking and wiping him up, Blair was
startled to see a wide grin split Jim's face. He looked a question up at his
Sentinel.
Jim just shook his head, and said quietly,
"We don't need luck. We've got each other."
Blair was utterly confused. Jim reached down
and kissed the end of his nose. Going nearly cross-eyed trying to track his
movements, Blair was just about to demand an explanation when a rattle of
equipment and the stomp of feet at the door announced the arrival of the crime
scene team. Contenting himself with a quick squeeze of Jim's hand and a promise
to himself to ask his partner later what the hell he'd been talking about,
Blair resolutely pushed Jim over to the paramedics following the forensics team
in, pointing out the bleeding bullet-graze.
There was plenty of time to explore what all
this meant, now that he wasn't a moving target for a psycho murdering would-be
robber. And now that Blair knew he wasn't alone in his need. He shifted, felt
the dampness along his thighs, the slight sting of love bites along his back
and shoulders, and the still-stretched muscle, and grinned to himself.
All the time in the world to jump off cliffs
and out of airplanes, as long as they were moving targets together.
finis