by Pares

I miss the curtain. Now, normally, I'm not one to cling to material goods, no pun intended, but if I had my flimsy, trusty, non-sound blocking curtain, rather than the doors, my chances of getting a decent amount of sleep these days would be better.

Because just lately Jim has taken to peeking in at me when I'm sleeping, and the doorknob rattle always wakes me up. Which I think must be his intention.

I know Jim pretty well, and if I'm right, and not to be immodest, but I usually am, Jim thinks of it like this: "It would be Wrong to watch Blair sleep; it's invasive of his privacy-- therefore I have to make sure he's awake when I decide to look in on him for No Discernable Reason at three fucking thirty in the goddamned morning!" Well, emphasis, and obscenities, mine, but you get the gist.

The hell of it is, he ignores my unasked questions in the morning, and until he makes a move, I'm just gonna let it ride. Yeah, sure I'm curious, but if Jim's not ready to talk about it, I won't grill him. There are times when you have to let a man be, and this is one of those times.

Of course, there's more to my willingness to let Jim volunteer the information on his own than a generosity of spirit or a zenlike patience on my part.

The truth is, it's unnerving, being stared at in your sleep, or when you're supposed to be asleep, whatever. It's like I can feel every hair on my scalp prickle when he's there, *looking* at me. For Jim, my dumpy little room is probably clear as day, and I have no doubt that he can see every line of me, count every freckle. The fact that I always seem to be just coming out of a dream of the erotic variety doesn't help matters.

Because, yes, it's unnerving, but it's kind of exciting, too. Talk about mixed emotions. I'll be there, regulating my breathing, trying to pretend I'm still asleep, because I don't want to have to acknowledge the chubby that's tenting the sheet, and Jim is so *there*, it's like I can feel his body heat even from across the room. And I won't remember the dream, per se, but it'll still be swimming around and stirring me up, and Jim will just *watch* me.

Sometimes it's almost harrowing, the waiting him is, like, *torture*, and then he'll close the door and pad back upstairs. And sometimes it's like an erotic waiting game. A test of wills. It's like I *want* him to watch me. Do more than watch me, even.

But that is *not* going to happen.

***

It's been a month since I've slept the night through. I get enough rest, I guess, but the *feeling*... stays. Sometimes it sticks with me all day.

I keep having the same terrible dream.

I had it, or a variation of it, for the first time when I was in Peru. The second time I was in Peru, when I went to bring Simon and Daryl home. It was a complicated dream, full of "symbols", as Blair informed me, but it's really the first part that comes to mind.

In that first dream, I wake up by a long cold fire. I wake up and know that I'm alone. Blair, who was with me while the fire burned the night before, who is with me more than he's not, is nowhere to be seen. So I get up to look for him.

Then the symbolic stuff comes in: the panther, a shaman with a living tree for a staff, cliffs. Mumbo jumbo.

This dream I've been having, this new one, it starts almost the same way. But it never gets to the distracting part about Destiny and Choosing and my life and duties as a Sentinel. It stays in that creepy rut: me, alone, looking for Sandburg.

It wasn't a great dream, but it wasn't really outside of my realm of experience. Even James Ellison has anxiety dreams; hey, who doesn't?

But then I started to find him.

You see, in the beginning, I was just having "can't find Blair" dreams. And I thought they were pretty bad. What I hadn't figured was that it would be worse to *find* him.

He's always dead. Not bloody or even noticeably injured, just... *dead*.

And it scares the shit out of me. Every time.

I wake up and I can almost *feel* him in my arms, stiff and long cold, and heavy, so goddamned heavy...

I wake up shaking and sweaty, my hands numb, my heart pounding. So I tune in on Blair, pick up his breathing, his heartbeat, his scent. And before he started turning up dead in my nightmares, it was enough to relax me.

But ever since I've been waking up thinking I'm clutching his corpse, I find I can't get to sleep unless I *see* him, see him move around, watch his chest rise and fall.

So I've been going downstairs and waking him up.

I feel bad about it, but I know I'd feel worse about just sticking my head in while he's trying to *legitimately* sleep, so I rattle the door and say, "Chief, you awake?" softly enough that it probably wouldn't wake him if the door hadn't already.

And then I just stand there, and he tries to keep still. He can't know it, but I wish he'd squirm a little more. Be a little more reassuringly *alive*. It's enough that he doesn't bring it up at breakfast, or bitch about it messing up his "circadian rhythm".

I wish I could tell him how much I appreciate it.

***

I wake up to the patter of rain and resign myself to another in a long line of bad hair days. Frizz, man. Frizz and another interrupted night of rest, and I have to cover for Fitch's "Oral Traditions" because he came through for me when I was on stakeout on the Davis case and I owe him more favors than I have fingers.

My mood isn't the greatest, but a hot shower improves it considerably, and the coffee smells great.

Jim may not have the most cultured palate in Washington, Sentinel abilities aside, but he makes a damned fine cup o' joe.

I pour myself a mug and Jim nods at me.

Jeez. The guy looks terrible. Pale, smudges under his eyes, his jaw's all tight--

"Jim. You're gonna have to tell me what's going on with you."

He closes his eyes and nods again, which spooks me, because he's traditionally given at least token resistance to every suggestion I've ever made. It's not that he's vindictive or anything, he's just being Jim; his first answer to nearly every question is a knee-jerk "no".

I settle at the kitchen table and curl my hands around my coffee. I'm actually early for a change, so I have time to listen to Jim, even if this will take us a while. And by the looks of things, it might.

Not wanting to rush him, I just take a hit of my java and try to wait him out. Eventually the mountain will come to Mohammed. I just hope Jim gets a move on and comes clean before I have to ditch him for a classroom of undergrads.

"I'm having bad dreams."

Then he walks into the bathroom and closes the door.

Mr. Communication.

I'm up and talking to the pressboard before he can even turn the shower on.

"Jim! C'mon, man, tell me about them. How can I help you if you won't let me in on what's really bugging you?"

The door opens, and there's Jim, big and scared, with his hair flat on one side and his sweats riding low on his hips and *that* is certainly not a helpful thought, Sandburg, focus a little, huh?

"It's a *really* bad dream, Chief," he elaborates.

"And?"

"And it bothers me. It's been wrecking my sleep."

"What's the dream about?"

"You." And he says it so softly I kind of crane my neck to hear it, and I can feel his breath in my hair.

"Oh." I can't say I'm surprised, I mean, he *has* been checking on me every night, but I'd sort of thought it would be about me *and* something. You know, like, I'm trapped in a falling elevator with a lot of *other* people, or on a bus or a drill rig with a bomb and a lot of other people. Whoa, that's a lot of incendiary devices. You know, there might be a paper on Cascade and it's myriad firebugs. It's my theory that all those guys have a serious case of SAD due to the nearly *permanent* inclement weather in this town.

Anyway.

"Okay. So let's go with that. What about me?"

"You're dead," and he says it sotto voice; man, I have to strain to make it out, and when I do I get the heebie jeebies, a shiver that just *pole vaults* up my spine.

"Whoa. I guess that's pretty freaky, all right." I pat his shoulder and drop back a few steps, look up at him. "So do I, like, get blown away or something?"

He shakes his head, grimaces.

"No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just-- you're just--dead. I wake up, I look for you, but I can't find you, and then I *do* find you, and you're stiff and you're cold and you're dead and I--" He's sweating, almost panting. Jim is *distressed* here, and he throws me a look of mute appeal; he does *not* want to talk about it.

I'm back at his side, rubbing his arm, leading him to the couch.

"Hey, hey, now, it's okay, I'm okay, just relax, sit down a minute, *breathe*, relax, that's it, there you go." Settling Jim back against the cushions, I sit down next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "That's pretty awful. Anybody would be upset about a dream where they found a friend dead. Is it always the same, or do certain details change--"

He holds up a hand.

"Look, Blair, I appreciate your trying to help, but I really have to get ready for work. Can we talk about this later?"

"We can do later. It's just that-- Jim, it's really important that we talk about it. If we talk about your fears, identify them, we might be able to--"

"Well *we* aren't having the dreams, Sandburg. I am. And I don't want to talk about it any more."

And he stalks off.

Man.

What am I gonna do with him?

***

The guy's laying in wait for me when I get home.

No sooner am I in the door than he pounces on me with his big, earnest eyes and his "this is for your own good" patter. I swear. Sometimes I think the kid has frustrated maternal instincts.

"What are you talking about?"

He stops and holds out some kind of spider webby contraption with a few feathers and beads hanging from it. It reminds me of my Aunt Janet's bout with hemp twine and "The Joy of MacramÈ".

"What is that thing?"

"You haven't been listening, Jim. It's a dreamcatcher. Some Native American tribes believe that if you hang it over your bed, it'll keep nightmares away."

I stare at it, unconvinced.

"And you think that a hula hoop with a doily on it is gonna *help* me?"

He looks at it again, then back at me, and shrugs.

"Well, it couldn't hurt."

I sigh, and make my way to the fridge, where a nice cold beer is waiting for me.

"I don't know, Chief."

"Just *try* it, man, you might be surprised--"

"I don't *want* to try it!" and I *am* surprised, because I didn't mean to yell at him, but it seems like I've done just that. He gets quiet for a moment, and then drops the dreamcatcher on the counter.

"Jim, you're not the only one losing sleep here," and he says it softly, and suddenly I realize that he looks tired. I wish he had the decency to sound angry; I wouldn't feel like such a heel.

"I'm sorry, Sandburg. I know you're only trying to help, but I'm a little tense, okay?"

"And all I'm trying to do is give you some options, man."

He comes to stand in front of me, and I'm impressed with how forthright he is, how solid and energetic, even sleep deprived. And then I feel a twinge of guilt because I know that he's wired, and that it's all my fault.

Which only reminds me of all the other times he's been there for me, and how much I take him for granted. How many times he's been sleepless or shot up or in some life-threatening situation because of me. Because I need him.

And I wish to God I didn't need him so damned *much*.

What's worse is that I *want* him, too.

The first time I woke him up, he was on his belly, and I could see the way the thin blanket molded to his back and legs, and it was... a surprise.

Surprising to know that muscles and broad shoulders and a stubbled cheek didn't prevent him from being... well, beautiful.

I mean, I don't guess Sandburg is going to be on the next cover of GQ, but he's certainly attractive enough. And it wouldn't take that pack of girlfriends he has to let me know it. It just wasn't something I'd given much thought to.

But a sleepless night is usually a thoughtful one, and lately I've had a lot of time to think, and to remember, and the dreams gave me at least an excuse to look in on him to make sure he's all right.

And he's *fine*, damn it.

I wish I could convince myself of it night after night without having to barge in on the poor guy.

***

Well, the dreamcatcher didn't work.

Neither did the South American worry dolls.

Two more nights of door rattling and me waking up with erections I could hardly do anything about with an *audience*, and two more nights of nailchewing on my part and increasing grouchiness on Jim's.

Tonight, we'll try something else.

Or we will if Jim will try being a little *receptive* for a change.

"You're gonna read me a bedtime story?"

"Jim, you're looking at this the wrong way. We can't keep your dreams away, but we might be able to change them. Think of it as another Sentinel exercise. Follow my voice as you fall asleep and try to picture what I'm saying to you."

"You mean, like hypnosis?"

The man is spread out on his bed and I'm in a straight-backed chair beside him. He looks less than relaxed under the covers; I can see the tension in his neck and shoulders.

"*Relax*, Jim, remember to breathe. It's a technique called lucid dreaming, and with a little practice, you should be able to modify the dream so that it's no longer a nightmare."

He nods a little, takes a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly.

I open up the book to the passage I've marked, and read him a few pages of Thoreau. Every now and again, I pause and remind him where he is, who I am, and what he's listening for.

I chose _Walden_ because I find it both restful and evocative. And I thought Jim could relate to it: a man, by himself, in the bosom of the wilderness, open to the sights and sounds.

After a while, Jim's asleep, and I close the book and just look at him.

His mouth has fallen open and his hands are relaxed, the fingers loosely curled. Even through the comforter you can tell the man has *thighs*, he's like the circus strongman, or one of those heroes in comic books.

But he's just a guy. A cranky, balding, sweet as hell, beautiful guy.

On impulse, I lean over and smooch his temple, just at the hairline that fades back a little more every year.

"Sweet dreams, big guy."

Then I creep down the stairs.

***

I'm laying on a blanket and the grass is tall.

I can hear the soft rustle of a million tree leaves, smell the sun on the dark loam, taste the warm algae green of pond water in the golden air. It's a knock your eyes out blue sky day, and I'm happy.

There's a click of plastic plates and I smell... fried chicken. Potato salad. Rhubarb pie. Someone's having a picnic.

I guess we are.

I smell Blair, too, and I hear the pop and sizzle of a beer being opened.

Yeah, baby. Now *this* is more like it.

I look over and see Blair, shirtless and grinning, offering me a bottle.

He's got a nice tan starting, it's toasting up his arms and shoulders, but his nose is getting pink.

"Sandburg, didn't you bring any sunscreen?"

He shrugs, grins.

"I forgot."

"There's probably some in the truck."

"Good idea. I'll go get it."

"No!" And I sit up so fast my sunglasses go flying. "No," I repeat, "You stay put. I don't want you getting lost."

"Jeez, Jim, I won't get lost!" The guy's laughing, like it's no big deal. But it is. I know it is. People can get lost out here.

"No, I'll go. You just sit back and enjoy the weather."

"It's beautiful here, isn't it?" His hair's all rumpled and blowing around in the breeze, and he's sitting tailor style on the striped blanket, a plate full of apple slices and cheese balanced on his knee.

I take a deep breath, try to smile at him, but I feel uneasy. The sky is cloudless and so bright it hurts to look at it.

"Yeah, it is, Chief."

I head off toward the truck, but as I walk away from Sandburg, I notice the sun is fading. I smell lightning.

Shit. We're gonna get rained out.

Well, better get back and help the kid pack up the stuff before we get electrocuted.

I turn around and start walking back to the blanket.

With my Sentinel sight, I should be able to see him by now. Maybe he's wading in the pond. I start to jog.

I want to catch him before the rain starts, is all.

I make it to the blanket, but Sandburg's nowhere to be seen. Or heard.

I lift my head, try to scent him, but all my nose tells me is that we waited too long to eat; the mayonnaise in the potato salad's gone over, and it makes me queasy.

Where the hell is Blair?

"Sandburg!" And I'm so loud I jump at my own voice.

No answer.

"SANDBURG!" But if he hears me he won't, or can't, reply.

Jesus. Jesus Christ, how can he get himself in trouble at a fucking *picnic* for God's sake? Sandburg, where are you, damn it? Damn it. DAMN IT.

I've circled the pond twice, and now I pace the trails into the trees.

Nothing.

Not a trace of him; no broken twigs, no impressions in the grass, not a scent, not a sound.

Where the fuck is he?

I'm hoarse from yelling, so I switch to whistling. High piercing sounds carry in the forest, and save your vocal cords. Sandburg, I swear I'm gonna buy you a tracking device and implant it myself.

And then I see something. A heap in the clearing up ahead. A Sandburg shaped heap.

Oh God.

Not again.

But it's him, and when I crouch down beside him and reach out to roll him over, his skin is chilly and his eyes are closed. His chest is still. His lips are gray.

Please.

Please don't do this to me, don't do this, give him back, huh?

I lift him up, curl him against my chest, hide my face in his soft, springy hair.

It's starting to rain.

Oh, Blair. Oh God, Blair. Sandburg, wake up. *Wake UP!*

And I do.

***

Jim's shaking me, and I come to the conclusion that attempt number three has also gone bust. I sit up and rub the sleep goo out of my eyes, blink at Jim.

Jesus, he looks like hell.

I pull him down to sit on the bed beside me before his knees give out. His hand is icy, and he's trembling.

"Christ, Jim, what happened?"

"It started out okay," he offers.

"And then...?"

"Well, this time you were there. Usually the dream just starts with me looking for you, but you were eating apples and it was sunny--" His shoulders tense. "And then it all went to hell."

"I was dead again?"

He nods, mouth tight.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I really thought this would work." I have now officially run out of ideas. This really sucks.

"Yeah. Well. You did your best." He pats my knee clumsily and gets to his feet.

"Wait up-- Maybe I can try it again, you know, read longer this time, get past the part where I get lost." I'm making zooming motions with my hands, demonstrating how we'll just zip right past setback number three.

He shakes his head.

"Maybe tomorrow. I won't be getting back to sleep tonight." He rubs the back of his neck, and I see him wince and stumble. Man, he's really out of it.

"Let me try, anyway. C'mon, Jim, humor me."

He gives me a long look, and his expression is pretty unreadable, what with the shadows and the distance, but his posture looks thoughtful. For a moment I'm relieved that he's listening, and then I realize-- oh man. I'm practically poking through my sweats. I try to tug my T-shirt down as surreptitiously as possible, but Jim doesn't look too keen on details right now. He's swaying a little and I get up and take his elbow, push him up the stairs to his bed.

"We'll give it another shot, Jim, and then, if it doesn't work, I'll wake you up before it gets too bad and I'll brew a pot of coffee and sit up with you."

"Thanks, Chief, but you don't have to--"

"I *want* to, okay? Just get all tucked in there, that's right, okay, Lucid Dreaming, take two..."

This time, he stays awake for twenty minutes, but he finally drifts off. I'm nodding a little myself before he starts getting twitchy. Shit.

"Jim? Jim, man, wake up. C'mon, it's me, it's Blair, I'm right here, alive and well-- Jim?"

He's starting to make this terrible little kind of half grunt, half moan, and it's ripping me *up*. This dream is really fucking with him, and in a way, it's kind of, I don't know, "heartwarming," that he's this concerned about me, but in another it's a huge guilt trip. I sure as hell don't want to be responsible for this kind of *angst.*

I'm kneeling on the bed, shaking him, but he just keeps- crying, I guess. There aren't any tears, but he's crying, pretty obviously.

"Jim! Wake the hell *up*, man! I'm alive! Really!"

Then he reaches out and grabs me, and I get tucked under his chin. He's rocking me and keening, and I feel like I'm gonna cry myself. I hug him back, and keep telling him I'm alive, and that everything's going to be all right, and that I'm here, and he seems to hear that, because he quits rocking and he loosens his grip from bonecrushing to cuddly and just kind of curls up around me.

So.

Here I am, wrapped in the arms of a cop. Straddling his hips, in fact. Luckily, my earlier excitement was lulled by the pastoral musings of a freethinker.

If I squirm out of his grip, it might wake him, and the man definitely needs his sleep.

And hell, so do I.

Fuck it.

I close my eyes and figure I'll deal with it in the morning.

Or not.

My eyes open again pretty quickly.

Jim is snuffling. And nuzzling my hair. And... well, *groping* me.

It's not a scary "bad touch" kind of thing; it's really more like he's patting me down to see if I'm hurt.

Oh, *man*. His two-handed concern is pretty entertaining to the local erogenous zones, and it looks like my sleeping dog ain't gonna just lie there...

Sit!

Stay!

Damn.

Jim starts rooting around under my shirt, and things are getting pretty out of hand now. I'm getting hot and bothered, and Jim, he's just smiling away, and-- And he's sort of... undulating? *No* way!

But he *is*, *Jim* is Humping. My. Leg.

And... it's not that bad.

Kind of nice, actually.

I mean, here's Big Jim Ellison rubbing himself all over my body, and let's face it, it's not like the "us in bed" scenario has never been shown in my private theater, okay? But he's usually awake in that particular movie, and this isn't right.

I can't take advantage of the poor guy. He's out of sorts, and I'm just a nice friendly warm body that happens to be available. And that's all.

I roll out of bed and he immediately starts pawing at the blankets for me, making those weird little distress calls.

Jeez, Jim! You're killing me, here!

Obviously, I can't leave him. I grab a couple of quilts and heap them on top of him, and then crawl in next to him, but on top of the blankets, except for the afghan that I tug over my shoulders.

He spoons me nearly instantaneously, and I'm a little crowded, but it's still nice. Jim quiets right down and I feel like the world's biggest chew toy for a few minutes, and then I quit worrying about it because I'm already asleep.

***

He's still heavy, but he's also *warm*.

And he's snoring in my ear.

Ordinarily, Sandburg doesn't snore, but then, ordinarily he doesn't have his mouth mashed against my shoulder.

My shirt is damp where he drooled on me, but I don't mind.

It's nice to wake up to this, to a living, breathing man after all those bad nights, sure he was dead or worse.

And *this* is Blair, asleep on my shoulder. His arms are draped around me, and he smells like ... I want to say gingersnaps, but I don't know why.

I hug him hard, and he starts to squirm, grunting awake.

"Hey, Jim," he says, his typical morning hello, and then he resettles on my shoulder and snuggles back down.

Then he freezes.

"Uh... Jim?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"Um. What... ah," and he gives this jittery little laugh before continuing. "What time is it, buddy?" I squeeze him, knuckle his skull.

"Time to take a shower." I sniff long and loud. "You're pretty ripe. Buddy." He's also pretty hard. The guy's been poking me in the thigh since about 6 AM.

That's natural, but it's also pretty embarrassing, and as my own dick is still heavy and aching in my sweats, I'm not about to bring it up.

He scrambles out of bed and smoothes his hair back, looking anxious.

"Did you have any more nightmares?"

"Nope."

"Well, that's *great!*" he enthuses, and he turns on his Sandburg Special and I smile right back at him, glad that he's pleased.

"So were you able to modify your dream at all?"

"Huh?" It's too early for me to concentrate on a lecture.

"The lucid dreaming! C'mon, Jim. Lay it on me. Did you dream about winning the lottery or the cast of Baywatch or what?"

I blink at him for a minute, and then slowly remember last night, and falling asleep to the soothing sound of his voice. And the dreams.

The second dream is somehow worse that the first, kind of a continuation, and that's a recent development. I've had this retread dream twice before last night, but I couldn't bring myself to wake the kid a second time. Instead, I'd just gotten up and dressed and busied myself until his alarm went off and he'd shambled into the bathroom all scruffy and dazed and tumbled out all perky and damp.

He's still dead, in the second dream, but he starts to... fade. He doesn't crumble into dust, or wink out of existence, he just sort of evaporates, until I'm left with nothing.

I try and try to hold onto him, but he's transparent, and then a shadow, and then just *gone*.

At least, he was for two nights in a row.

But last night, Blair came back from the dead.

He got warm, and his heart beat, his eyes opened and he blinked at me.

And I laughed.

And when I woke up,

***

"... you were drooling on me."

"Wow! Oh, sorry about that, Jim."

Okay. So the lucid dreaming thing worked.

I hope.

Because I don't know if I can spend another night in the big guy's bed.

I'm pretty sure I'm carrying this Dutiful Guide thing a little too far.

First it was working with him, then living with him, and now, here I am, sleeping on his bed like the family dog. What's next? Fetching his slippers?

Short of donating the guy a kidney, I don't think Jim and I can *get* much closer.

Jim is going to have to look up Sidekicks R Us or something, because this whole Faithful Companion gig is just not gonna work for me.

I hustle down the stairs and turn the shower on as hot as I can stand it, and bring myself off as quietly as possible.

What the hell am I gonna do?

***

By the time I'm showered and dressed, Blair is finishing his papaya juice and handing me a banana. I grab a bowl of Wheaties and listen to him as he bops around the kitchen telling me about all the errands he has to run.

I can't help smiling at him; I feel pretty good. I got some rest for a change, it's a sunny day, it's the weekend... It's all good.

He wants to teach me to cook something called "Spanikopita."

Seems he's already planned the day around it.

"...and then the campus bookstore to see if the books I ordered have arrived, and then the Farmer's Market on Ford because man, you haven't *lived* until you've tried it, and they have the best spinach in town. Sound doable?"

"Sure, Chief."

Me, Blair and a sunny day definitely sound doable.

***

I've been known to talk to myself in times of stress. I've been shhhhhhed! at many an exam for muttering, for example. Maybe not the wisest course of action when, say, you're hiding out from a bunch of gun-toting goons, but it usually calms me down enough to think rationally. But even though I'd like nothing better than to talk myself out of what is shaping up to be the Mother of All Panic Attacks, I really, *really* need to save my breath.

Because I don't know how much air I have in here.

It's pretty big, even for an industrial freezer, and there's plenty of room for a lone anthropologist. But it's also dark. And even though the freezer isn't actually *freezing* right now, it's still cold. Especially for my left foot.

I lost a shoe somewhere along the way.

Probably after I dropped the cell phone.

I'm beginning to see the error of my ways in not carrying around a handy sledgehammer in my backpack, because there isn't a *thing* in here to use to pry or bang or chop my way out of here with.

Between you and me, I'm getting pretty tired of this "let's abduct Blair" impulse many of the local criminal population seems to harbor. And it's hell on my "guy" image. I might as well be Little Nell tied to the train tracks for all the good I was at keeping that sideshow from tucking me under his arm and absconding like I was a stereo at a looting. Fuck!

I *hate* this!

I hate this, I am *not* liking this, not at *all*, and I know Jim must be *freaking* out. Hell, *I'm* freaking out.

I've been trying the door, trying to unscrew the hinges, but I'll tell you, I've never wished more that I smoked, because I don't have a lighter or a match to my name. I guess a MagLite would be a nice addition to the sledgehammer I'm gonna start toting once I get out of here.

If I get out of here.

Which I will. I have faith. Faith in Jim, and in my own dumb luck. Jim won't have too much of a problem finding me. I mean, Jesus, *I* could almost smell the steroids that dude was using. So it's just a matter of waiting for him to show up.

And the waiting would be easier if I didn't have the sneaking suspicion that I'm using up all the oxygen in here. Mental note: add Oxygen Tank to Sandburg Contingency Knapsack. Or maybe a green plant.

I'd chuckle at the image of me tottering around under the weight of these assorted "Action Guy" accessories, maybe with a Bowie knife gripped between my teeth, but I don't want to waste any air, just in case I'm right and there isn't a vent I can't see.

My fingernails feel bent, and my fingertips are a little scraped up, because I picked at the hinges for a few jittery minutes *before* I remembered my Swiss Army knife. At least I got it together enough to remember that. Happily, I had my bag on my shoulder when I was shoplifted by Caleb The Magnificent.

I saw Jim go down, but before I could do anything I was being dragged away by 300 lbs. of testosterone. At least it wasn't by the hair. And it doesn't seem like ol' Caleb has any interest in making *this* anthropologist his girlfriend, because I haven't seen the guy since he dumped me here.

God. What if Jim's, like, down for the count? What if Caleb bashed his skull in, or broke his neck?

Whoa. That is *not* positive thinking, Blair.

I'm sure he's fine.

A little banged up maybe, and tired, let's not forget tired, you know he hasn't been sleeping lately and--

And this is like his dream, isn't it? He's gonna wake up and I'm not gonna be there and he won't be able to find me and when he does I'll be...

Oh, Jim.

***

*Christ.*

My head is *killing* me.

Hissing, I prod the lump at the back of my head where that hulk hit me, and then finger my jaw. It's bleeding a little where I kissed the concrete.

I sit up, turn my head, *carefully*, and look around for Sandburg. There are a few anxious faces leaning over me, but none of them belong to Blair.

"You okay, buddy?" A burly older man peers at me with a concerned frown.

"I'm fine. Did anybody see a little guy, long curly hair?" I find myself gesturing at my own recent buzz, and wonder when I started talking with *my* hands.

"Yeah." And some stoner gives me a dazed smile accompanied by a lazy nod. "Some big dude took him and tossed him in his car. He dropped this," and he hands me the wreck of what must have been Blair's cell phone.

Jesus.

"Did anybody call the police!?" They all share sheepish looks, and the stoner *laughs*.

"Heeeeey, Fuzzy," he drawls, "you *are* the police." And he points at my badge, which someone must have lifted for ID purposes, and then hands it back to me.

So help me, I'm gonna brain this kid. I make an effort not to grind my teeth and try to be civil.

"Well, did anybody see which way they went, at least?"

"West on Luther," supplies the burly guy, helping me up.

I nod, grab my cell phone and dial Simon.

"Blair's been kidnapped."

"Again!? Who'd you two piss off now?"

"This is no joke, Simon. You remember Caleb DuBoise?"

"Caleb the Magnificent? The professional wrestler?"

"That's the guy. He owns one of those celebrity chow houses, you know, where all the sandwiches are named after Hollywood stars? He cold-cocked me and grabbed Sandburg. Subject fled the scene, headed west on Luther. I want an all points on this guy, Simon. There's no telling where he might have taken Blair."

"Consider it done."

I sign off and look around for anything I might have missed. The rank stench of that musclehead is still thick in my nostrils. You'd think the guy could afford to have his leopard skin dry cleaned once in a while.

Think, Ellison.

DuBoise could have gone anywhere. The airport. The dam. He could have just driven right out of town.

Shit.

This Caleb guy just showed up at the produce stand and introduced himself. Not that he had to. Believe me, it's not hard to remember a 300 pound skinhead in a loincloth.

I tipped the health department to some unsavory food prep going on there at his restaurant a few months ago. Last I'd heard, he'd gotten shut down.

But what's his beef with Sandburg? He comes gunning for me, recognizes the kid from Le Manifique, knocks me out, and what? Barbecues Blair?

Not a pleasant thought.

I massage my temples with the heels of my hands, try to dial down my throbbing headache.

I have to find Sandburg.

***

The first thing I'm gonna do when I get out of here is find a water fountain. I finished the Gorp, mostly out of boredom, and the peanuts were *salty* so I slugged down the last of the flat, warm water in the bottle I usually carry with me.

If I had a watch with a luminous dial, or Jim's Sentinel sight, I could tell you how long I've been in here. I knew I should have given in to my Inner Consumer and bought an Indiglo...

As it is, I'm giving myself the willies remembering choice scenes from The English Patient.

Remind me to pass up the next art film epic that features someone dying a protracted death in a dark place.

I try and look on the bright side: "Hey, if I suffocate, I won't die of thirst!"

Oh, yeah.

*That* helped.

***

I call Simon back for Caleb DuBoise's home address.

It doesn't take eight years on the force to see the place has been tossed.

I sniff and my lip curls.

Yup. Caleb had been in a hurry. Clothes are strewn everywhere, but to my eyes it doesn't look like he's taken much aside from his championship belts: there are three empty shelves next to a wall of publicity shots featuring Caleb with various celebrities.

Liza Minelli *and* Donny Osmond.

Must have been a dream come true.

I case the place, poke around a little, but I'm sure Blair hasn't been here.

Damn it.

Okay, if I were a 300 pound circus freak dragging around a pissed off anthropologist, where would I go?

The restaurant.

Hang on, buddy.

I don't think about what might happen if I don't get there in time.

***

Jim never even asked me what I was doing in his bed this morning. And he looked so cheerful and well-rested I didn't have the heart to bring it up. I mean, he was *whistling*, okay?

And his good mood was kind of contagious, so I couldn't stay mad at him. Is it Jim's fault I have a yearning for him as deep as the Marianas Trench? Well, yeah, indirectly, but it's my own weird fixation thing, and I'll just have to learn to cope with it. Apparently I'll have to learn to cope with it point blank, if Jim's nightmares continue. Why *don't* I believe it's a good idea for me to try to come to terms with my growing sexual attraction to my partner in his bed? With his arms around me?

I'll tell you what, though, I really wish he had his arms around me right about now.

It would mean he'd found me, and that I'm getting out of this hole.

I wonder what Caleb was thinking when he locked me in here? Probably his brain's been basting in a steroid stew since high school. It's a safe bet that planning was not a big part of this little hoe down.

Well, who needs motive when you have the means and opportunity to kidnap Blair Sandburg?

I wonder if they'll put me on a milk carton.

Do they even still do that?

I can't remember the last time I hadn't bought milk in a plastic jug. I wonder whether, in the grand scheme of Innocuous Chemicals That Will Eventually Kill You, petroleum distillates will beat bleached paper products to the funeral.

I crack a yawn.

Good grief. I'm boring *myself*. Maybe it's time to take a nap.

It beats waiting. For Jim. Or Death. Whichever comes first.

I resettle against my lumpy knapsack and stare at the invisible ceiling.

A lot of people will tell you they want to see The End coming, die with their boots on, etc., etc. Not me. I plan to meet Death in my jammies.

Not that I actually wear pajamas, but I had always figured that when my time was up, I'd have lived a long and fruitful life, and died happy. In bed. Snuggled cozily between my two vivacious, Stanford educated, statuesque former Olympic medallist and Miss World Runners-Up girlfriends.

Of course, I was sixteen when I designed that particular death scene.

I'd count myself more than lucky to just *breathe* in Jim's bed again in my relative youth, let alone die in it at 105.

I'm pretty tired.

I hope Jim gets here soon.

***

Whatever he's done to Blair, Caleb hasn't stuck him on a spit over the barbecue pit in the back.

Yet.

I hope that Simon gets someone to pick him up soon; I'm afraid that I find him first I'll knock him into next week before he can tell me where he's left Sandburg.

Caleb's been here recently; I can smell the sour tang of sweaty goldplate under that mangy hide he's running around in. That clown had more chains than Mr. T. I sniff again, and wonder if I'm hallucinating. I guess I can add "wishful smelling" to my new list of Blair fixations...

But no-- I *can* smell him. He's here!

Or he was.

I recognize the rich, somehow "earthy" smell of my granola boy partner. Trail mix. He's got trail mix in his backpack- he washed his hair with the organic Lemon Chamomile Clarifying soap he bought at that co-op his buddy Fitch runs. No aftershave-- he must have skipped the razor this morning.

That's weird.

I should have noticed that. The kid seemed a little agitated this morning. I mean, yeah, so we woke up in the same bed, but I thought he'd, you know... Get over it. He gets over things. He's so resilient I sometimes think he'd bounce if you dropped him.

God, what if Caleb has him on the roof?

I crane my neck and focus my Sentinel sight to the top of the four story building; no sign of them.

I close my eyes, and try to concentrate on my hearing, seeking out the familiar rhythm of Sandburg's heart.

Nothing.

God damn it!

Okay, go with what you've got. Track him, follow the scent.

I make my way down the empty hallways, following the trail. My Sentinel sight means I don't need to go back to the truck for my flashlight, and I'm glad of it. The trail lead to the basement level, to the kitchen.

I can hear the papery clack of roaches scuttling in the wall. The Sentinel thing isn't always beer and cupcakes, but Sandburg never believes me when I tell him there are *some* things you would just rather not know about it.

The BlairScent is strong here, but I can't hear him. And if I can't hear him, he must be... gone. If he was here, I'd know it. Even tied up he's a twitchy little guy.

I yell anyway, I shout at the top of my lungs, just to *do* something, but there's nothing here except empty shelves and the smell of mayo that's rolled pretty damned far past the expiration date.

For a moment, I'm sure I'm dreaming, sure I'm having a nightmare wide awake, because it's like I remember this place, it's so *familiar* that I start to shake.

What if he's really gone?

That's when I see the shoe.

One of Sandburg's shoes is under a counter. He must have put up a hell of a fight. But he didn't have a chance against a guy that size.

I've been tracking the kid's shoe all this time.

If there were any chairs around, I'd sit down, but I suddenly don't want to be here for another second. I'm gonna puke if I don't leave. But first, I kneel down and retrieve the shoe, and you know what I do next?

I hold the damned thing to my face, rub the soft leather against my cheek.

Jesus.

Blair.

And then I hear something, and I wonder if I'm going to have to put "wishful hearing" on the list right next to smell, when I hear it again.

A moan.

Coming from the fridge.

The handle's broken, and I see now that someone's jammed the thing shut.

"Blair!"

I damned near wrench the door off its hinges.

There's a heap of Blair on the floor, so still, so quiet...

I must have been kidding myself.

I'm too late.

***

Somebody's shaking my shoulder.

"Five more minutes, man." I mutter. "You can have first shower," I promise.

Then something a little like a siren and more like a Cosmic Yawp nails right into both ears.

Before I can sort out just what it is, I open my eyes and see... well, nothing.

It's *dark* in here, remember?

"Jim?"

Please be Jim.

*Please.*

"God. God. Blair. I thought you were dead," and it *is* Jim, and he sounds like he's laughing, and he *grabs* me, and hugs me so tight I think maybe my lung's will collapse, but that is just fine by me. As long as there's air to breathe when he lets go, I'll be cool.

When he finally lets go, he makes this shaky little chuckling sound and claps his hands on both sides of my face and then--

THEN, he gives me three quick kisses, mashing his nose against the top of my hair, and then smooching my forehead and *then* planting a light one on my mouth, so fast I can hardly believe he did it.

Then he hugs me again, and after a momentary brainfreeze, I get it back together enough to hug him back.

"I am *so* glad you're here," I tell him, and I've never been more sincere in all my life.

"I'm glad you're still breathing," he says. "You okay? You're not hurt?"

"A little light headed, maybe. I don't think there was a lot of air left in here, Jim."

He squeezes me again, and if he keeps this up I'm gonna look like an *accordion*. But a happy accordion. A living, *breathing* accordion.

"Sorry I didn't get here sooner, Chief. Here," and he hands me my shoe.

"You found it! Hey, I will *never* bitch about an eleventh hour rescue, man," I enthuse, toeing the shoe on. "Timing is less important than the rescue part, right?"

"Yeah," he says vaguely, and I get the impression he's not really paying much attention to what I'm saying, but that doesn't mean he's ignoring me, no way.

Jim's breathing me in, I can tell. He's really still, and his hands are flat against my back, so he can feel my heart beat through my jacket.

After a while, he says, "It was like my dream, Blair."

And I nod.

"But you're alive," he reminds me, pretty unnecessarily, but I don't mind.

"Yup. Thanks to you."

"I was worried," he admits.

"Me, too. About you, I mean. When Caleb went all Medieval on you, I was afraid he might have... That you'd..." I take another breath of the faintly greasy kitchen air. "You know. Bought it."

"Well he didn't. And we're both gonna be fine." He sounds like he's deciding something. He lets me go and I hear his knees creak as he stands up and leans down to tug me to my feet. "Can we get outta here now? The smell is making me sick to my stomach."

"You lead and I'll follow, Jim."

I may not have Sentinel hearing, but I can hear him smile.

"I thought you were the guide?"

"I'll tell you what, Jim. You get me out of this dungeon, and I'll guide you right to the best barbecue joint in Cascade. My treat. You deserve it."

He makes a little "ugh" sound and says, "How about that Thai place you like instead?"

"Actually," I say, shivering a little, "how about I make us some pasta back at the loft? I'd kind of like to stay away from industrial kitchens for a while, if you know what I mean."

"You got it, Chief."

***

Blair's not dead, that's for sure.

In fact, he's a blur of activity, chopping onions, stirring sauce, setting out plates.

He wouldn't let me help him with dinner, saying that preparing a meal was "life affirming", so I left him to it.

I went out and got us a good bottle of wine, and I'm looking forward to a relaxing end to a long, terrible day.

Not that it didn't start out well enough.

Or end well.

Before Blair had even finished making out his statement, Caleb DuBoise was stopped at the Canadian border.

He'll get put away for a long, long time and there'll be one less bad guy for me to worry about.

"So," Blair says, as he hands me a plate piled with pasta, "I'll bet those dreams of yours will stop now. Because you acted out the dream scenario and beat it, banished the demons, right?"

"I guess so," I answer.

The kid looks uncomfortable.

"So I guess you won't need me to read to you tonight."

"Guess not."

He concentrates on his dinner for a while.

"But maybe I should anyway. You know. Just in case."

"Okay." I'd like him to, but I don't know if I'm supposed to look enthusiastic about it, so I play it close to the vest. "If you think so."

"I do! I really do." And he nods his head, and his curls bob, and it's everything I can do to keep from leaning over and kissing him again.

I kind of play with my food, not looking at him. I don't really want to eat dinner, because I can still taste him, Blair, a little. Like pickled ginger. And wasabi.

He'd had sushi for lunch. It seems like days ago.

But the guy cooked, and it's not even his night. The least I can do is eat the meal he fixed up.

"Pretty tasty, Chief," I tell him.

And it is, but Blair tastes better.

I'm kind of hoping he'll be in my bed in the morning, that I'll get to hold him again, warm and alive, listen to his heart beat, watch him sleep.

Sight. Touch. Scent. Hearing.

Looks like "wishful tasting" has been added to my list.

I shovel my food, glance at the clock. It's pretty late, and the sooner I'm done eating, the sooner I can claim exhaustion and climb into bed.

And the sooner I can wake up and see if that wish gets to come true.

END