Many thanks to all the people who nursed me through the creation of this story, particularly Princess of Geekland and EE.
This story is for Cynthia, aka Cindershadow. I wish she was here to read it
The tan of Blair's skin stood out as his hands gestured curtly against the background of his white shirt.
“So you want to go through that again? Because I don't think that I'm getting it.”
“You get it fine,” Jim growled from the depths of an easy chair. “You're just being stubborn.”
Blair gave this statement a moment's consideration. “Yeah, I'm good at that.” He paused. “Still waiting, man.”
“And the answer is still 'no'. And do not whine.”
“It's not like I'm asking for a super whopper pass to the funfair, here. If you trusted me that time with Brackett, which was like a zillion times more important than this, then why the hell not with this?”
“Because this is different. And it's not an issue of trust.”
“So you said. But at this point I'm not seeing that.”
Jim took in a slow deep breath through his nose; he was calm, he was relaxed. “Damn it, it's a simple job, and I'm perfectly capable of doing the occasional something on my own.”
Blair moved to perch on the arm of the chair . Warm, denim-clad hips rubbed against Jim's arm. Blair looked down across his shoulder, but Jim didn't meet his eyes, just looked at the pale blue pattern threaded in a single band down the length of the sleeve, the rumpled bulk where Blair had rolled the sleeve up to show a strong line of forearm.
“I thought that we'd established, a very long time ago, that your senses work better with a little support, which is me.”
“Chief…”
“So I'll come with you.”
Jim managed not to blurt out 'I don't want you to' because he knew exactly how disastrous that would be. He tilted his head against the chair back and looked up into Blair's face. Blair looked down at him, his suppressed exasperation edged with patient good humour, but there was a hurt expression waiting to settle in the lines of his face. Jim acknowledged he was going to lose this one. So what if he suspected that Blair thought Jim was unbalanced on the issue of people being found with Group information about sentinels? Jim suspected that Blair might be entirely right about that, and he didn't like it when Blair got to see him in paranoid mode. But it's not paranoia when they really were out to get you, is it, Ellison?
“You don't have to go.”
Jim couldn't bear the gentleness of that suggestion. “Yes I do.” Andy's dandy little robots might have tracked down and deleted any computer information, but Jim still had to know that there wasn't anything else: nothing of Blair's stolen dissertation, nothing of the information garnered while Jim suffered under extortion-enforced slavery. He had always had control-freak tendencies and this was one form of control, one form of territoriality that he simply had to exercise. Anyone with that information almost certainly didn't come by it ethically. Why should they keep it? It belonged to Jim, to Blair, and nobody else.
“Okay. But if you have to go, so do I.” Blair leaned the arm that had been so close to Jim across the top of the chair, and smiled brightly. 'See, that wasn't so bad,' the smile seemed to say. Then he was gone, but only to the kitchen and back, to return with two beers. He offered one to Jim, and sat on the solid coffee table, the two of them face to face.
“Tables are for glasses, not asses, Chief.”
Blair raised his eyebrows. “That was your upbringing, not mine. And this is our table. You do what you like with your ass, and I'll do what I like with mine.”
“Hell, when are you going to learn to not give me an opening like that?” Too late, Jim realised what he'd just said, while Blair roared with ribald laughter. Then he quieted, and held out his beer in a gesture of offering a toast.
“To the success of our endeavour.” Jim ceremoniously clinked his bottle against Blair's, and took a couple of swigs, thought about nothing except the cool, bitter taste that filled his mouth, the pop of bubbles against his tongue. But you could only drink beer for so long.
“If you're coming I have a condition.”
Blair smiled knowingly. “I think I can guess, but tell me more.”
“I'm running the show.”
Blair rolled his eyes. “Yep. Knew it.”
“I'm not fooling around here. If it looks like it's going wrong and I tell you to get out, you get the hell out. Am I clear?”
“How likely is it that there'll be a problem?”
Jim shrugged. “I'll be careful. We're talking B & E but I don't plan to murder some householder to cover my tracks. We don't know how or why Paula Hayden has the info. If it turns to shit, for any reason, you get out.”
“Oh, come on! If it's that likely to go wrong then maybe you should consider leaving it be. And it's not like I don't know how think fast. I pulled your ass out of the fire once or twice, for all that you're the official action hero.”
“Different times.”
Offence was starting to appear on Blair's face. “If you think that I'm just going to run off and leave you, then…”
Jim broke into the speech with a knife-edge move of his hand, cutting off Blair's words with his own. “That's exactly what I mean. It'd be complicated enough with one of us coming to official attention, let alone both.” He tried to calm the tension between them. “It's just disaster insurance. You never need it, but when you do need it, you really need it. So you,” and Jim's finger pointed accusingly in Blair's direction, “can go cold turkey on your inner adrenaline junkie. Promise me, no heroics.”
There was a determined, angry set to Blair's mouth, and a defiant glare to his eyes. Jim waited what seemed like a long time before Blair sighed and said, “No heroics.” He sculled down his drink, and then belched. “And for the record, I am not happy about this.”
Jim said nothing, just scrutinised Blair's face. He suspected that his victory wasn't going to come quite as easily as that seemingly resigned, big-eyed stare suggested.
“So, we go soon?” Blair asked.
“Tomorrow. We can work out some of the details while we travel.”
Some details were more important than others and Jim put aside the fact that he never could find a radio-headset that was comfortable. If he was wearing one of the damn things then comfort wasn't top of the list of priorities. Blair had fingered the sets with wistful amusement. “Pity I'm not a sentinel. We wouldn't need these at all.”
Jim had grimaced. “Trying to cover a three mile radius with every sparrow fart and dog bark in between? Sometimes technology works out better than pure nature.” But he'd been grateful for the conversation. Blair had been quieter than usual the last couple of days.
Now, Jim crouched in the shelter of someone's shrubbery, taking calm from the sharp richness of green-leaf and earth scent around him, and tried to decide if this was a good idea. Apparently, Paula Hayden was away or so the delivery guy, aka Blair Sandburg/Jacob Bergman/man of a thousand IDs, had been told, and observation confirmed it. This was good. The house was empty, so Jim could carry out a full search undisturbed. It was also annoying, because scaring the shit out of people was a speedy and convenient method of getting information.
“All quiet, I take it?” Blair's voice was bored. Jim didn't answer, but then he'd told Blair not to always expect replies. Clearly Blair wasn't worried because his voice continued, a mellow drone through the set. “Definitely quiet here, and me without a light to read by. Luckily, I have a very active mental life. And an active fantasy life too, and man, have I got plans for you. If I have to be stuck in a car on stake-out, then the least I could have is some company. There's going to be payback for the brain cells that are dying of boredom here, I promise.” Jim grinned at that, and then let Blair's voice be a pleasant background static as he approached the house.
He'd learned techniques for dealing with very sophisticated alarm systems, which this was not. “I'm in,” he told Blair.
“Excellent. I look forward to actually doing something real soon.”
“Don't hold your breath, Chief.”
Jim considered his options. The house was roomy, pleasant, well provided with closets and storage. There was a small study, but it really depended on whether Paula Hayden understood just what she had. If she did, then files might be hidden creatively. If she didn't then the study was at least a place to start. If Jim wasn't satisfied then he could always come back.
He was rifling through the filing cabinet when Blair's voice broke into his awareness, no longer bored, but strung tight with uncertainty. “Hey, secret-agent guy, one hell of a Men in Black minivan just drove past on its way in your direction. Maybe I'm being paranoid here, but…”
Jim lifted his head, shunted Blair's voice into a vague presence, and listened. There was a sound somewhere, upstairs, in the roof space perhaps: a comforting, overriding murmur. A white noise generator, and if he pushed hard past it - heartbeats…
“Get out of here!” he commanded into the mike. He went for the window; locked. He picked up the desk chair and swung it with all his strength at the window, only to suffer stinging hands and arms as it bounced back against a reinforced frame and armour-plated glass. Jim tore out into the hallway, not needing sentinel senses to hear the sound of feet in the storey above pounding towards the stairs. He drew his gun and beaded up the stairs, at men in body armour and goggles. He took a couple of shots anyway. Split second delay to wrench the door open, and he heard the vicious pop and crackle of a taser. The whistle of charge lifted the hairs on his arms, but it missed, barely. Then he was out, running hard, opening up to find out what the hell was going on. Stupid, stupid.
Two men still behind him. Jim didn't bother to look back, hearing and scent told him as much as he needed to know. Movement in the yards of the houses. The panic was starting now, and it spiked into a piercing bolt in his chest when he heard Blair's voice. “Hang on. I'm coming.”
“No!” He gasped it into the mike. “Get out!” Damn it, he was nearly fifty years old. He was too old for this shit, but he stretched out his legs, let adrenaline give him whatever power it could, because Blair was coming. If Jim didn't get away, then they'd both be caught, and anger boosted him on, because the disobedient little shit promised, he promised. Jim swerved, came at one man with a ferocious kick when the hastily aimed and fired bullet missed, and passed by as he went down. There were at least three behind him now, and who knew how many ahead. He could hear the urgent, business-like stutter of instructions in their sets, voices calling out in shorthand instruction and command.
His lungs were burning, and his ankles and knees jarred with the desperate shock of feet hitting hard against pavement. Clear ahead, he judged, and cut through a couple of yards, scrambling over fences with rib-bruising energy. It got him across a loop of road, that much less blacktop for Blair to cover, and if he didn't know Blair, he would have considered simply giving up, or even putting one of his three remaining bullets through his own brain. But Blair, damn him, would follow through, and damn Jim's needy arrogance, that let Blair be here at all.
He could hear the sound of the car engine; Blair was gunning that baby for all he was worth. “I'm nearly there, nearly there.” If Jim had possessed any breath he would have told Blair to shut up – if they hadn't found the set frequency by now, they were certainly going to find it soon. The engine was a roar in his ears, and he could see the glare of the lights leading the way over the rise. But there was a dark figure sprinting to intercept, and the jarring shudder of a taser dart in Jim's skin. He lurched back, his breath suddenly gone, his limbs sore and weak. Another spike landed against the layers of his clothes.
He couldn't control his body, just lay there twitching, staring up at the sky with hazed vision while anonymous figures loomed over him; but he could hear, god, he could hear the shriek of tyres desperate for a grip on the road. He could hear Blair shouting, “bastards, leave him alone, bastards!” before the pop and zip of a taser silenced him. Jim wanted to shut his eyes, but he couldn't. He could feel himself getting lost in the jerk and pull of current through his body, they didn't need to shock him this much, he…
He could hear voices. Blair's voice, which scared him. Why would he be scared to hear Blair's voice? Maybe because Blair was obviously angry? “Duh! Sentinel, remember? God, he would have been wide open and your goons tasered him like he was some fucking rogue elephant.”
Jim struggled up out of confusion, because Blair wasn't supposed to talk about the sentinel thing in front of other people, he knew that, and with a rush, full awareness came, although not full control of his body. He opened his eyes, and then squinted against the light, not even that bright. Did they, whoever they were, know or had Blair turned the lights down? Of course they knew, there wouldn't have been any ambush if they didn't. Blair looked down at him. Blair's cheek and jaw were swollen and darkly bruised. He was spuriously calm and that calmness camouflaged the reeks of anger and fear about as successfully as cheap air-freshener in a neglected public bathroom.
Jim looked past Blair, into a room set up as an infirmary. There was a woman standing by, a nurse or doctor presumably, and a man, perhaps fifty years in age, wearing a nondescriptly professional suit. Jim forced himself to ignore the aches and pains of his body, the dizziness and nausea, and tried to take the measure of the man watching him and Blair. But even the action of trying to focus his eyes was too much, and he rolled over, barely able to talk, but immensely grateful when a bowl was placed to catch the vomit. Blair was right there, supporting his head, murmuring something meaningless and comforting. Jim was vaguely surprised that the vomit wasn't black, that he hadn't voided the desperate anxiety roiling in him. Finally he was finished and the woman removed the bowl, and handed Blair another. Blair helped Jim to take mouthfuls of gloriously clean water and spit away the last disgusting residue that coated his mouth and teeth. Blair's hands were cold, and gentle, and giving everything away to strangers with each careful touch.
“Mr Ellison.” Ellison. Nobody had used that name in years, not even Blair. Jim hadn't been able to break Blair of calling him Jim. Blair pointed out that it was still his name, albeit his second name.
The man's voice had a touch of New England accent about it; a pleasant voice, carefully modulated. Jim could imagine speech or drama lessons in this man's past. “How are you feeling?”
“I'll live.” Jim's voice scratched against his throat.
“Dr Levin agrees with you. You've been out for a while, though. Mr Sandburg was worried about you.” Blair perched on the side of the bed, propped on an arm which rested behind Jim's hips. Not a position that you could move from quickly, but a defensive stand in its way.
The man took a step forward. “I'm Donovan McMurtry.”
“Is that so?”
McMurtry grinned, briefly boyish despite the heavy crowfeet lines about his eyes. “I don't intend you or Mr Sandburg any harm, and I think you'll take in what I have to tell you better after some more rest, maybe some food if you're up to it. Not that you can tell, but it's about three o'clock in the afternoon right now. I'll come back in a few hours.” He left.
The woman, Levin presumably, approached the bed, medical mien firmly set. Jim lifted his hand. “No.”
“Mr Ellison, you've just regained consciousness after a very atypical reaction to electric shock, especially taser…”
“See a lot of taser victims, do you? Blair asked. He had stepped down from the bed, and stood between Levin and Jim.
“Not so very many. I would like to check Mr Ellison.”
“No,” Jim repeated. He leaned up on one elbow, and silently cursed the tremors that ran through his arm. Blair looked back at him, understanding, and turned again to the doctor.
“If Jim looks like he's in trouble, we'll let you know. Otherwise, you don't need to touch him.”
“I could call security.”
“You could.” Blair was about the same height as this woman. The two of them glared at each other, Blair's back rigidly tense.
“Delaying assessment of Mr Ellison's condition is not good medical practice – but I can come back later. If I must.”
“Yeah, you must.”
“I'll be back in an hour.” Levin retreated in good order, and Jim was damn sure that on her return she'd have reinforcements.
Blair came back to sit on the bed, careful not to jostle Jim.
“Hey. How are you?”
“Like I said – I'll live. You? Pretty bruises you've got there.”
Blair grinned lopsidedly. “They add colour. I guess that I'll live too.”
“Any idea where we are?
“Washington, I think. Or environs anyway. No windows anywhere I've been.” Blair's hand reached to cup Jim's cheek. Jim averted his head, not much, but the hand drew back. “Seriously. How are you? You were out for hours – I didn't know if it was a zone, or what the hell was going on.”
“I'll be better soon enough. I should sit up.” Blair moved to support him. “On my own.” Jim looked down – hospital gown. “Clothes?”
Embarrassment crossed Blair's face. “You lost bladder control. And they didn't know what was wrong with you so they just cut everything off. I'll see if I can get some scrubs or something for you.”
Blair went to the door. It opened at his approach – surveillance presumably. There was another man in a suit, big, stolid looking. Blair asked for some clothes, a light meal. The door closed.
Jim pushed himself up on the mattress. It was firm, covered with a plain white sheet. The room was one he'd never been in before, but familiar for all that. Windowless, antiseptically clean, bare. 'We need a few samples, Jim. This won't take long.' He was still weak, and what use would strength do him anyway? He'd been here before, and something rose from his chest to choke him.
“Jim?”
He forced the panic down. He'd been here before, he'd survived this. But he didn't have Blair with him then.
“I'm okay.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Come on, man, are you sure you should be doing this?”
“I'm sure.” But he'd done enough for now. He sat on the bed. Some tiny current pushed by the air-conditioning goose-pimpled the skin on his back left bare by the gown. Blair sat by his side, until the door opened. A man and a woman appeared, the man holding two insulated trays, the woman placing two bags – the bags that had been in the trunk of Blair's car - on the floor. The trays were placed at the foot of Jim's bed. They came and left in silence while the man at the door stood watchful and ready.
Blair grinned, although the expression didn't reach his eyes. “I think that we're supposed to be dangerous.” He lifted the top off one tray. “Institution stew, yum, yum.”
Jim sniffed the air. “I've had worse.”
“Do you want it?”
“Yeah, think I do. I'll take it slow.” He smiled at Blair, knowing that his smile didn't reach his eyes either. “There's no drug smell to it. Let's do the taste test next.”
A shadow crossed Blair's face, and Jim indulged petty satisfaction. That's right, Chief, he thought, let's see you work out exactly what you've got yourself into this time.
What they'd got themselves into this time – Jim waited with impatience and dread to see what McMurtry had to say. He picked at the stew and bread roll provided, knowing that he needed food but not really having any appetite. He pulled on the change of clothes that was in his bag. His own toiletries were gone, along with his wallet, and its store of cash and IDs. Blair went into the tiny bathroom and showered the old stink of fear and anger away. He came back in clean clothes, looking wilted and tired despite the freshening up process. He flopped into the vinyl covered chair by the bed and then glanced up when the door opened.
It was Levin, back almost on the dot of the hour that she'd threatened. McMurtry was with her.
“Mr Ellison. You look better. Although Dr Levin would be a happier woman if you'd let her confirm that.”
Jim said nothing, but he nodded briefly. McMurtry called back over his shoulder, “Come on in,” and another woman pushed a small trolley in. Jim shut his eyes, just for a moment. When he opened them, he saw Blair watching him. He shrugged.
The examination took perhaps ten minutes – pulse, blood pressure, reflexes, questions about how he felt. He answered it all cursorily. Levin left, and McMurtry stayed with them, shrewd eyes flicking between Jim and Blair.
“This will be a shock to you both, I know. But I abhor a vacuum pretty much the same way that Nature does and you, Mr Ellison, left quite a hole behind you.” McMurtry seemed quite comfortable standing. The authoritative ease reminded Jim of some of his army tutors. “Although we had to wait to catch you to be sure that you fitted the space.”
Jim said nothing. He looked at Blair, who was sitting uncomfortably in that ugly green chair, but keeping his mouth shut. Jim suspected that he was in observation mode. Fine. Let him observe.
“You, Michael Paul Jankowski and Andrew Jonathan Kershaw escaped Group 15's facility nearly four years ago. Are you still in contact with those gentlemen?” Jim said nothing. He could feel the way that Blair's eyes went to him and then dropped again.
“You said 'escaped'.” Blair's voice.
“Yes, yes I did, Mr Sandburg. Although admittedly I have only sketchy background to the situation. Mr Kershaw was very thorough about wiping everything that he could find. However, I think there's little doubt that Mr Ellison and his colleagues were responsible for the deaths of at least five Group 15 personnel. Quite aside from the destruction of property, and miscellaneous assaults.”
“What do you want?” So McMurtry had things to hold over Jim, quite aside from Blair's presence in this room, and Jim wanted to cut to the chase.
“I want your help, Mr Ellison, and in return I can make it possible for you to be James Ellison again, if you wish. I expect that your family would be delighted, especially your little boy.”
Jim felt unaccountably numb. He had a good memory, and even if it wasn't the best of memories in some ways, he clearly remembered his break-down in front of Blair when he'd first come back - “you and Robbie...Jesus. They could make me do fucking anything..." And here it was, the scenario that was close to the worst of his nightmares. Anything. He squared his shoulders, as far as he could do that sitting on the edge of a bed, and waited to see what 'anything' was required.
“What little boy?” That was Blair, speaking with sullen bravado.
“Mr Sandburg, so far I've judged you a man with a brain. Please don't disappoint me. Back in 2004, you visited Ms Plummer and her son, Robert. In 2005, young Robert was kidnapped, and then returned to his family, which included his grandfather, William Ellison, in circumstances that were never satisfactorily explained. At exactly the same time, one Alicia Bannister aka Alex Barnes escaped her secure facility in Oregon. No trace was found of her, although a physician who was studying her condition was found dead in a cabin also in Oregon. And no, we weren't watching you. Much of this was reconstructed after the fact.”
Blair shook his head.
“Why now?” Jim asked. “Why bring me in now?”
McMurtry shrugged. “As I said, we didn't know it was you until we caught you. One of my researchers noticed, let's call them discrepancies, between certain paper documents he had obtained, and the availability of the references contained in them in what was accessible to my computing division.” He tilted his head like a questing bird of prey. “And if something is there to find, my IT people usually access it whenever they damn well please. If you could see your way clear to letting us know where Andy Kershaw is…half my team want to sit disciple-like at his feet, and the other half want to burn him for witchcraft.”
Jim was patient with all of this; his restraint was backed by the deep numbness which still lay heavy on him.
“If you want Andy you'll have to find him yourself.”
“There are various methods of enquiry, Mr Ellison. What if I began my enquiries with your friend sitting in that chair?” Blair sat very still, but his heartbeat was a sudden thunder in Jim's ears.
“That would depend on what sort of enquiries you think might work,” Jim replied blandly.
McMurtry took a few steps forward, closer to the bed. Blair stood . McMurtry wasn't a tall man, but he was solid and armoured in his suit and his assurance that he stood on home ground. Blair, dressed in jeans and a sweater, looked very slight against that assurance.
McMurtry looked at Jim. “Nothing ever comes for free, Mr Ellison. But Group 15 - I didn't approve. I have my own reasons for what I do, but if you help me, my deal stands. You can be Jim Ellison again. You and your son will be let alone, although I have a feeling that various arms of the government will be enthusiastic about attending his high school career days. I suspect you'll advise him against picking up any of the scholarships that may well be offered him.”
“If I'm still alive to do that.”
McMurtry smiled. “I'm not throwing you to the wolves so I can get rid of an embarrassment. I can't guarantee your safety, but you'll be no more at risk than any other of my employees. Are you fit enough to travel to a small conference room down the hall? It would be a better place to discuss all this.”
Jim put his feet on the floor, and nodded. “Why not?” he said, all brusque acquiescence, as if he was dealing with some annoying lawyer from the DA's office.
“And where do I fit into all this?” Blair's voice was rough, and tired.
“That's something that I'll have to think about, isn't it now, Mr Sandburg. For what I have in mind, I could find a place for you, if I think you're suitable.”
The numbness was wearing off now. Impulsive anger urged that Jim should snarl 'no way in hell' but he kept his mouth clamped shut in front of the words.
“You're Mr Ellison's guide. He works better with your assistance, I believe. But for now, I think that he and I should have a private meeting.”
McMurtry gestured at the door, and Jim went ahead of him. Walking was painful. Sometimes the throbbing ache that ran all over him tangled into a sharp, electric pain that flashed Jim back to the taser current running through his body.
The building was anonymous, any office building, anywhere. Bland colours blurred across Jim's vision, the smell of nylon carpet and fluorescent light fittings soured the back of his mouth. The walk was short, the meeting room small and boring, with a laminate coated desk and metal chairs upholstered with coarse fabric – or was it just Jim's dislike of the feel of the material under his fingers as he pulled a chair up to the table.
McMurtry also sat, next to stand holding a laptop hooked to a projector. A folder lay on the table in front of him.
“I supervise an agency in Washington that carries out professional lobbying for anyone wanting yet one more foot in the door to the corridors of power.” Emotion – mockery – tinctured bland professionalism.
“Useful.” Jim kept his face still, but he could hear the weariness in his voice. “Don't you worry that you'll be traced back? It'd be quite the scandal.”
“The gossip I pick up is worth the risk. There are times when something small is all you need. You know how that works in police-work – those important details that put the bigger picture in focus.”
“I haven't been a cop for a long time, now.”
“No, but you haven't forgotten how undercover work goes. Your whole life is undercover. Would you like that to change?”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
McMurtry passed the folder across the table to Jim.
“Rasmussen and his cronies overstepped their boundaries.”
Jim grinned, mean and petty in sudden understanding. “You don't give a damn about me going undercover for you. I'm just a tool to needle someone else in the great inter-departmental rivalry game.”
A conspiratorial grin passed across McMurtry's face. “Yes, indeed. The abduction and coercion of a patriotic, even an heroic American citizen – it's a deep and painful needle. But I hope that you'll be useful anyway – and it would be proof that you're willing to let bygones be bygones. It would reassure some people – that and all the waivers and affidavits you'll be signing, that mean that you won't mention Group 15, and we won't mention things like the Steiner assassination.”
Steiner wasn't a good memory. Jim pushed it away. There were more urgent considerations.
“Don't you want to see what's in the folder?” McMurtry asked.
Jim flipped the cover open. He'd seen this document before – Blair's dissertation. Blair had left a copy for him, when he left. Jim had burned it. He'd never read it, until he was in Group 'care'. They'd had a copy, too, and they'd been interested in his thoughts on some of the information.
“I've seen this,” Jim said laconically. He supposed it was inevitable that there would still be copies around, and shut the folder and gathered it into his hands.
“I expected that you would have. It's an interesting document.” McMurtry sighed. “We can set you up with a cover story, put you in contact with the agency. Valerie Winick will supervise you, and you'll report to me.”
“What am I supposed to report?”
“Oh, everything, Mr Ellison. I don't expect you to worry about analysis. I have other people for that. But with your talents, I'd like you to keep an eye on my office as much as its clients. Valerie's had a bad run of luck recently – a burglary of her premises, the loss of a talented staff member.”
“Headhunted?”
“Not unless the Almighty was in need of a bright young wheeler and dealer.”
Jim looked at the folder in his lap.
“It strikes me that Mr Sandburg might have a place in this.”
Jim lifted his head to look McMurtry in the eye.
“No.”
“I reviewed some case-files for the Cascade PD. Mr Sandburg seems quite resourceful. I don't think that it's wise to underestimate him.”
“He's a civilian.”
“So are you, now. You'd prefer him to kick his heels in my custody? You might be in Washington a while. I think it would wear all of us down.”
“You're not worried that we'll run if you let us go together?”
“I have quite a big carrot to offer you. It would be much easier to ensure your son's safety with my backing.”
Anger broke like waves cresting a seawall. “I shouldn't have to bargain for his safety at all!” Jim's grip knuckled tightly around the folder he still held.
McMurtry ignored the shout, even looked sympathetic.
“It's not fair. But it's the deal.”
There were stress creases in the plastic cover of the folder. “I'm still not sure I want Sandburg in this.”
“We'll see. I think that's enough for now. I'll arrange for another bed to be put in the infirmary for now. I expect you'll both feel more comfortable in the same room.”
Jim neither confirmed or denied. He was escorted back to the room he woke up in, back to the hospital smell, back to Blair who was relieved and trying to hide it.
McMurtry headed for the door, but had one last remark. “If I arranged for a DNA test on the remains of Dr James Blair, would his DNA prove to be Lee Brackett's?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Did Miss Barnes kill him?”
Jim tried to decide if this was trap or olive branch.
“No.”
“Brackett never could leave well enough alone.” McMurtry left. Another hospital style bed was wheeled in as promised. Jim doubted that Blair would be choosy about the narrow mattress tonight. The bed stood there, a pointless barricade between them and anyone coming in the door, until Blair sat on it, facing Jim, his back to the doorway. He didn't look at Jim, or speak until after they were alone once more “That was interesting,” he said quietly, head still down.
“Yeah.” Jim's voice was steady, calm as the sea on a sunny day, but Blair's head whipped up as if he'd heard sirens.
“Hey, hey,” he said, and crossed the floor between them to insinuate himself tightly against Jim; one arm around Jim's shoulders, the hand of the other resting on his thigh. “It's okay, it's okay.”
Jim didn't make any reply. It sure as hell wasn't okay, but he couldn't tell Blair not to be so stupid, or hold a palm against the mouth uttering betraying, comforting words, because he was too busy shaking. The tremors weren't even gone before he pulled away.
“I spent most of the day resting. What about you?”
“You spent most of the day unconscious. There's a subtle difference.”
Jim took a look, a good look at Blair. He was still somehow wilted, the buoyant energy in abeyance, and Jim could feel himself sinking with Blair. He rose from the edge of the bed, indicating that Blair should stay where he was.
“I'll take this one.”
“Early for the jammies, isn't it? It's only early evening.”
“I'm tired. So are you. And I don't think that exploring the local night life is an option.”
Blair looked down at the bed, at the creased plastic folder which Jim had unthinkingly laid on the cover. “What's this? Your secret agent file?”
Jim hadn't even realised he'd brought it back with him. Blair took one look at his face and opened the folder. He read the opening words and said “Oh!” as if he'd unexpectedly crossed paths with a snake. He folded the cover back, like draping a sheet over a corpse. “You ever think about genies and bottles?” he asked Jim.
“Sorry.” Sorry for stupidly bringing the folder back, or sorry for getting them caught futilely trying to put one genie back in its bottle; Jim didn't really know which one he was apologising for. He wished that Blair would look at him, instead of at that damn folder but perhaps it was just as well. A glance was as near a touch with Blair, and Jim wasn't sure how ready he was for any more touching.
Days passed. McMurtry moved the two of them into a room more like a hotel room – still windowless, but comfortably furnished with two beds and possessed of a small but well-equipped bathroom. There were shower and shaving gels, shampoo, KY and condoms. Jim grimly considered the possibility that this hospitality was also experimental. He'd been trained to find the frequencies of surveillance devices, to differentiate between the smell of metal and plastic and to recognise the meaning of mixtures of scents. He knew the meanings of plenty of subtle scent variations, including how to read Blair's mood from his smell, as well as body language. Neither of them suggested pushing the beds closer together.
Jim spent his days in briefings, and some of both his days and nights anchoring his hearing to Blair's breathing as he followed sounds around the building. He had a map of the place set behind his eyes, coded by sound and echoes rather than colour, but clear in his head. For all the good that it did him. He and Blair were limited to one floor in the day, and their door was locked at night. Blair wasn't brought into the briefings Jim attended, but he had folders he had to read, background that McMurtry wanted him to be familiar with. Occasionally there were briefings that Blair attended without Jim. He and McMurtry left the building for these, which nearly panicked Jim the first time it happened. He was left with a pounding headache to replace the pounding of his heart, and chagrined speculation as to how much other information McMurtry might have besides what was in the dissertation.
Jim couldn't get a straight answer about why McMurtry was talking to Blair. Not that Jim couldn't guess the basics. From a government strategist's point of view Blair was the weak link. Civilian, academic, liberal, unpredictable. Emotionally involved with the operative that McMurtry wanted to use.
These kind of operations could take months, even years, but he almost hoped that McMurtry would decide that Blair wasn't up to it, that he was a liability better out of proceedings. That's why he's here with you in the first place, guilt reminded him, because you do so well at keeping him out of anything.
He sat on the edge of the bed in their quarters, reviewing files. He quite admired McMurtry's set-up. A knack for neat set-ups, neatly executed, was something that the Director shared with Rasmussen. Group 15's director been a man for careful organisation as well.
When the door opened, Jim was so relieved to see Blair that he almost didn't register the change that had taken place from when he last saw him. Then he stared.
Blair laughed self-consciously, and ran a hand through his hair – his short, carefully styled hair, now somewhat disarranged.
“Ah, come on, it's not that bad is it?” He made a beeline for the mirror. “The guy in the salon reckoned it took years off. Course, hairdressers have the patter down to a fine art.”
Jim finally managed speech. “You were gone a while. Flew you to some fancy Beverly Hills salon, did they?”
Blair continued examining his appearance in the mirror. Either that, or he was avoiding looking at Jim. “Nah, just downtown. McMurtry and me mainly spent the day in interesting conversation. And we decided I'd be more convincing in my role if I had something more GQ in the hair cut department.”
“You're in.”
Blair turned to face him at last. His face looked strange to Jim, framed by a deceptive halo of curls. “That always was the idea. I'm not committed to McMurtry's grand plan, but I am committed to you.”
“Should be committed, more like it. Did McMurtry managed to convince you that actually following instructions would be a good idea?”
Blair dragged off his jacket, hung it in the closet. “That tune's getting kind of samey. Know what I mean.?”
“Maybe you're not listening to it properly.”
Blair stood still. Then he smiled, knowing and unpleasant. “You're the guy who reads Kerouac, but me, I'm only a humble social-scientist, do some under-cover fugitive stuff in my spare time, and the metaphor's getting a little impenetrable. Want to illuminate me?”
But it was Jim who was illuminated, light shining on a truth that he'd known but just hadn't wanted to think about.
“You lied to me. You looked me in the face and you fucking lied.”
“So you just figured that out? I thought it was more like an obfuscation myself, because you didn't really think that I meant it?” Blair snorted. “No heroics, my ass.”
“This sort of job isn't about playing hero. It's about sticking to the arrangements.”
“Oh, sure, you've never improvised in your life. McMurtry seems to think we can do it.”
“McMurtry doesn't care about dropping the two of us in the shit!” Jim took one ragged breath. “How the hell am I supposed to trust…” He couldn't finish because Blair sped across the space between them and clamped a hand against Jim's mouth.
“Don't you say anything about trust to me. Don't even think about it.” Blair's hand was strong, but he didn't have the leverage. Jim was strong too, and he had a weight advantage which he used to pin Blair against the wall, because this time Blair was going to listen. He was not going to deflect Jim with flashing smiles, or jokes, or withdrawal, when Jim knew there was anger simmering behind the tricks all the god damn time.
“Is this payback, is it ? Leaping up to your neck into undercover?” Jim snarled, his hands tangled up in Blair's shirt. “I know I fucked up, but if you'd just done what I told you to, you wouldn't be here, you wouldn't have to put on a show for Donny boy and his crew. If you'd just run when I told you.”
Blair laughed in his face. “Oh, god, Jim, that's cute.” Jim knew that tone. Usually Blair was all earnest patience, or else sly amusement, when he dealt with Jim in a temper but sometimes he had to push back with temper of his own.
“Cute?” Blair ignored the deadly inflections threaded around the word, ignored the fact that he was crowded with his back quite literally against the wall.
Blair's face was bitterly amused. “We don't end up at cross-purposes too often, but when we do, we always do it in style.”
“Something funny, Chief?”
A finger waved in Jim's face. It was utterly infuriating, but Jim's hands were too busy pinning Blair to do anything about it.
“You've noticed that I'm pissed off. And you've made assumptions about why I'm pissed off, because you're Jim Ellison,” and there was still the jolt of panicked unfamiliarity when Blair used his real name like that. “You're Jim Ellison and you work in your own world view, and you feel like shit because you got caught and you got me caught along with you.”
“You got yourself caught.”
“I was there because you can't stand people having Group info.”
“You didn't have to be there. You didn't have to be here!”
Jim didn't know how to judge what was in Blair's face. He was smiling, but it wasn't any smile that Jim had seen before.
“Yes, I did, I did have to be here.”
Jim leaned harder against Blair. “What is that? Is that some more of that hokey karmic bullshit?”
Blair's head drooped, leaving it tucked against Jim's shoulder, Blair's breath close against his neck. “God, you are the most gorgeous moron I've ever met, you know that? I was never going to leave you behind, whatever you think you made me promise. I couldn't, Jim, I just couldn't.” His head lifted again. Blair looked at Jim, a bright, pure anger in his eyes. “Three years, when I didn't know if you were dead or alive, when I didn't know if I'd maybe done worse than murdered you, and you think that I'm not going to follow all the way on your coat-tails? Dream on.”
Jim suspected he might be gaping like a landed fish. Blair carried on. “You had no right to ever tell me to leave you behind, no fucking right at all.” His hand struggled in the tight no-space between them to reach around Jim's neck, and he rested his face against Jim's jaw. Jim couldn't say anything. He certainly couldn't say that he wasn't sure that he could do this if Blair was here. All the defences that served him with the Group were no use with Blair by his side, under his skin, something appallingly evidenced by the simple crush of Blair's shirt in his fist.
Blair looked up into his face once more. “It's not so bad. McMurtry's got something to offer as well as what he wants out of you. No electrodes or anything. Could have been a lot worse.”
“And what if it was worse?”
Blair smiled like a man who knows he's got away with something. “But it's not.”
“What if it was?” Jim repeated.
“It isn't,” Blair whispered, and used the hand around Jim's neck to lever them together for a kiss. Jim took what was offered, but when Blair began to squirm, when the smell of arousal rose in the air, he pulled back.
“Are you nuts?”
“No more than usual.”
Jim gestured at the room. “We're under surveillance, for Christ's sake.”
Blair shrugged and then turned his head to address the walls and ceiling. “Hey, McMurtry, the faggots have finished fighting and are aiming for some make-up sex. I don't know if that's your cue to turn the cameras and mikes up or down, but just so's you know.”
“Jesus,” Jim muttered. Blair's hand cuffed Jim's wrist to pull him over to the bed.
“Come on. Stress reliever and all that.”
“You are nuts,” Jim stated with absolute certainty.
Blair's eyes were wild. “They know what we are. They know how I feel about you.” His fingers were busy undoing Jim's shirt, and his voice thrummed low and uncaring of anyone who might be listening. Despite misgivings, Blair's mood was stirring Jim. He put his hands on Blair's scalp, ran his fingers through feathery tendrils rather than the familiar long strands.
Blair clasped his hands to Jim's head and pulled him down to an arched throat. Uncertainty still worried at Jim but he nuzzled gently at the offered skin. Blair's voice lowered to a whisper. “I don't care who knows. And maybe somebody might decide to underestimate the queers.” Jim drew back at that, to see a smile bright with lust and bravado.
“Man with a plan, huh?”
Anger spiked across Blair's face. One hand slid under Jim's shirt and gripped urgently. “You betcha. You've got good reasons to touch me. So touch me.”
Jim brushed fingers across Blair's nape and flicked without thinking at a couple of tiny bristles that hadn't been brushed away. Blair sighed and shuddered in exasperation and pulled Jim down with him onto the nearest bed.
“Just touch me,” he hissed, “and don't even think of trying to shut me out, Jim, don't even think it.”
It wasn't a question of shutting Blair out. Jim didn't need to, because everything about Blair was wide open, and that made it easy to give Blair the appearance of what he wanted; touch and kisses, and Jim's desperate breath panting into his ear, under the fragile wrap of concealing bed linen. But there was never a moment when Jim didn't forget where they were.
Jim barely acknowledged the small surge of relief when he heard the swipe of a card and the press of key pad buttons, and the opening and shutting of the door, but it was there anyway.
“Hey, honey, I'm home.” The kiss that Blair brushed over the top of Jim's head was free of satire, and then he was gone to the bedroom, leaving a whiff of deodorised sweat, laundry rinse and wool jacket behind him. Jim smiled and grunted, still immersed in his reading. The laptop screen was bright with text and colour, and the highly polished table-top was leaved into invisibility by the papers and magazines scattered around.
Blair reappeared, bringing with him moisture from the shower and the scent of his favourite soap and shampoo. He stood by the table for a moment, before Jim wondered why he didn't sit down, and looked up enquiringly.
Blair grinned. “I think this is what's known as role reversal.”
Jim shrugged. “I think you figured out I was literate at least a few years back.”
“Yeah.” Blair went to the kitchen. There was the sound of water flowing from the fridge dispenser and the clink of ice cubes. Blair returned with a glass and plonked it on a far corner of the table with less respect than wood or Swedish crystal deserved. He pushed at the pile of paper to try to clear a space, sending a noisy cascade of paper over the opposite side of the table.
“Shit. Sorry, man.”
“At least I was finished with them.”
“Okay, don't worry, I'll pick them up.” There was a pause, and then Blair's voice continued, “Gee, thanks, Chief, and I'll help because the good spirits forfend that I might not actually, you know, acknowledge your presence or anything.”
Jim sighed. “I usually get a more direct attack.”
“So I'm tired, and I had a weird day, and it'd be nice to talk to you.” Blair knelt to pick up the spilled items. Jim leaned down from his chair to help, watched as their hands mingled in the job of stacking and sorting before he returned his attention to the screen.
“That office assistant still trying to convert you back to heterosexuality?”
“Yup, and I'm treating her with all the disinterested courtesy appropriate from someone shacked up with a rich guy.” If there was any edge to Blair's voice Jim chose to ignore it.
“That would certainly make it a weird day.”
Blair gestured rudely. “Strangely enough, me ignoring the advances of a half-way attractive woman was not the weird thing.” He leaned forward, pulling at a black thong around his neck to display an oval silver medallion. The shape of a wolf howling to the moon was cut out and framed within the shape.
“Very pretty. But again, I'm not seeing the weird with you and jewellery.” Despite the fact that Blair mainly just wore the occasional finger ring these days.
“It's a wolf.”
“So it is,” Jim agreed. He book-marked another reference to follow up on.
“Spirit animal.”
“You're a spiritual man, Chief.”
Blair's hand reached out to none too gently shut the laptop screen.
“You're so damn uninterested here that I'm starting to wonder how many jaguar dreams you've had recently.”
There'd been a couple. And there'd been a golf course meet and greet with various men and women of influence, where one of the attendees had asked Jim whether he had children. His cover didn't. At the denial of parenthood, he'd seen a dark feline shape prowling behind a couple of golf carts. When he'd looked again, it was gone.
“One or two.”
“Interesting.”
“I'm trying to work here.”
“And I'm trying to tell you something. Come on, man, listen up!”
“So you bought a nice necklace.”
Blair laughed without humour.
“Yeah, I sure did. I guess I should be pleased it's nice, because I went shopping for it sort of compulsively. And maybe I'm a spontaneous sort of guy, but this was not comfortable. I just - needed it, or something. Not this, hell, didn't even know precisely what I was looking for until I saw it, but…” Blair rubbed it between his finger and thumb. “Definitely weird. Which is why I asked you about the jaguar.”
“The jaguar's being indirect, as usual.”
Blair's eyes were intense on Jim's face.
“And you don't wonder what it means?”
“It probably means trouble, but then, what else is new?” Jim said tiredly.
“Is Robbie okay?”
“So far as I know. I haven't dreamed about him, and when I think back about it, no news tends to be good news.”
Blair sighed. “And you'd rather think about your damn make-work than try and think this out.”
There was a sour tone to Jim's voice. “Excuse me for putting not blowing my cover ahead of you finally deciding to channel your spirit animal.”
“Better than channelling your father at his worst,” Blair retorted.
“Christ, give it a rest, Chief.”
Blair's face had flushed with anger. “That's what I want you to do. You live in your cover all the time, your 'hail fellow' cut-throat businessman, you read and research obsessively.” One hand was clenched in a fist resting on the table, the other kept fidgeting with the wolf medallion on its thong. 'Why don't you give it a rest sometimes? You can't control everything, you'll drive yourself crazy trying.”
“I want us to stay alive!”
“Keep eating those salad plates when you go out with all your rich cronies, and you'll have a reasonable chance of not keeling over from a heart attack.”
Jim stood up from the table. “Don't be naïve,” he said coldly. “Do you honestly think that the little pieces of intel that we pass on to our mutual friend are worth the shit-storm that's going to come down if we get blown as fakes?”
Blair leaned his head back, throat and jaw working, before he blew out one long breath. “No.”
“I think that maybe we're really here to draw someone out. We're bait, and we're expendable.”
“You think that McMurtry wants us dead?”
Jim shook his head. “Not particularly – but he won't care if we're collateral damage, either.”
“So?” Blair shrugged. “It's not the first time we've been staked out like goats. We go 'maaa-aaa' and look harmless, and when the tiger comes out the jungle, he gets a surprise.”
“More like the jackals,” Jim muttered. He'd learned more about the politics and finances of pharmaceutical and medical research companies than he'd ever wanted to know, and it still haunted him that he might give his cover away by some elementary mistake. “I don't want us being the ones that get a surprise.”
“Surprises are a given – if either of us were omniscient, then our lives would have turned out pretty damn differently, don't you think?”
“You might have thought twice about putting that white doctor's coat on.”
Blair crossed his arms. “Only if I could have thought of a better way of meeting you. You're stuck with me. Get used to it.”
“One of these days.” Jim recognised an opportunity for oblique apology. “Want a beer, now that you've had your plain water?”
“Sure.” Blair spared Jim the lecture on the symbolism of shared sustenance.
Jim went to the kitchen and returned carrying two bottles. When he came back Blair was watching him with a speculative expression. His fingers still played with the medallion.
“So, sweetheart, how was your day in the Winick salt mine?”
Blair pushed his glasses up his nose. “There's no need to be rude just because I called you 'honey'. The usual. I called people, I researched. Valerie complimented me on the handling of one client. My mother would disown me if she saw me in action.”
“You've always had a good line in earnestly persuasive patter.”
A small smile was badly masked by the top of the beer bottle.
“I prefer to use my powers for good.”
Jim sighed. “So do I.”
“Hey. It'll be okay.” Blair's expression was stubborn, a man who wanted words to be the same as truth and was trying to speak something into being.
“Yeah.” Jim sighed, and doodled cross-hatch frames around the names of a couple of congressmen and one senator who had links to a genetic research foundation. Said foundation was headed by a man who had, in a hospital somewhere, worked with David Tillotson, late and unlamented head of Group 15's science division. Maybe Blair was right. Maybe he could drive himself crazy trying to second guess Donovan McMurtry; but he wasn't going to stop trying any time soon.
Bad dreams. Too often, there were bad dreams that left him sweating, that woke Blair because Jim would cry out or flail in his sleep. Jim's sleep had calmed over the time in Phoenix, and it frustrated him beyond words that when he needed to be on his game that restless nights left him tired and foggy-minded. Assortments of old nightmares and new ones ambushed him all too often: the dreams where he found everyone he loved dead; looking down through murky water to see Alex's face stare at him out of the mud and slowly change to Blair's; Lee Brackett smiling at him, all sly welcome, claiming that he was the guide for Jim all along. The jaguar ripping out Robbie's throat.
He'd wake with clammy skin and a thumping heart, and this morning he was dragged into wakefulness with the extra complication of his feet tangled in the sheet. He kicked and pulled himself free and rolled over to stare at the ceiling. That dream. The first time, he hadn't been sure if it was a blue dream or not. Now he was sure that it was just (just!) a dream, and he didn't need Blair, Freud or anyone else to interpret it for him. He was still thinking about decisions that would have to be made after this was all over, and he had an inkling as to why he occasionally saw the jaguar from the corner of his eye, lashing its tail in irritation.
At least he hadn't disturbed Blair this time. The bed was empty. Discarded running clothes and shoes lay on the floor, and the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom shower stall. Jim sighed, and decided that he'd wait to see if the clothes got picked up before he blasted Blair for untidiness. The water was silenced – another rush of water, this time into the basin. Blair was a man for shaving with attention – “come on, man, with these bristles I need to look at what I'm doing”. Jim shut his eyes and listened to the hiss of the shaving cream, the rub of it onto Blair's jaw, the rasp of the razor. One very small, normal ritual, followed by the pad of Blair's steps into the bedroom.
“Hey.” He bent to pick up the clothes from the floor and Jim smiled. “Yes, I'm full of virtue this morning. Good karma flows.” One hand flowered into a meditation gesture around the bundle of clothes. The medallion still dangled from Blair's throat, resting in shiny contrast to the skin and hair of chest. He was nude, and Jim watched as he put the clothes into the hamper.
Blair looked at the mess of the bed. “Wasn't that just a little tidier last time I saw it?” He sat beside Jim on the bed. “You sleeping badly again?”
“Nothing that bad.”
Blair's finger ran into the crease between throat and shoulder, where Jim's skin was still damp with sweat.
“And that would be measured on your own personal stoicism scale?”
Jim took the hand, and licked the finger.
“I'm fine.”
“Yes, you are. And I would love to show you how fine, but we have somewhere to be this morning.”
“Ah, shit.”
Blair stood and started sorting through the closet. “Absolutely. Val's champagne breakfast.”
The five year anniversary of her company, and only the start of several promotions disguised as celebrations. Blair, openly employed by her, was expected to attend. Jim was supposedly invited as one of Val's trophy-clients who might see a chance to meet and mingle with useful people. Besides, it was Blair's observation that the well-off enjoyed a free meal as much as anybody.
Jim sat up creakily. He sniffed, and decided that the sooner he got into the shower the better. “I know. So have the decency to put some clothes on instead of taunting me with what I can't have.”
“Blue shirt or white shirt?”
“Why the hell are you asking? You know that Val thinks coloured business shirts are the work of the devil.” Upright stature was achieved, and Jim ran his hand through his hair.
“Blue shirt it is then.”
Jim held out a hand. “Not that tie. The darker blue one. And shorts. Jeez, I can remember a time when you were a damn sight more modest.”
“Wasn't modesty, man, it was consideration. I didn't want to overawe you.”
Jim grasped Blair's jaw, freshly shaved skin so smooth against his fingers, and kissed his lips. “Bullshit,” he pronounced and headed for the bathroom. When he emerged he dressed with care, and put on the glasses which were part of his cover. There was a real Scott Lawrie somewhere out on the west coast, and the two of them even had a passing resemblance to each other.
Blair pushed the frames a little higher up Jim's nose. “You know, one day I want to fool around with you when you're wearing these things.” That was strange enough to be startling rather than arousing; not that he didn't think Blair was cute in his own spectacles, but…
“Dare I ask why?” Jim's tone was long-suffering.
“I like how you look in them.”
“That so?”
“It's an interesting mix of stern austerity and flawed vulnerability. Kind of hot.”
“You're a sick puppy, Chief.”
“Woof! I'm a sick puppy who's going to be late. See ya there.” Blair's face changed from teasing to worry. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
"Go. You'll be late."
Val had a knack of knowing people who knew people, which Jim supposed was hardly surprising. Looking around the room as he entered, he could see that whoever was doing the decorating and catering was worth every cent (and substantial dollar) that Val was forking out. There was already a noisy buzz of talk. He was going to pay for this little excursion with a hell of a headache, even with Blair's presence.
Irritation rose in him. His father had been a clever and well-respected, even feared, businessman but all that Jim had ever seen was a terrifying boredom. His weeks of playing at businessman turned lobbyist had confirmed that he would have died doing what his father did. He smoothed his tie and squared his shoulders and stepped into the melee of people.
Some he knew, some he didn't. He nodded, smiled, stopped to talk about this and that. All around the atmosphere seethed with words, the scents of food and alcohol, and expensive cosmetics. Here there was earnest discussion of the risk posed by the production of generic drugs in India, there the pros and cons of stem cell research, and in one corner a quiet but very enthusiastic conversation about the talents of a high class call-girl.
Valerie Winick was across the room, engaged in talking with another woman, Alison Lindsay. Ms Lindsay, who had four inches of height and about six inches of hair on her companion ought to have physically overwhelmed Val, who was tiny. Jim had discovered that Valerie Winick didn't overwhelm that easily at all, and gave her one of the more genuine smiles he'd so far cracked that morning.
Alison Lindsay's gaze flicked to Jim when Val acknowledged him and then back across the room. Her face was full of amused malice. Chilled, Jim followed the direction of her gaze while he pretended to seek out some food. She was looking at Blair, and his hearing homed in automatically.
“Have you trained him out of coming on like a used car salesman, yet?” she asked.
Val was unruffled. “He never was that bad, Alison. And clients like to see a little enthusiasm.”
“You're quite sure that there won't be any ethical issues?” There was loaded emphasis on the word 'ethical' before Lindsay giggled. “You'd think that tall and butch could hear every word I was saying from the glare I'm getting.” Jim studied his plate again. Any gossip about the sexualities of Jacob Steiner and Scott Lawrie was the least of the ethical issues that might break like thunder over Val's agency.
“Jacob brought Scott's business to the agency. They knew each other way back. Jacob doesn't work on Scott's account, and all is sweetly businesslike.”
“On your part at least.”
Val had clearly had enough, as had Jim. “Indeed. Please excuse me, I need to check with the caterers about something.”
She passed by Jim, giving him a warmly professional smile. “Eyes on the prize rather than the prize bitches, Mr Lawrie,” she said softly.
“Yes, ma'am,” Jim returned. She was gone in a cloud of perfume that made the food he held suddenly less appetising; Lou Lou, if Jim guessed rightly. That had been one of the more esoteric pieces of training the Group had given him.
He turned back for a quick glance at Blair who was part of a group of people Jim didn't know. He was smiling as one of the party, a man, gave a blow by blow account of his squash victory. Jim passed by on that discussion, irritability coming to the fore again. He didn't belong in this throng that alternated between passably intelligent self-interest and vacuous self-aggrandisement. Watching Blair, Mr Counter-Culture in flannel, give a half-way convincing show of enjoying himself annoyed Jim all the more.
He was going to have to give his senses a rest. The continuing stimulation of noise and smell and movement was suddenly way too much, and the shivering noise as a tray of glassware hit the floor jarred him from the base of his skull to the base of his spine. He barely avoided putting his hands over his ears. There was a tiny lull of conversation around the accident, and a man's voice rose clear enough to be heard by nearly the whole room, “Somebody should have put a little more soda in his glass.” Jim caught a glimpse of a man's stiff shoulders heading for the door, and spared a moment's wish that he had even that embarrassing excuse to get the hell out.
And then Blair was by his side. “You okay, Mr Lawrie?” Jim sighed. Blair always in a suit and tie still didn't fit into his world view. He suspected sometimes that it didn't much fit into Blair's world view either, and that came out in the over-animated behaviour that the Lindsay bitch had commented on.
“I'm fine.”
“You always say that.”
Jim shrugged. Right now he wanted very much to pull Blair into a hug and just lean his cheek on that curly head – and wouldn't that give the gossip-mongers something to talk about. “Go mingle like a good employee. I might have to make my excuses.”
“Just go. I'll tell Val for you.”
Jim was tempted. And then the word 'group' teased at the edge of his hearing and he listened harder – but it was nothing important. Somebody bitching about the latest music group that his teenage daughter was driving the household crazy with. Completely unimportant, but it reminded him that he was supposedly here for a reason.
“I'll be okay.” He smiled at Blair. “Time to go 'maa-aa'.”
But he was right about having a bitch of a headache afterwards.
Blair had developed a habit of stroking or patting the wolf medallion, depending on whether it was available to his hand or covered by clothes. Whenever he did it, awkward questions seemed to follow. Blair wasn't letting go of the jaguar 'sightings' that Jim had admitted to.
“I've been thinking,” he declared, pushing his empty plate along the table.
Jim took a sip of beer, straight out of the bottle because he might like things tidy, but the ostentatious opportunities for gracious living offered by their apartment were wearing at something in him.
“I'm waiting patiently.”
Blair looked sceptical at this, but continued. “When you see the jaguar, it's not about warnings, well not precisely.” He quirked an eyebrow at Jim's sour expression. “Alex and Robbie are exactly germane to my point. The jaguar is about your choices, Jim, your direction, the fact that you're a sentinel. And take that look off your face, you scanned for bugs as soon as you came in this evening.” Blair took a breath “That whole business was sentinel central, man, you, Robbie, Alex. The jaguar is there for sentinel business, whatever that happens to be.”
Jim shrugged. “And who says that anything has to be about sentinel business?”
Blair's expression was a cat's with a mouse under its paw. Jim suspected that the mouse might be an idea as much as him because Blair's face had switched to 'great thoughts are brewing' mode.
“Ambivalence. You aren't so much the king of repression as you're the king of ambivalence. Which isn't exactly surprising because you've been into situations where your sentinel gifts have become liabilities rather than advantages – which is not how it has to be if people had a little more…”
“What?” Jim interrupted harshly. “Common sense? Common decency?”
Blair's head had been lowered in thought. Now he lifted it to look Jim in the face.
“What are you thinking about, that the jaguar has to come out and play? What's the choice?” There was something in Blair's voice that reminded Jim of Incacha; and also of the fact that Blair had thrown in his lot with Jim and deserved to know a few things.
“I've been thinking about what we'll do when we're finished here. When we're done playing secret agents for McMurtry.”
“Didn't know we were playing.”
“No, we're not playing. Although you don't always seem to remember that.”
Blair propped his chin on his hand. “Hmmm, I see zat you are attempting to change ze subject.” His fake German accent was very, very fake. In his normal tones he continued, “I don't ever forget why we're here. So that we have a chance at a halfway normal life, so that you can have contact with your family again. That's what we're here for.”
Jim stood. “Maybe not.”
“Maybe not what?” Blair asked stupidly.
“I've been thinking. Maybe when this is over – maybe getting back in contact with people isn't such a good idea.”
There was total silence for perhaps three full seconds, before Blair exploded.
“Are you fucking crazy?”
“Is that your expert psychological opinion, Doctor Freud?”
“No, it's my very personal opinion! Come on, you've got to be kidding me.”
“Why would I kid?”
Blair was rocking back on the chair legs in his agitation, his fingers steepled across the front of his face.
“Excellent point. You have a weird sense of humour but no-one ever said it was subtle.” Blair shoved the chair back from the table so he could stand as well. “Why? In words of one syllable, so I can understand.”
“How is me coming back from the dead going to be anything but one big disruption to their lives?”
“Too many people who matter know that you aren't dead anyway. How the hell can you not want to be in contact with Robbie?”
“How much have I been in contact with him up 'til now? And when I have it hasn't been the greatest of circumstances.”
“So what? You're worried that your exciting life experiences are going to affect your family? That business with Alex and Brackett – you saved Robbie, he would have been taken without you, without the sentinel gifts.”
“He wouldn't have been taken in the first place if it wasn't for the damned gifts.”
Blair rolled his eyes in frustration. “And we go back to the ambivalence thing. Jim, you're Robbie's father. What if Carolyn needs some help or advice? I'm supposed to not mention the fact that you could be there supporting your son? I'm supposed to lie for you?”
“You've lied for me before,” Jim said tiredly.
“Yeah, but intent counts. I don't think that I get brownie points for being pure of heart if I'm saving you from facing your daddy issues.”
“You sure that you're not having a few daddy issues of your own there, Chief?”
Blair took a long slow breath in through flared nostrils. “You are so lucky that I know you and I was ready for that little zinger, because otherwise I would pop you one and you would so fucking deserve it.”
Jim tilted his head to look at the ceiling, but all he saw was white paint and shame. “Okay. Sorry. But…”
“You want them to be safe. But how are you going to define that? People know now. People always know, there's always gossip and leaked reports and who knows what. And besides, it's not always about safety.”
“Now that sounds like something that you'd say.”
“And this sounds like something that you're saying out of stress and mental exhaustion. God, no wonder you're seeing the jaguar.” Blair's agitation was, if anything, increasing.
“So, what, I should wave to my spirit animal, say 'om' three times and everything will look different in the morning?”
“I've heard worse prescriptions.”
“It's not that easy.”
“Yes it is, easiest thing in the world. You don't jettison people you love.”
“Maybe I ought to stay away from him because I love him. You think I was carrying baggage way back when? What am I supposed to do now, for god's sake? Take him fishing and tell him stories about what Daddy did when he was a covert agent?”
Blair's face grew even more stricken, and Jim couldn't understand why. That Blair didn't agree with Jim's idea – that was no surprise, and Jim didn't know how to explain to Blair his fear that Robbie's life would be ever more a fish-bowl if Jim tried to get close to him. As Blair said, people gossiped, reports leaked. But there was something entirely different brewing within Blair's skull right now, and for the life of him, Jim couldn't figure it out.
Blair shook his head. “Man. I, I am going to meditate and I just want – I just want some peace and quiet. And then I'll come out and tell you in words of one syllable why you are wrong, wrong, wrong.” He was gone to the bedroom, at a speed that very nearly hit sparks off the expensive flooring, and slammed the bedroom door behind him.
“That went well,” Jim said to the air. He looked around. Nothing in this apartment was home to him, except for the man who'd just shut the door, and Jim was still stirred up with anger and frustration. Blair always, always did this – saw something that Jim didn't see, didn't even intend, and then got his panties in a twist. And maybe Blair didn't agree but that did not make Jim wrong, or worthy of being lectured like some sulky adolescent. He marched into the bedroom, ignoring Blair's startled look and exclamation, grabbed a jacket, his wallet and keys, and was out the door without a second thought – without any thoughts at all.
He wanted to drive- he'd used it as a soother, as a crutch before now, and in bitter irritation, he strode into the basement garage.
“Don't move.”
And , oh fuck, those were never good words to hear. He turned his head, slowly, to see a man, no two, both holding guns. One was comparatively young, still in his thirties perhaps. The other was older than Jim, and his grip on his gun would be slippery if the sweat on his face told any tale. Jim nodded at him gravely.
“Congressman Daley.”
The younger of Jim's two captors smiled, although strain showed in his eyes. “Told you that you should come, Ed.”
Bluff; delay; try to figure out exactly how bad this was.
“I'm at a loss here. I wouldn't have thought that Mr Daley would need to mug anyone to supplement his income.”
“You're very calm. But I wouldn't have expected anything else of you. Ellison. Put your hands slowly behind your back, so that the good Mr Daley can do his job.” Daley's job was to attach some plastic ties across Jim's wrist, a job he carried out in a nearly overpowering stench of anxiety. Jim could have taken him, no trouble, but the other man held his gun with unwavering competence. “Mr Daley will lead the way, and I'll be right behind you.”
Daley asked, “What about the other one, that guy from Winick's?”
“This one's the potential trouble.” Jim didn't miss the contempt in the speaker's voice. “I think we have enough on our plates right now, don't you, Congressman?”
Daley was walking towards the exit from the garage. “Stop calling me that,” he snapped.
“Sure thing, Ed.” No-name turned to move behind Jim. Something in the twist of his neck and the line of his hair across his nape sparked a memory.
“I guess that you were taking plenty of soda water with your drinks after all.” It was the man who had hurried away from Val's breakfast after bumping into the waiter with the tray of glasses.
“If I'd been tossing back the booze I wouldn't have finally remembered where I'd seen your face before.” They were coming to a navy blue sedan. “Open the door, Ed, where the hell are your manners?” Jim was pushed into the back seat, No-name climbing in beside him, the gun still held with steady assurance. Daley climbed into the driver's seat, and started the engine.
“You know my face. I don't know yours.”
“I know your name too, Jim. Let's just say that Basil Rasmussen has friends who remember him – in all sorts of places. Neat trick that somebody did with the computers, if a little frustrating, but I'm a great believer in hard copy, myself.” There was a blare of horns from a passing car. “Congressman, please try to remember the importance of road safety.”
“Shut up.”
“Then drive better.”
Jim's shoulders and hands were starting to hurt; the plastic cuffs were tight. “Where are we going?”
No-name smiled. “Somewhere there won't be a lot of listeners.” There was another whiff of anxious sweat from Daley.
Jim said, “If you don't like what's happening, Congressman, you are driving the vehicle.”
“Maybe he is, but I'm running the show. And if that worries Ed there, he should have paid either more or less attention to where one of his companies was investing. He lost plausible deniability as an excuse a while back.”
Jim considered options. He didn't have a lot of them, and they mainly seemed to tie into picking the time and approximate place where he died. He tried to judge whether these men would go straight back for Blair, whether No-Name would want Daley further implicated, and whether that would give Blair time to be at least be on his guard. But if he was No-Name he'd leave Daley to sweat out his reaction somewhere and get his 'cleaning' done straight away.
He was seriously considering trying to kick-attack No-Name. If he was shot – well, that was coming anyway. He might make life trickier for the bastards with his blood all over the car. Hell, the Congressman might even have an accident, mess up their little job of wet work. It wouldn't be impossible that he could get out of the car in the confusion. Not completely impossible…
He leaned his head back against the seat, one last moment of peace. “Sorry, Chief,” he thought. He could practically hear Blair's voice in his head.
There was no 'practically' about it. He could hear Blair's voice, somewhere behind him, masked by traffic and city noise. It was continuous, and worried. Downright scared.
“…possibly either completely insane, or else I'm channelling the wolf like whoa, and if I ever suggest to you that you should be more positive about your spirit animal manifestations you can hit me. Hard. Swear to God, Jim, you'd better be listening to me now, because I don't know what's worse, knowing that you're in trouble, or driving around DC streets talking to you because I'm a crazy man. So hang on, because I'm coming, latest in GPS, follow the sound of the howling wolf…”
Jim couldn't help it, anxiety and fear or no. He smiled because - Blair. Looked like nothing was ever going to shake him off. The smile earned him an odd look from No-Name, but that was fine. He had a surprise, and that surprise was going to have its consequences, difficult consequences. Jim chose to put that aside until he and Blair were out of this, and maybe, maybe there was a chance of that now, just as there was still a chance that he'd be dead soon.
They drove on into an area of industrial parks. Jim didn't look out the rear window. There were occasional breaks in Blair's monologue, but only occasional. Blair was in full flow. “I'm a ways behind, but I'm assuming I'm on the right trail, which is funny given the associations, know what I mean. I'm going to have to stop soon, man, stealth and all that, and I guess this is where we find out how much use all that gun range practice was, right? Wish I had your advantages for the night vision, Jim, I really wish I did. But keep an eye open for me.”
Daley pulled into the parking lot abutting a large and silent building. There were a few weak security lights, but not much else to suggest that the owners cared.
“I'll stay in the car,” Daley offered. “Keep watch.”
“Congressman, you can get out of the car and join the common man in getting your hands dirty. Metaphorically speaking.” No-Name's voice was irritable. “I don't expect you to shoot him because you'd probably empty the clip before you hit anything.” No-Name got out, indicated to Jim that he should squirm across the seat and get out the same door.
“Pity you're keeping your hair so short, Ellison. I might have kept a lock as a souvenir.”
“Souvenir my ass,” Jim fired back. “Dip a tissue in my blood when you've shot me. Should be worth about the same to the right people.” Somewhere on the edges of his perception he heard quiet footsteps. Blair, surely armed with a gun and probably handicapped by the hope that he wouldn't have to use it. If Jim could have beamed the warning into Blair's brain he would have – 'Don't try to fight fair, Chief. Just remember that you take out the most dangerous one first.' Blair was coming from upwind. Jim could smell him, the comforting scent askew with stressed sweat. He kept his eyes away from Blair's direction. No-Name wasn't an amateur, and Blair was going to need all the chances he could get. It was becoming a prayer in Jim's head. 'Don't try to fight fair. Just take him out.'
Blair's voice was quiet, but loud in Jim's ears, and just loud enough that No-Name stopped and stared into the darkness. “What's my target?” Jim's answer was to barrel into Daley, who loosed one startled shot before the two of them went down in a bruised, breathless tangle. No-Name whirled and then realised his mistake and turned back to point his gun into the darkness unlit by security lights. Jim lifted his head. He could see Blair now, sheltering behind a car, weapon held firm and braced. Blair pulled the trigger and No-Name went down even as he let off a shot of his own, and Blair was out of cover and running hard. He yelled 'Drop it,” as Daley scrambled up from his sprawl and confusedly wavered between aiming at Jim or Blair. “I said 'drop it'. Drop it, god damn it!”
Jim watched for a long, cold moment as Daley made his choices. Finally, his hand and arm trembled and the gun dropped to the ground.
“Take your tie off,” Jim said. His voice was encouraging, almost gentle. Daley didn't look like he was altogether present, despite the way his eyes followed Blair's approach. “Take your tie off, Congressman.” Daley looked like a bird hypnotised by a snake. He couldn't see or sense what Jim could – the sweat on Blair's face and hands, the reeks of fear and anger, the thundering heartbeat.
“What? Oh.” With shaking fingers, Daley took his tie off.
“Lie on your stomach, hands behind your back. Do it.” Daley obeyed and Jim sighed. “He's all yours, Chief.”
Blair approached warily, and then with quick deftness tied Daley's hands behind him. He stood and came to Jim. “You okay?”
“I'm fine. You got your Swiss army knife?”
Blair patted a pocket and smiled manically. “Hey, it's like a talisman. Never go anywhere without it.”
“That's great.” Jim turned. “Cut these off, will you?” It took a while, and Blair swore under his breath a few times. Jim rubbed the welts on his wrists and tried to roll out some of the stress in his shoulders and arms. It was as quiet as it was going to be in a city at night, and he felt a strange, detached peace, despite the man bleeding out on the ground and the other man lying still, with the scent of frightened tears beginning to rise from him.
“Are you okay?” he asked Blair.
“Never better.” The look Blair gave the men on the ground reminded Jim of the eye-rolling of a skittish horse. “What do we do now?”
“Got your phone?”
Blair reached into his jacket pocket and pulled it out, before he said with utter chagrin, “Oh shit.”
“What?”
A heat of shame rose from Blair's skin. “It's – uh, it's on.”
Jim patted his shoulder. “Then I guess that it's lucky that no-one needed to call you.”
Blair started to laugh and then choked it back. 'Yeah, guess it's lucky at that.”
There was a number they both knew – a number, not anything on speed dial. Jim punched it in, and when a woman's voice answered, he said, “This is Ellison. We have a situation.” He watched Blair all the while he talked, advised, questioned, confirmed. “Somebody will be here soon,” he told Blair.
Blair jerked his head towards No-Name. “Shouldn't we get help for him?”
“No need, Chief, he's gone.” That was a lie, but not much of one.
Blair turned his head away and leaned against the building wall. “Okay,” he said, and then sank to sit on the clammy concrete.
Jim sat beside him. Frigid damp seeped up from the ground, and he wasn't surprised when Daley said, “Can I sit up?”
“I don't think so, Congressman.”
“It's cold.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Blair was quiet, all talked out, or in shock, or both. Jim took his hand with some uncertainty; Blair had occasional, odd spikes of touchiness rise from his good nature, and while Jim had thought about this situation, they'd never faced it before. Hitting someone, acting in impulsive self-defence was one thing; knowing that you shot to kill was another. Blair's hand sat in Jim's, not denying the touch but not acknowledging it either.
“What's going to happen now?” Daley's voice again.
“Somebody very efficient is going to come and clean this all up, and take you to a nice warm office. You might even get coffee, before people start asking you questions.”
“No police?”
“I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. I don't hear any sirens, so I guess not. Your friend did say we were going somewhere where nobody would hear anything”
“I didn't want to be involved in this.”
Blair's hand unexpectedly gripped around Jim's. His voice was hoarse. “Could you shut the fuck up?” Daley did so.
They sat for a small eternity, ignoring the occasional glance Daley gave their clasped hands, until Jim heard car engines. “Move on back, Chief. Let me check these guys' credentials.” He let go of Blair's hand, stood, but Blair stayed just behind him. “You're still no good at doing what you're told.”
“Whatever.”
Jim stepped forward, hands out, as two men approached. Suits, ties, guns. The usual. He wondered if he and Blair were going to be part of the clean-up; a calculated risk.
“Ellison?”
“Like you don't already know that.” Jim gestured to the scene behind him. “It's all yours.
One of the men handed a set of several keys to Jim. “Take the blue Ford to house number three. Someone will collect you later. You know where you're going?”
“Yeah, I know.” He turned, gestured to Blair. “Time to go.”
For all the bored vigil on the damp concrete, Blair looked alert enough. “My car is parked about a hundred yards away.”
Suit-tie-and-gun guy shrugged. “We'll deal with it. You need to remove yourself from the scene. Now.”
“Fine.” Jim had a hand on Blair's shoulder. “Let's remove.” They got into the car, and Jim pulled away, the scene of the crime dropping away behind them.
“Number three. That's a way away?” Blair asked.
“Half an hour or so.”
Blair slouched down into his seat, his head turned to watch night dark and orange lit streets go by. He put the window down. “You don't mind? I need some air.”
“Take as much air as you need.” Jim meant it as a reassuring joke, but the rush of the wind in the car twisted it into something else. Jim shut up and drove, and was only half aware that Blair was fiddling at his collar. There was a flash of something silver and Jim realised that Blair had thrown the wolf medallion out of the car window.
“Chief?”
“I don't think I need it anymore.” Blair's voice took on sarcastically ritual tones. “I have internalised the wolf.” He ran a hand through his hair before cupping his hands over his gut. “Shit. Jim, I'm going to throw up.”
They were on the freeway. It wasn't particularly busy but there was traffic, there was always traffic, and Jim made his way to the breakdown lane with as much speed as was safe.
Blair shoved the door open and got out, standing in the chill air, breathing shallowly through his nose, as Jim climbed out to join him. “I, I…false alarm. I think.” The worst of the pallor left his face. “Let's go.”
House number three was indeed a house, small and nondescript and so ordinary that it would scream 'safe house' only to the most paranoid. Jim half expected to see McMurtry, or even Val, but it was quiet and empty, which suited his mood well enough. There were basic supplies – canned goods in the cupboards, tv meals in a freezer, plain shirts and underwear still in their wrappers in the drawers.
“Chief.” Jim pointed out the spare clothes out to Blair, who was sitting slumped on a bed. He stood, looked at the door which led to the bathroom.
“Sorry, man. I must be pretty ripe by now, huh?”
“Your stink isn't what's worrying me.” Jim judged this as good a moment to put his arms around Blair as any. “What's going on in that head?”
“Have I screwed up?”
Startled, Jim tried to look into Blair's face. It was hidden against his shoulder. “I didn't get made because of anything that you did. Whether McMurtry's got what he wanted or not, this is over for now. We don't know who else might know about us besides Daley and his friend. We won't be going back.”
“But did I screw up? I was trying to figure out if I could have taken both of them, but I…god, there were two of them, and you didn't even have your hands free, and what if McMurtry wanted them both to question? What happens if he goes back on his deals?”
Jim stroked his hand across Blair's hair and nuzzled his face against whatever skin he could reach. “What happened tonight – it happens. McMurtry's going to have take the rough with the smooth.”
Blair sighed; a long, tired sound. “Yeah.” He tried to pull away, but Jim didn't really want him to go, and tightened his grip. Blair tried to shift in his hold, and the touch of his body confirmed what Jim already knew. He was hard, and he cast one panicky look into Jim's face before dropping his gaze once more.
Jim kept his grip firm. “It's okay, it's okay,” he murmured.
“Like hell.”
Jim shifted his hands, tried to make the hold more reassuring than restraining. “You are not a pervert for being glad that we're alive, or for needing something to break up some of the tension.”
“This is spec ops wisdom, is it?”
It was easy enough to steer Blair back to the bed and push him down. He watched Jim with bright, hard eyes as Jim undid the waist of his pants, pulled material aside and down and took Blair into his mouth. He was clean, as Blair always was given the chance, but sweat was souring on his skin, the scent pooling in the creases of Blair's body, catching in the mat of his pubic hair. It didn't matter to Jim. Nothing mattered except the low moan that Blair made, and the taste and feel of him, the fact that Blair was there to receive pleasure from Jim and Jim was there to give it to him.
It didn't take long. Jim hadn't expected that it would. Blair's taste was still heavy in his mouth as he moved to lie alongside Blair, and caught up his hands to take them to his own belt buckle. Blair shuffled on an arm to move to return the oral sex, but Jim muttered, “Want your hands; please.”
“Subtle as a brick.”
Jim didn't care. “Little less conversation, Chief.” He enclosed the back of Blair's hand beneath his, pressed it against his own erection. “Touch me, come on.” So Blair did, and that didn't take long either, and the two of them lay in sweaty, panting disarray on the covers of the bed.
“Do you ever think about the fountain?” Blair asked.
“Not more than I have to.”
Blair jerked in Jim's embrace with what Jim realised was laughter. “Think about it now, okay?” He lay with his forehead against Jim's shoulder once more, and his voice was muffled.
“I'm thinking,” Jim said, and teased away hair that had stuck to Blair's nape.
“Is it just for you - for us, all the weird stuff? Do you think that there was a tunnel of light for him, or anybody who could have called him back?”
Jim didn't have to ask who was the 'him' of Blair's question. “I don't know.”
“No, neither do I.” Blair sighed, his breath warm against Jim's shoulder. “God, when I realised that Robbie dreamed about you, that first time I went and saw him and Carolyn…” He looked up at Jim then, an uncertain smile on his face. “I was maybe bitter and twisted over that. Jealous.”
“There wasn't anything to be jealous over.”
“I'm starting to figure that out now.” There was a cryptic bitterness to Blair's voice that worried Jim. “I'm not sorry I shot him. But that doesn't mean I don't wish it hadn't happened.”
“I know.”
“Do you love me?”
“You fucking know I do. You have to know that.”
Blair's hand curled around Jim's head. “I'm not – I just needed to hear it.”
Jim leaned up on an elbow and stared down at Blair. “Yeah, I love you.”
That Incacha sternness was back on Blair's face, an incongruous dignity to contrast against the rumpled clothes and bedcover. “You have to go and see Robbie and your dad, and Stephen. You have to, Jim.”
Bewildered anger stirred in Jim. “What is this? Emotional blackmail?”
Blair's fist struck at his shoulder in a quick, sharp blow. “No, it's just the way things need to be. You'll go see them.”
For a man who'd gone into the army, Jim sometimes had a perverse streak about obeying the orders of authority, and this was clearly an order. He seriously considered declaring that there was no way in hell, but the strung tension in Blair's body and the lines of his face disarmed him.
“If I'm playing happy families, you'd better be right behind me.”
Blair smiled. “I can do that.” He sat up on the bed, and a quirk of his eyebrows remarked on the state they were in. “Shower, huh? I think I'd rather face McMurtry and a debrief clean than dirty.”
His jacket was already on the floor, and pants, underwear and shoes and socks joined it, and there was Blair in just his shirt-tails. “Scrub my back?” he asked.
“I can do that,” Jim said, and watched as Blair went to the bathroom, Blair who had changed so much from that eager, nervous young man in a basement at Rainier, and was still the only constant that Jim truly needed.
Jim hated losing battles, even when it looked like he was going to end up on the winning side of the war. The last months had seen a fair number of lost battles rack up, such as Blair's involvement with anything to do with McMurtry's schemes, especially the choice of Steiner as a name for his Washington alias. That had been an unnecessary prod. The promise he made to Blair to follow up on his family still bounced on his guts now and then. The conversation he'd had with Donovan McMurtry - that rankled too, even though he'd known he was never going to win that one.
“You're being naïve and stubborn, Mr Ellison, and I might have expected one, but not the other.”
“I don't see why I have to testify. You have Daley, you've tracked down a heap of other people. Why me?”
Mc Murtry sighed. “I don't believe that I'm having this conversation. You will turn up at the enquiry. You will give your name, which will not be officially recorded. You will answer any and all questions, and then you can go away and do whatever the hell you want.” He eyed Jim with a look reminiscent of a shark, or a defence attorney. “You are going to get to keep your 'investments' after all.”
“If I wanted to try for compensation I could maybe claim a lot more. Plus Blair could claim for the unauthorised use of his intellectual property.”
“The government could claim that abduction and duress does not completely extenuate theft, espionage and murder. If we let it get that far. Why don't we just stick with the win/win situation here?”
Jim's definition of win/win didn't include this conference room, peopled by grim-faced men and women; the walls were flanked by blank-faced but alert security people. There was a highly unlikely combination of jammers and surveillance devices everywhere and that, he knew, was going to give him a headache. He hated every moment of it – announcing his name, even if it was going to go down in the official record as witness number whatever. He sat at a bare table, telling a small section of the world that James Ellison was captured and used, that he escaped and stopped being James Ellison for a while. He told people who observed him with varying degrees of sympathy, disbelief and dislike that he was a freak, that his genetic material had been studied and experimented on, in total defiance of his government's public stances on these issues.
He listened as his integrity and abilities were openly debated in front of him, as McMurtry defended his own actions and the offers he had made to Jim. He thought that Blair might find it amusing how many of McMurtry's arguments had been made by Blair and Jim in previous discussions and arguments. And then he left, knowing that everything he had said would be either never noted down, or might sit in archives for years and years covered over like a plague pit, courtesy of any number of interesting laws.
He felt tired and dirty, and walked past more secret service types to a small lounge, where he knew that Blair was waiting for him. Blair wasn't alone. He sat next to a woman who was saying, “People have to realise that we're at war, especially since 9-11, any great power is always at war if it wants to stay a great power. And knowledge is power. That's a fundamental idea.” He recognised the voice before he recognised her face – she'd put on some weight, lightened her hair to ash-blonde tonings. Blair's face was marked with a briefly unidentifiable emotion; Jim wasn't used to seeing contempt for anybody from Blair. The woman looked up, saw Jim and stopped in mid-flow, her mouth gaping and her face red.
“Dr Ames,” Jim said. “Time to go, Chief.” Blair stood as the contempt melted away to a welcoming smile. Jim put his hand on his shoulder, while a small, wicked flare of satisfaction lit his chest at Ames' further discomfiture. Jim flicked his index finger to his forehead in ironic salute. He wondered if McMurtry had arranged this on purpose, or if it was merely happy coincidence. He kept his hand on Blair's shoulder, as if he was a blind man seeking guidance, and the two of them made their way out of the building onto the wet, windy street outside.
“Fuck, but it's cold,” Blair said.
“Better than the summer here, though.”
“So what do we do now?”
A loaded question, but Jim decided on the short-term, easy answer first.
“Lunch.”
“The Greek place.”
“Okay.”
Blair's voice was falsely casual, and very quiet. “I see that Congressman Daley's retired. Health problems.”
“He'll be dead in six months.”
Blair's eyes opened in wide surprise. “What, you mean he really is ill?”
Jim raised his eyes to the skies in exasperation, and a certain amount of pleasure that Blair could still be that clueless.
“Not exactly,” he said, and watched comprehension whiten Blair's face. He wasn't prepared for Blair's grip in his coat as he was pulled to the edge of a doorway.
“You mean that Donny-boy will set that up?” Blair whispered anxiously. “What's to stop the same thing happening to us?”
Jim put a comforting hand on Blair's shoulder once more and lowered his head to speak softly into Blair's ear. “Because McMurtry keeps his deals. We're one way of making a point. Daley is another, and if he was too stupid to get specific assurances, then it's his own damn fault if his brake-line fails some sunny morning.”
Blair's face was still horrified. “All of a sudden, I'm not that hungry.”
Jim shrugged. “I am. C'mon, you can always watch me eat. At the least we should toast to the fact that I'm a real boy again.”
Blair shuddered with more than cold under the wrapping of his coat. “That's an analogy that doesn't leave many flattering spots for me. Jiminy Cricket is about as good as it gets, and I don't know that he's that good.”
“Always let your conscience be your guide.”
“You have a sick sense of humour, Jim.” Blair's voice was fond, but Jim knew that the last minutes' revelations weren't truly put behind him, only ignored.
Jim had promised that he wouldn't listen in. It was a genuine promise and one that he'd keep, but that didn't mean that he wasn't going to hang around the apartment and check Blair out straight afterwards. He really wasn't sure how Naomi was going to deal with the impending news of her mother-in-law status. He sighed. He hadn't exactly been a mad success in the relationship with Jessie Plummer, if it came to that. He could like Naomi, had liked her, but history was going to cast a long shadow.
He and Blair had gone shopping in a second hand bookstore recently, and Blair had smiled approvingly at Jim's purchase of a solid, hard-cover book. Jim accumulating belongings had an almost mystical status to Blair, although he'd raised an eyebrow at the title – 'The Nobility of Failure'. “Asian studies,” Jim had told him. He managed a fair chunk of it while stretched out on the bed, before Blair's head poked around the side of the door.
“Mission accomplished.”
Jim put out a hand. “How'd she take the news?”
Blair came in, and leaned against the bureau, arms crossed over his stomach. “She was surprised.”
The laconic reply meant that the mother and son conversation hadn't gone well. Jim gestured again, and Blair came and flopped beside him on the bed, face turned to watch the ceiling.
“The thing is, the thing is that…”
“The thing is what?”
“Psychologically speaking, it's all fairly easy to explain.” Blair's hands gestured but no explanation was forthcoming.
“Personally speaking, it sounds like it was a tough conversation.”
“It's not as if Mom doesn't understand that I couldn't tell her the truth. It's your life we're talking about.”
“So she understood – but?” Jim was leaning over Blair, and finally Blair took his eyes away from the ceiling and turned them to Jim's face. He looked tired.
“I'm getting close to forty. It shouldn't be so hard for her to understand that I've got other loyalties. Grown man and all that. But I feel guilty for lying to her. And she feels guilty for precipitating all the shit in the first place”
Jim cupped Blair's cheek.
“It wasn't her fault, any more than it was yours.”
“Than it was solely mine – my fault I mean. And anyway, I practically accused her of murdering you – that big bust-up we had when everybody thought you were dead.”
Jim had suspected that the famous 'bust-up' might have involved something like that, but he was still shocked by the confirmation. “Shit, Chief, way to make me the skeleton at the feast.”
Blair shoulders shrugged against the mattress, the left one bumping against Jim. “I was in a bad headspace back then. And you're a good-looking skeleton at least.” He turned towards Jim, seeking warmth, and maybe an end to the conversation.
“I promise to jangle very politely,” Jim said. It sounded stupid, but Blair tilted his head to smile so that Jim could see it.
“I know. And Mom will be fine once she's done some of that patented Sandburg processing. It'll take a little time, that's all.” Blair put his arm over Jim's ribs, and insinuated his head under Jim's chin. Definitely the cue for 'talking over', but now that Jim had him as a captive audience he decided to get all the tough stuff over at once.
“You're sure you won't come with me when I go to see Dad?”
“Jim. We've had this conversation.”
“So we can have it again.”
Blair twisted to lie on his back again. “Speaking of skeletons at the feast – Bill may have made the grand gesture and accepted that we're together, but I'd be a complicating factor at the big reunion scene. I'll come to Cascade with you, you can bitch or celebrate with me afterwards, but I don't think that it's appropriate for me to be there.”
“Even if I want you to?”
“If it goes well, then you won't need me. And if it goes badly, I'd just lose my temper and make the situation worse.”
“Blair…” Jim couldn't deny the little thrill he got at being able to use that name without guilt or looking over his shoulder to see who might be watching or listening. There was a tiny relaxation in Blair's neck muscles as he lay against Jim's arm that warmed him, even as they both tried to negotiate an emotional minefield.
“Jiiiimmm.” The whine was tease and request together.
“Okay, okay. I have to handle this mission on my own, but you'll be present for the debrief.”
Blair's mouth quirked.
“You have a dirty mind, Blair Sandburg.”
“Like that's a surprise.”
Going back to Cascade, together, was exhilarating and uncomfortable at the same time. They'd discussed maybe contacting Simon but decided against it for now, which meant that getting to know Cascade again was done discreetly and mainly from the inside of a car, or from spots with clear visibility, like Chiang Kai-shek Park.
“Do you think we should maybe come back here?” Blair asked.
“What, to live?” Jim looked around the cityscape – Chinatown, and the other buildings and city precincts beyond. “It's tempting. But it'd be too easy for the media to poke its nose in about the return of the home-town hero, and I don't see that as an option.”
“Between my innate modesty and your company, I think I'm safe enough.”
“Yeah, you're safe.” Blair patted him on the back. “Which glow of nostalgia comes next?” There had to be a tube-steak stand in there somewhere, despite Blair's protests.
The drive to his father's house was not lit with any nostalgic glow. He'd visited here a few times after the Foster case – courtesy calls as much as anything, sitting around with his father and Stephen too, sometimes, drinking a beer, or coffee, and making small talk about sports or local politics. Sentinels and Blair Sandburg were not ever on the agenda. When Jim pulled up outside, he pulled his cap brim down and went up to the door with a sense of climbing the steps to the gallows, rather than celebrating his resurrection. Berating himself for being stupid, reminding himself that there was nothing to stop him just walking away if the situation got awkward, he rang the doorbell with more force than was strictly needed.
The door opened, and there was his father – gaunt, white-haired, and very nearly as nervous looking as Jim felt.
“Jimmy. Come in, come in.” The hall had been repainted since last Jim saw it. “I ordered in some cake from Odette's. Not a patch on Sally's but she deserves her retirement.”
“How is Sally?” Jim latched with relief onto a safe topic.
“Keeping in good health last I heard. We catch up for Christmas and so on. I'm hoping to be able to tell her the good news about you, soon.”
“Yeah.” His father ushered them into his den, which didn't surprise Jim. Damn house always was more a showplace than a space for living.
“You could have knocked me down with a feather when you called. You have to tell me all about everything.”
Jim settled himself in an armchair opposite his father – solid wood and leather which received him with the dignity he'd expect from a chair in his father's house. “Well, that's going to be a problem. I can't exactly tell you everything – or anything much either.”
Bill rolled his eyes. “You've come back from the dead and it's a miracle?” he asked.
“Not quite. After my truck crashed I had a concussion. I developed traumatic amnesia, hitched a ride with a trucker, and wandered around for a while. And then gradually I healed, but it took a while and I was worried about coming back and disrupting your lives. But here I am now.”
“Son, that's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard. Who the hell put that together?”
Jim grinned. “Blair and me, and somebody whose name I'm not at liberty to mention.”
“And that's it?” Bill asked angrily. “Years out of your life, and mine and your family's, and we get amnesia as an explanation?”
“It's as good as it's going to get.”
“Well, it's not good enough!” There was a time when William Ellison would have risen and paced through this declaration. He would have got on the phone, and harangued people, and Made Things Happen. And now he sat in his big leather chair, an impotently angry old man.
“Dad. It's going to have to be good enough. It has to be, you understand? I've signed about a billion documents and affidavits and waivers, and I'm Jim Ellison again, and that's that.”
His father did stand then, hands doing much of the work to push him up. “Maybe it is, but I do not have to like it.”
“Nobody likes it, Dad.”
Bill took a breath. “How's Blair?”
“He's good.”
“He didn't come with you?”
Jim shrugged. “Blair thought that this was Ellison family business.”
“Did he now? More tact than I'd have expected out of that young man.”
Jim refrained from suggesting that his father wouldn't know tact if it bit him on the ass, and desperately looked around the den for something else to talk about. His eyes lit on several shelves of memorabilia – photographs, and a few trophies from his own school days. He stood to take a closer look.
“Hey, are some of these of Robbie?”
Bill turned, willing to accept the easier conversation. “Yes, yes, they are. He's the spitting image of you. I've got an album somewhere, Carolyn put it together for me.” He opened a drawer in his desk, and drew out a blue covered book. Jim looked at it. Of all the things he'd considered happening today, somehow he hadn't factored in looking at his son's baby-pictures with the proud grandfather. He put his hand out, when he realised that the car he'd registered coming up the street had stopped outside. Without thinking, he moved to the side of the window to cautiously peer out.
“Expecting visitors?”
“No.” Bill moved straight to the window, and Jim bit back a rebuke. McMurtry had promised, and if he didn't have faith in that promise he never should have come here. “Oh, he would have to pick today to be the dutiful son.” The doorbell rang.
“It's Stephen?” Jim could feel panic rising.
“That's his car.”
“Shit.”
Bill put a hand on Jim's arm. “He has to know eventually.”
“But…” Jim could think of nothing to say that wouldn't sound stupid. 'I'm not ready yet,' rose to the fore. The bell went again, and this time it was annoyingly shrill.
“If I don't get it in about thirty seconds he assumes I'm damn well mouldering somewhere in the house. Can I tell him?”
Jim shut his eyes. “Yes.”
Bill shut the door of his den. The bell had time to ring a third peal before Stephen was let in. Jim sat on the top of his father's desk, and leafed through the pages of Robbie's album. Pictures of a baby, a growing child, and he'd missed so much. He heard raised voices, but chose not to sharpen his hearing, until there was the sound of quick footsteps, and the den door burst open. Stephen.
“I don't believe it!”
Jim put the album down. The muscles of his face grimaced in a very unconvincing smile.
“Hey, Stevie.”
“Holy shit! You bastard!” And then his brother very nearly fell on him, not with blows, but with an enveloping and breath stealing hug. Jim put his arms around him. Stephen was shaking, although he wasn't crying, but his breath sounded as if he was running a marathon. Bill appeared, looking red-faced and flustered. Jim looked at him over Stephen's heaving shoulders, and said, “I think we might need something stronger than coffee here.”
Bill took a long breath in. “I think you could be right.”
Jim had his butt on the couch and his sock feet in Blair's lap. It didn't help his thinking but it was a reassuring place to be while he tried to figure out his plan of action for meeting his ex-wife and his son once more
.
“I'm trying to think what to do with him. And do you think I should get him something? I have a lot of Christmases and birthdays to catch up on.” He paused. “What the hell do I get a ten year old boy anyway? That won't lead to problems with his mother, because I'd like to at least try and start this thing without an argument?”
Blair looked like his face hurt – perhaps because he was trying to turn down the wattage on his amused expression. “First, Jim, you haven't even contacted them yet. Second, you're babbling. Third, nothing too expensive because I get the feeling that Carolyn doesn't like it when Bill spends the big bucks, and I'm pretty sure that you don't want to make your father's mistakes.” Jim glared. “Low blow, sorry. What about a fancy book? Robbie strikes me as a reader. Dinosaurs. Ancient Egypt.” He shrugged at Jim's quizzical expression. “Come on, man. Mummies. Canopic jars. Brains hooked out through the nasal cavity. Kids love that sort of stuff.”
Jim took a couple of sips of coffee. Maybe some caffeine might calm his nerves – as if. “If I timed you, you would have spoken at least twice as long as I did, and I was babbling?”
“It's all relative to the respective personalities. And I don't think you need to worry. Robbie will be happy enough with you two going to a park and throwing a football around.”
“He plays soccer.” And even Jim had to admit that the mourning that entered his voice was out of proportion to the cause of grief.
Blair lowered his head, and covered his face with a palm. Then he looked up again, and shook his head. “Then you can kick a soccer ball around, and he can give you some pointers.”
Maybe some of the genuine panic that Jim felt had made its way to his face, because Blair noticeably sobered, and rubbed a hand soothingly up and down Jim's shins. “It'll go fine. Maybe it's never going to be the usual sort of father-son relationship, but it'll be fine. Written in the stars, man, I promise.”
It should have sounded like nonsense, but there was a warm comfort in the assurance. Except that once again, there was an undertone of sadness that Jim didn't know if Blair noticed. He'd accepted Blair's insistence that he not be present when Jim went and saw his father and Stephen, decided that he might even have been right. He doubted that Stephen would have welcomed any extra audience to his spectacular collapse when he saw Jim again. But Jim noticed tiny hints that Blair was looking to weasel out of the eventual visit to Robbie and Carolyn, and Jim didn't know why. He aimed to find out. But first, he had to contact Carolyn, talk to her; and talk to Robbie.
“Where did you put the phone?”
Blair wriggled out from under Jim's legs and feet and grabbed it off the top of the table. “Here. So what happens to that mighty sentinel vision, huh?”
“It gets confused by your inability to put the phone down in the same place twice.”
“Here. Call them.”
Blair dipped to put the phone on Jim's lap.
“You're disappearing?”
“Father and son reunion. It'll be a beautiful moment and you don't need me snorting sentimental tears into a tissue. I'll be back later for the review.”
“Blair…”
“I am gone, man.” Blair turned to give Jim a winning smile while he shrugged on a jacket. “Have fun.” He was out the door.
“Yeah. Fun.” Not that Jim and Carolyn didn't get along well enough after the divorce, but Robbie was going to complicate things. Jim pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and called Carolyn's number.
“Hello?”
“Carolyn, it's Jim. And no, this isn't a joke, and yes, everything is okay.”
“Jim?” There was silence on the other end of the line, or there would have been silence to anyone who didn't have sentinel hearing. The thud of Carolyn's heart beat into Jim's consciousness, and he realised that in his nervousness he was listening far harder than he needed to.
“Honey, are you okay?”
“Oh my god. Jim. It's really you. Nothing's wrong?”
“Everything's AOK. How are you?”
“In a state of shock right now. There really isn't any - trouble?”
“No more than there ever was with you and me.”
“Oh, that much.” There was a twist of humour in Carolyn's voice, which flattened out as she said, “Jimmy, don't take this the wrong way, but why are you calling?”
Now why would he take a question like that the wrong way? But he supposed he couldn't blame Carolyn, not given the circumstances of their last meeting.
“I'm not in hiding anymore. It's a long story and I can't tell you any of it, but I'm Jim, Jim Ellison again. I've got - a patron. Someone who's going to keep the worst of the jackals away.”
“I see.” There was a thoughtful tone to Carolyn's voice. Nobody, least of all Jim, ever accused her of being slow-witted. “And you want to make contact with Robbie.”
“Yeah, I do. He's my son, and I want to see him.” The demand came out more belligerently than he'd intended. He swallowed. “That came out a little rough there.”
Carolyn sighed. “This is maybe a rough conversation.”
“Yeah.” Jim shut his eyes before he asked, “Is he there?”
“He's in the shower right now, but I guess, I guess I can call him when he's finished. So this probably means that he won't sleep tonight.” There was a pause, and Jim was just about to break it when Carolyn said, “Jim. I know that you'll want to see Robbie. And god knows that if I can cope with your father I can probably cope with you. But I think that we need to work out some serious ground rules, and I don't think that right now is the time to do it. So don't make any particular commitments or promises to him tonight, okay?”
“How much of a commitment are we talking here? I'm not dicking around about wanting to see him.”
“I know, I know. But let's not talk dates or places until you and I have had a chance to talk together.”
“Okay.” And then Jim's heart nearly stopped, when he heard Robbie's voice. “Mommy. You okay?”
Carolyn's said, “I'm fine, kiddo.”
“You don't look fine. Is the phone-call bad news?”
Jim swallowed back what felt like the entire contents of his chest.
“No, honey, it's good news. Really good news, but it gave me a shock. It's your dad.”
“Dad?” Robbie's voice squeaked.
“That's right. Here, sit down.”
Jim thought that he might be deafened by his heartbeat drumming in his ears. Then Robbie's voice spoke into the phone.
“Dad?”
“Hey there, sport.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything's great, Rob, everything's great.”
“Oh.” That wasn't quite the way Jim had hoped things would go. Early days, he told himself, early days.
“Everything's really okay?”
“Yeah.” Jim was not going to lose control of his voice. He was absolutely not. “Everything's really okay.”
“Okay, then.” Robbie's voice sounded surer now.
“You remember how you asked me if I could ever come and see you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I can now.”
Robbie's shriek of “Woohoo!” nearly cracked Jim's eardrums, or so it seemed. The ringing sensation was somehow salved by the enormous smile that was nearly hurting Jim's face.
“When?” Robbie asked.
“Soon, sport. But I have to work things out with your mom, right? This is a big change for all of us.”
“But you will come soon?” The voice was quieter, but the anticipation practically blasted out of the phone, and Jim spared one tiny moment of amused pity for Carolyn.
“Soon. I promise.”
“All right!” Not so quiet a voice anymore. Then Jim could hear Carolyn asking for the phone back.
“Aw, Mom,” Robbie whined.
“Now, please.”
“I gotta go, Dad.”
“That's fine. You don't want to get me in trouble with your mom, do you?”
“As if,” Robbie declared. Jim considered the future, and just how much trouble he could get in with his ex-wife, and sighed.
“Jim?”
“Let me guess. Time to say goodbye and for us both to process.”
“You're still with Blair then.” It wasn't a question.
“Yes, I am. Is that going to be a problem?” Too bad if it was, but this was one potential battle that Jim had no intention of losing.
“No more than it ever was.” The amusement had come back. “How can I get hold of you?”
“Things are still kind of unsettled. But I can give you my cell phone number.” Jim waited what seemed like a very long time while Carolyn hunted for pen and paper. “Robbie, you still there?” he asked, very quietly.
“Mmm?” came back the non-committal answer.
“Your mom's close to you, huh?”
“Mmm,” came back in a recognisably resigned tone.
“See you soon,” Jim managed, before Carolyn returned, and he rattled off the cell phone number. And the call just - ended, and Jim sat on the couch with the phone, holding it gently in his palm as if it were the living warmth of his son.
He didn't know what he felt for a while. Happy, terrified, anticipatory. Finally he put the phone down. There was something huge swelling in him. His eyes stung but he wanted to jump for joy. He wanted to kiss Blair, and maybe a lot more, except that Blair was nowhere nearby. He stood up, and let his feelings vent in one double punch to the air and a shouted, “Yes!” And then he wiped his eyes and sat down to wait for Blair.
It took a while, which gave Jim a chance to think. Not about Robbie – he didn't need to think about Robbie, any more than on one level he needed to think about Blair because they were both constant presences to him. But there were some things about Blair that he wanted to consider, and Blair's continuing skittishness about Jim's contact with his family, contact that Blair had insisted on, was one of them. He sat on the couch, hand pressed to his mouth in thought, and when he heard Blair come in Jim had a plan.
“Hey. Exciting trip out?”
“Oh, yeah. Went to the library, bought socks and underwear, had wild, monkey sex with my secret lover.”
And thank you for the lead-in, Jim thought and patted the empty space beside him on the couch.
“You're a terrible liar. Come and sit down here, monkey man.”
Blair scratched under an armpit. “Ook-ook,” he said agreeably and complied. His eyes scanned Jim's face, and some lines that had barely been tense relaxed. “So whatever happened, it went okay?”
“Carolyn wasn't exactly singing hallelujahs, but she's okay with it. I think. We're going to take a break for her and Robbie to get over the shock, and then we'll figure out the details. When and where, all that.”
“And Robbie?”
“He was good – surprised and a little worried, but yeah…” Jim suspected there must be a goofy smile on his face, even if there was always the disquieting hope that Robbie needn't have anything to be 'worried' about ever again.
“Good, that's good, Jim.”
There was no doubting Blair's sincerity, but there was still something off about his reactions. Jim had a clue, but he wasn't going to assume anything without careful investigation. First, it was necessary to put the subject off his guard. “Come here,” Jim said, and pulled Blair into a hug. Blair returned the grip with a tight embrace of his own, and Jim pressed a couple of little kisses to his temple, before he eased Blair to his back.
“Getting frisky there, man?”
“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Jim settled himself carefully, his body pinning Blair's with gentle care. Blair's pupils were expanding, darkening his eyes, and there was a self-satisfied turn to his lips, which was wiped away when Jim asked, “So when do I get the straight answer on why you're not keeping your promise, Chief?”
“Interesting way of conducting the third degree, Ellison.” Blair's body tensed resentfully. Jim could feel the change beneath him, like some Medusa's glance turning Blair to stone.
“Note for the record: you're not pretending that you don't know what I'm talking about.”
“I'm not breaking any promises.”
“You told me that you'd be behind me when I got in contact with my family.”
“Sure. That doesn't mean that I need to hold your hand every step of the way.”
“It bothers you. And I can't figure out why when you were the one who was all 'rah rah' about me getting touch with them.”
Blair huffed in exasperation, but he made no effort to try to move from underneath Jim. Perhaps he recognised implacability when he saw it.
“Jim, you know you would have got together with people eventually, and you didn't need the guilt trip of delays in the mix.”
“So you flipped your shit back in Washington because you were worried about my guilt burden?”
“A guilty Jim Ellison is a difficult son of a bitch to live with. Self preservation, that was all.”
“Still have the wolf internalised do you?”
There was a tiny start; Blair's shoulders jumped and took the rest of his body along for the ride.
“I think so.”
“I think so, too, because there's a lot of surety when you tell me that things will be okay between me and Robbie. So why did you run today?”
“I didn't run, I just wanted you to have your privacy.”
Anger burned in Jim's throat. “Stop lying to me! I wanted you there and you ran. What brilliant excuse are you going to come up with to get out of coming to San Francisco with me?”
“Jim. I'm sorry, all right? You're right, I'm letting my discomfort with some of the mystical,” Blair paused, but Jim suspected that it wasn't to grasp a thought so much as to give that impression, “ramifications get away on me. But you see, that means that you don't need me there anyway, because you and Robbie, it'll be fine. Like I said, written in the stars.” And Blair turned his head to rest his temple against Jim's arm nearest the couch, and shut his eyes. His mystic assurance didn't look to be comforting him, and Jim's anger turned to a frustrated tenderness.
“Tell me what's going on in your head. Come on.” He nuzzled along Blair's face, and felt a long sigh gust over his skin.
“It's pathetic.”
“Nah,” Jim replied.
The ghost of a smile lifted Blair's mouth. “Yeah,” he drawled back. “It's real simple. Jealousy. The green eyed monster. You and I have been living in each other's pockets so much we might as well wear the same pair of pants, and now I have to share you again. And you don't need my neuroses tainting your reunion with Robbie. You're a sentinel. He's a sentinel. You might understand and rationalise what you discern, but he's a kid, and I don't want to hurt his feelings or put you in a difficult situation.”
Jim shut his eyes, all the better to know what the hell was going on. Blair's body was still tense beneath him, his heart still thudded, there was a flush on his skin. Confession didn't bring relief; or was Blair worried about Jim's reaction to his explanation? Jim decided that there was more. He smelled grief, not just shame. He didn't even think about how he knew what he smelled was grief. Some things you simply knew.
Grief. He knew that Blair regretted taking a life, but it had been a necessity and Blair was, in his own strange New Age way, a pragmatist. A pragmatist who was always over-thinking everything. The last few weeks had been filled with difficult feelings. Time for a few more.
“Is it the wolf?” Jim asked.
Blair squirmed restlessly. “Jim, get off me.”
“I'm comfortable.” Blair might be pinned, but he was pinned to a nicety. Whatever discomfort Blair felt, it was emotional rather than physical.
“I'm so pleased that somebody is,” Blair muttered. “Come on, man, you have the great confession, which was embarrassing as hell I might add, because I do not like being petty enough to be jealous of your relationship with your son.”
Jim sighed and sat up, still straddling Blair.
“If you're jealous of Robbie then why were you so upset when I told you I was thinking about staying away?” He didn't know why his memory kept turning to that disrupted argument, and Blair's shocked, wide-eyed face, his flight to the bedroom.
“Because I have daddy issues. And this is as much plumbing of the morass of the Sandburg psyche as I can take right now.”
Jim looked down at the figure caught beneath him: this man who'd been part of his life for years, even when they were apart; who poked and pried at Jim with the best of intentions and open curiosity too; who all too often pushed his own fears aside with jokes and smart-assery. The cryptic words of a long ago vision came back to him – 'accept the senses and you accept the gift'.
Jim settled himself again, cradled Blair's head in his hands. Blair sighed and shut his eyes. “I guess this means that you're still plumbing the depths here.”
“Guess I am. 'Fess up, Chief.” This time he felt surrender. Unhappy surrender, but something was loosed in Blair.
“It's a pile of crap.”
“Then let's dump it and be done.”
Blair laughed. “Oh, now there's an image.” His body stilled, and for the first time, his arms came around Jim since he realised he'd been tricked onto his back.
“You wanted to stay away from Robbie, because you loved him. Which left me wondering where I stood with you.”
Jim stared at Blair in disbelieving astonishment and the beginning return of anger. “Where the hell are you going with this?”
“You and Robbie – and Alex – had all this…stuff going on. And I didn't. And when I did have 'stuff',” Blair's mouth twisted as if he tasted something sour, “it ended up with me killing someone.” His expression focused inwards a moment. “Pass through the gate, send another through the gate.” He shook his head, like a diver coming up from under. “But that's not the point. You came back to me, and I am not going to say that I wasn't totally, fucking dee-lighted by that. But it's like I said, there are powers around you and Robbie, and me too. And…” Blair stopped. He felt cold to Jim, despite the blanket of flesh and bone laid over him.
“When you came back, I wanted it to be me. Not sentinels or guides, or powers. Just me. I know I was all full of it when we were working out whether you'd stay or not, but you looked ready to bolt half the time, and some bracing acceptance seemed like the way to go, make all the weird stuff normal, y'know? But I wanted it to be me.”
The words rose scented with unshed tears, and almost despairingly, Jim kissed Blair. Then he spoke the only words he knew to say, tried to breathe them into Blair's skin, reciprocate some of the gift he'd received.
“It is you. Always has been. I promise.”
Jim had taken part in military manoeuvres that required less organisation than this trip. Between Robbie's hyped-up enthusiasm, and the more suppressed volatility of Blair and Jim, the car had felt ready to burst from more than an excess of baggage. Robbie's artlessly concerned comment that 'Mom cried so hard after you called that I thought she was going to change her mind' had made Jim's jaw clench and Blair's head duck. But here they were and Jim was starting to think that their chances of actually catching some fish were minimal. The light was too bright, and Robbie was too excited. Even when he remembered to be quiet, there was a quivering intensity to his silence that distracted Jim.
“Hey, Rob. How's your senses?” Blair's voice.
Robbie turned and smiled. “Okay. I guess.”
Amusement tinged Blair's reply. “You guess?”
“The water smells good.” And Jim knew exactly what his son meant – the fresh scent of living water, an alive, healthy river, was only one of the pleasures of fishing.
“I'll bet it does. Just don't get lost in it, okay?”
Robbie's hands fidgeted. “Okay.” Then he yelped. “Dad, I think I saw a fish!”
“That's great, but too much noise and you'll scare it off. We've gotta be quiet, remember?” Jim gestured to Blair to take his own reel, and moved behind his son to correct Robbie's hold.
Robbie whispered, “Do you see it?”
“Yeah, I do.” Jim held his breath. “I think we're in with a chance here, sport.” There was the slightest bend and twitch to the pole, and Robbie's breath drew in with pleasure. Jim bent to murmur encouragement into his son's ear, itching to take control of the rod and ensure the catch, but also wanting Robbie to have the experience.
“Hold her steady, that's it, keep the movement steady – yeah, that's the way.”
“I'm gonna catch a fish. Oh, man, I'm gonna catch a fish,” Robbie chanted. Blair had appeared from somewhere, without Jim's reel, but with the net in one hand and a camera in the other. Robbie had nearly drawn the fish all the way in, and Blair swung the net through the water and underneath their struggling, flapping prey. Robbie's face changed as he watched the fish's convulsions in the net.
“Dad,” he said uncertainly, “uh, can we let it go?”
Jim looked down into the flushed, and not quite happy face. “Snap a picture fast, Chief. This is going to be catch and release.”
Blair handed the net and its struggling captive to Jim, and there was a brief tangle of man and boy and rod and net, which Blair gleefully caught on camera, before Jim unhooked the fish and watched it scoot out of his hands.
“Dad,” Robbie asked, grappling with a new and unwelcome revelation, “do you think it hurts the fish to catch it?” Jim planned retribution for what sounded like a suppressed snort from Blair, and marshalled his thoughts. Carolyn never did have a lot of sympathy for outdoor pursuits, having seen her father use them to avoid his family, and Jim had assumed that this question would come out of maternal indoctrination rather than Robbie's own sensibilities. He decided that he might do better defending the fine sport of angling if he got out of the water, and turned for shore, his legs moving sluggishly in the heavy waders. “That's an interesting question, Rob. Want to sit in the shade and talk it out?” Then he saw Blair, who now was not snorting, not laughing. There was a look on his face that Jim didn't know how to decipher; not unhappy, confusingly happy instead.
“What?” Jim asked.
“What 'what'?”
“You looked a little strange there.”
Blair smiled. “I like watching you fish.”
Robbie was splashing his way to the river bank, and Jim decided that they might as well talk because the commotion would have scared off any fish for miles.
“You like watching me fish?”
Blair shrugged, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “I am the weird one in this relationship.”
“I can get it out of you later.”
Blair's eyes rolled. They both of them felt uncertain about anything overtly sexual in Robbie's vicinity, and Blair knew the threat to be an empty one. He bluffed right back. “I'll look forward to it.”
Blair might have been shy about some things, but he never stinted on affection. One hand closed briefly around Jim's, and a bright smile competed with the sunlight.