New Fic: Hazy Shade of Winter
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Title: Hazy Shade of Winter
Author: PsychGirl
Category: Slash (Jim/Blair)
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Archive: please get my permission first.
Warnings: Song lyrics (used very sparingly, I promise!). Spoilers for SenToo.
Summary: What if TSbyBS was a dream?...
Notes: I'm very grateful to morgan32, mab_browne , and earth2skye for their helpful comments on an early draft of the first scene. I also owe many thanks to Sheila, Marion, Joyce, and Skye on the SenBetas list for their invaluable help and advice. All errors and missteps are, consequently, mine.
The first seven lines were written by Bill Froelich. Thanks to Becky's Sentinel Site for the transcript. The Poetry of Rumi isn't a real book, as far as I know; I took the poem from The Illuminated Rumi by Coleman Banks. And the title, and song lyrics, are taken from "Hazy Shade of Winter" by Simon and Garfunkel.
Cascade, Washington
May 1999
Why don’t you let me read it and I’ll give you some feedback?
He’s not going to be part of anything. I’m not going to be part of anything, either. You cannot publish it.
No, look, don’t you run some interrogation on me. You’re not going to find some weak spot in me, all right? Look, I’m not a perp, I’m your friend.
Hey, Chief, let me ask you something. How did you intend to protect my identity and still keep your research valid?
People are calling my father and my brother asking them what it’s like to live with the freak.
I’d like to go back to things they way they were before Sandburg, when I worked alone.
My desire to impress both my peers and the world at large drove me to an immoral and unethical act. My thesis, The Sentinel, is a fraud.
Blair’s eyes snapped open. His heart was pounding; he was sweating, limbs tangled in his sheets. What a bizarre dream, he thought. Zeller getting into Major Crimes, Simon and Megan being shot, Jim standing vigil in the hospital…he felt a cold hand close over his heart as he remembered that Jim had been shot, too, in the dream.
He untangled his legs from the bedclothes and swung them over the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. His hands had a slight tremor; he took a few deep, calming breaths. Chill, man, he thought. Jim and Simon are camping, up in the Cascades; they’re fine. He ran a hand through his hair. Must have put too much garlic on the pasta last night. He pushed himself to his feet, went into the kitchen and started the coffee, then headed for the bathroom.
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the dream. Under the pounding spray of the shower he remembered standing at a podium with a heavy heart, denouncing his work, his career, Jim’s abilities. The memory sent a shiver down his spine, clenched his stomach. He shook his head sharply and poured out some shampoo, worked it into his hair. It was just a bad dream, he told himself firmly. No big deal, you’ve had those before. Take a deep breath, concentrate - you’ve got a lot to do today.
He’d wanted to go camping with Jim, had been looking forward to the two of them just spending some quiet time together. They hadn’t had a chance to do anything like that since they’d come back from Sierra Verde. And although things seemed to have gotten back to normal between them, it felt fragile to Blair, as if they were both walking on eggshells. He’d really wanted them both to be able to get away from the pressures of work and school, have some fun, just have some time to reconnect. But, as it turned out, this was the week he’d had to get his grant application in for next year, and then his advisor had demanded to have a meeting, evaluate the progress Blair had made over the semester. All of which meant that, instead of standing in hip waders in a nice, clear mountain stream, he was donning metaphorical hip waders to try and BS his advisor into approving his work.
He shut off the shower and stepped out into the bathroom, grabbing the towel off the rack and rubbing his hair briskly. The more he thought about it, the more the dream was starting to look like a classic anxiety dream, straight out of Freud. He was worried about how he was going to convince his advisor that he’d made progress without blowing Jim’s cover, so he dreamed that someone had leaked his dissertation. And there was even a small element of wish fulfillment -being pursued by the media, offered millions of dollars, nominated for the Nobel Prize. He snorted derisively at his own unconscious hubris. If ever there was an example of dream wish fulfillment…there wasn’t any such thing as a Nobel Prize in anthropology.
He had to admit, though, that recently he’d begun to wonder whether he was doing Jim any good any more. Sometimes he wondered whether he had ever done him any good. He’d certainly screwed things up with Alex. He’d made all the wrong choices, at every point down the line. He hadn’t trusted Jim, hadn’t communicated with him at all, had had too much confidence in his own abilities…and the results had been disastrous.
He stared at himself in the mirror, his hand, full of shaving cream, halted halfway to his face. Maybe the dream was a sign that it was time for him to move on. He’d told Jim that he had plenty of data, and he did. Maybe he’d outstayed his welcome, both as Jim’s Guide and as his roommate. He sighed, spread the thick lather over his cheeks and chin. Maybe that was the source of the faint tension between them. But maybe Jim couldn’t find a way to tell him that. Maybe he should leave.
The thought sent a tremor through him, making his drop his razor. He cursed as he fumbled in the sink with hands that were suddenly clumsy and numb. He knew why he didn’t want to leave, and it had nothing to do with Jim’s Sentinel senses or his dissertation or needing a cheap place to live.
He looked up at the mirror, seeing the small, sad smile on his face reflected there. Who’d have thought that, after all the places he’d traveled, and all the different cultures he’d studied, that he’d end up losing his heart to a taciturn, blue-eyed cop with a killer smile and five enhanced senses? But that was what had happened. He’d known it since he woke up in the hospital to Jim’s awkward joking about back rent. He’d tried to broach the subject with Jim, then, to no avail. Jim had neatly sidestepped the topic, a profound look of discomfort on his face, and Blair hadn’t had the courage to bring it up again.
His brows drew together in a slight frown. Maybe that was the reason things seemed so strained. Maybe Jim was uncomfortable living with him now that he had made his feelings clear, but couldn’t bring himself to tell Blair to leave. Especially after he’d kicked him out once already.
He shivered, remembering being greeted by a gun in his face, his belongings in boxes. No, he could see how it could be hard for Jim to tell him to leave. But he clearly wasn’t comfortable being around Blair anymore. And that brought him back to the dream, and his feeling that it was trying to tell him something, something important. He sighed; grasping the razor firmly, he gave his reflection a good, hard glare. Get your head out of your ass, Sandburg, and stop thinking about the goddamned dream. It’s just a dream. Start thinking about what you’re going to say to your advisor.
However, it was a lot harder to maintain that equanimity three nights later, when he had the dream for the seventh time. He sat bolt upright in bed, clutching his head in his hands, the voices echoing in his ears as loudly as if they’d been in the room with him. It was exactly the same thing, every time. Naomi, emailing his dissertation to Sid. The reporters and camera crews, ambushing him and Jim in the truck. Jim, furious with him, cold and unforgiving. Zeller, getting away, shooting Megan and Simon. Jim, standing vigil in the hospital. Him, standing at a podium, throwing his life away. The details had only gotten clearer and more vivid with each repetition.
He struggled to draw breath into lungs locked closed by anxiety. He was sure, now, that the dream was trying to warn him about something, but exactly what, he couldn’t figure out. Damn it, Sandburg, he railed at himself, what kind of shaman are you? You can’t even interpret a simple dream message from the spirit world? Part of the problem was undoubtedly that he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well for the last three nights. But he knew that, until he figured out what the dream meant, it would keep happening.
The one part of the dream that really frightened him, that sent a shaft of ice through his gut every time, was the estrangement between him and Jim. Jim had been angry at him before, sure, but he had never been like that. Refusing to listen to him, ignoring him, walking out on him, telling Simon he didn’t want him as his partner anymore…as much as he tried to tell himself that it wasn’t real, that it was only a dream, each nightly replay - sometimes twice in one night - had been like a blow to his heart.
He managed to draw a few shaky breaths, his heart slowing its frantic pounding. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, got up and made his way slowly into the kitchen. Maybe if he had some tea, it would help calm him down, help him think. He shook the kettle to make sure it had water in it, then switched the burner on underneath it. He turned to the cabinet and found his chamomile tea, then reached for a cup. He smiled slightly as he saw the cup he was reaching for. It was something Jim had found for him, at the gift store outside Cascade National Forest. He’d bought it as a joke, given it to Blair with a lopsided grin and a twinkle in his eye. It was tan, embossed with the seal of the National Forest Service and the word “Guide”. But even though Jim had meant it only in fun, Blair treasured the gift dearly.
Lost in his memories, he fumbled in the cabinet. The cup slipped out of his hand; as it shattered on the kitchen floor, Blair realized, with a burst of insight, what the dream had been trying to tell him.
It was him. He was the threat to Jim. He was putting Jim in danger; his research was putting Jim in danger. It was all so perfectly clear.
He froze, leaning against the kitchen island, his knees suddenly weak. He scrubbed his hands down his face. What had he thought was going to happen once he’d finished? Of course things would go public at that point. Defenses were open to anyone in the university community; dissertations could be checked out of the library, copies requested online. Jim’s life, Jim’s secret, would be an open book at that point. Even if he took Jim’s name out, any person with an ounce of common sense would be able to figure out who he was with a few hours of investigative work.
He stumbled out of the kitchen and into his room, flipping his laptop open, jamming his finger against the power button. Hands flying across the keyboard, he located the folder with all his dissertation notes and drafts, dragged it into the trash icon, right-clicked and chose “Empty trash bin”. “Are you sure?” popped up on the screen, with “Yes” highlighted. He lowered his finger towards the Enter key.
And stopped just above it.
A whimper escaped him as he tried to make himself strike the key. He had to do this, had to get rid of it, had to prevent it from becoming public, from hurting Jim.
His finger wavered in the air above the key, then curled as he made a fist, slammed it down on the desk next to the laptop. He couldn’t do it. Whether out of personal pride or scientific ethics, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy all that work, all that information.
Stifling a groan, he sank onto the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. What was he going to do? God, he’d screwed everything up. He’d thought it had just been Alex, but now he could see that everything he’d done, every decision he’d made, had been leading inevitably to disaster. He was no kind of Guide at all. He’d failed Jim, failed Incacha. He’d created this mess, with this stupid delusional scheme of studying a Sentinel for his dissertation, and now he didn’t have the guts to fix it in the only way possible.
Unless…he raised his head, an idea slowly taking shape inside him. If he left; if he took everything with him, all his notebooks, all his drafts, the laptop; if he cut all ties to this place, his life here…then no one could get a hold of it, no one could find out. Jim would be safe.
A pang of grief stabbed through him at the thought of leaving, but he pushed it aside roughly. It was probably for the best. Jim didn’t really seem to need him or want him around and, after the fiasco with Alex, he wasn’t sure that he’d be anything but a liability if there was another crisis. There’s no point in getting upset about it, he told himself harshly. It’s the only solution. This is your chance to make the right choice, do something right, for once. Do something to atone for all those times you fucked up.
He had to do it now, though. If he waited until Jim came back, he’d lose his nerve. And he’d never be able to make Jim understand why he had to do this. He’d leave a note; tell Jim that Naomi had come by, talked him into going to Tibet with her. Jim would be disappointed in him, and pissed as hell for a while, but he’d get over it. And it really was for the best…he’d known that, since Alex, things just hadn’t been the same between them. He understood why, now. The dream had helped him see that. He’d just screwed up too much, too often. Jim couldn’t trust him anymore. And a partnership without trust…well, that was no partnership at all.
He took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair, and then stood and went into the kitchen to start cleaning up the mess he’d made.
***
Chicago, Illinois
September, 1999
Time, time, time, see what you’ve done to me…
Emily Turner regarded the young man standing before her with a critical eye. He looked like he was sick, or jonesing, maybe. He was painfully thin, his clothes - worn, patched jeans and an old, faded t-shirt that looked like it had been bought at a thrift store - hanging off his sturdy frame. And his appearance wasn’t improved by the quarter-inch of dark stubble covering his head, or the dark shadows under his eyes. What she could see of his eyes, that was; he tended to look at the floor, shifting from one foot to another nervously, glancing up apprehensively at her every now and then, almost as if he was expecting her to yell at him or strike him. He had a battered leather backpack slung over one shoulder, and an old Army fatigue jacket in the other hand.
“So, Ron tells me you and he go way back,” she said.
The man nodded, keeping his eyes on the floor. “We were grad students together at Rainier,” he said, his voice soft.
“Why do you want to work in my bookstore?”
His eyes met hers at that, and she caught a flash of sapphire blue. “I like books. And I need a job.”
She chewed her lip reflectively, watching him fidget. “You strung out?” she asked, years of experience having taught her that a direct approach was best.
He shook his head, but his gaze remained averted.
“Still using?”
“No. No.” The protest, although soft, was vehement; his head moving back and forth sharply.
She sighed, torn. Logic was telling her that this guy was a bad risk, as like as not to rob the place blind to get money for drugs. But there was something about him…he seemed vulnerable, off course. It tugged at her maternal instincts. And she trusted Ron; he was a good judge of character. “The pay’s not much,” she said, coming to a decision, “but I can offer you as many hours as you want. I’m the only other employee, and I could use the help.”
He nodded, seeming to relax infinitesimally, the nervous shifting slowing. “Ron said you had a place I could crash?”
She frowned. “I’ve got a room in the back of the bookstore, but it’s little more than a closet. There’s a cot and a hot plate, but not space for much else.”
“It’ll be fine. That is, if you don’t mind?...”
She gazed at him, bemused. “It really isn’t fit to live in. I mean, there’s a toilet back there, but no shower or anything…”
He shrugged one shoulder diffidently, eyes back on the floor, his voice flat. “It doesn’t matter to me. All I need is a place to sleep. But if you’d rather not, it’s okay, I’ll find something else.”
Maybe it was concern on her part at the kinds of places he might end up, if he was willing to settle for so little. Or maybe it was that maternal instinct she’d felt earlier. If he was living in the bookstore, she could keep an eye on him, make sure he ate a good meal now and then. And, the more paranoid and cynical part of her brain supplied, you can keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t steal anything.
She pushed that uncharitable thought to the back of her brain. “No, it’s fine, you’re welcome to use it.” She smiled at him and put her hand out. “Well, Mr. Sandburg, welcome to Emily’s Books.”
The shadow of a smile touched his face, and he took her hand briefly in a dry, strong grip. “Please, call me Blair,” he said.
“When do you want to start?”
“As soon as possible. How about tomorrow?”
“No problem. We could get the paperwork done now, if you want, then I can show you the room.”
“Uh, actually….” The uneasy shifting had returned and his eyes were back on the floor. “…could…could I convince you to just pay me under the table?” He glanced up at her, and she saw fear in his eyes. “You can cut my wages, if you want, if it makes it easier, or just pay me what you can when you can, I don’t care…” He trailed off.
She gave him a piercing look. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Trying to avoid the police or something? Because I’m warning you…”
“No. No, it’s nothing like that, I promise.” He held her gaze steadily, and she could see the sincerity in his eyes, beneath the haunted shadows. “I just…I just want to stay off the grid. I don’t want to be found. But…but it’s not because I’ve done anything wrong or illegal. I promise.”
She chewed on her lip again, her earlier concerns surging to the forefront of her mind. Then she pushed them away resolutely. Her gut was telling her this guy was okay. Troubled, definitely, but not in trouble. She was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, because Ron knew him, and Ron was her friend, so Ron’s friends were hers. And Blair Sandburg looked like he could really use a friend right about now. “Okay,” she said, “we’ll work something out. Why don’t I take you back and show you the room?”
Relief crossed his features and he closed his eyes, briefly. “Thank you,” he said, softly.
He might not be so thankful, she thought to herself, as she motioned him to the back of the bookstore, if he knew what he was getting in addition to a room. Because now she was not going to rest until she had figured out what had happened to him.
***
December, 1999
Weaving time in a tapestry…won’t you stop and remember me…
The sunlight streamed in through the tall plate glass windows, but Blair was still cold. The bookstore was in an old building in Grant Park that had been used a boarding house during the Great Depression. The ceilings were nearly twenty feet high, which made the place feel airy and spacious, but damn hard to heat.
Its legacy as a boarding house meant that there were several unique and idiosyncratic touches, such as the large fireplace that dominated one wall. Emily had converted it to gas when she’d bought the place, and had arranged a red horsehair couch and several plush wingchairs around it, along with piles of floor pillows and throws. Add the huge plush rug in front of the fire, and it became a nice little reading nook for customers. Blair looked at it a little longingly. It was usually a lot warmer over in the nook.
The door opened, setting the bell attached to it to chiming. A man came in, a brown shopping bag in his arms. He put the bag on the counter and stuck his hand out to Blair. “Pete Roberts,” he said. “Emily said I could drop these books off.”
“Oh, yeah,” Blair said, shaking his hand. Emily had told him someone would be bringing by some books to sell. “If you want to give me a few minutes, I’ll go through them and give you an estimate of what we can pay you for them.”
Pete shook his head. “I’ve got to run. Store credit will be fine.” He opened the door, turned to look back at Blair. “Tell Emily I said hi.” The bell rang as the door closed behind him.
Blair dug a pad of paper and a pen out from under the counter, then reached into the brown shopping bag and pulled out a book, looked at the title. The Poetry of Rumi, he read to himself. He flipped the book open, turned to a random page. Listen to the story being told by the reed of being separated, he read. Since I was cut from the reed bed I have made this crying sound. Anyone separated from someone he loves understands what I say: Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back.
He shut the book quickly, the back of his throat suddenly aching, tears prickling in his eyes. He heard Emily coming from the back of the store and put the book up on the counter, fumbling in his lap for the pad and pen there. He bent his head and carefully started to record the book’s information.
“Did Pete bring us some good stuff?” Emily asked as she came behind the counter.
“Yeah,” Blair replied, his voice sounding harsh in his ears.
She stopped and he could tell, even without seeing her face, that she was looking at him with intense scrutiny. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, fine,” he said, voice closer to normal. He kept his attention on the pad, writing; hiding the tremor in his fingers by curling them tightly around the pen, unable to face her sympathetic gaze. He knew she was curious about his life prior to coming to Chicago; she’d asked him a few questions, gently, without pressure, but he couldn’t bring himself to open up to her. He couldn’t talk to anyone about the life he’d left behind. The loss of it was like a hole in his heart, a hole that he managed through sheer force of will, and if he started talking about it he was afraid that it would grow and grow until it had swallowed him whole.
He realized Emily had been asking him a question. “I’m sorry?” he said.
“I said, have you taken your lunch break yet?”
“No.” He glanced at the clock. Nearly 2 pm already. He put the pad and pen on the counter, started to slide off the stool. “I’ll go now.” Usually he just went for a walk, sat in a nearby park for a half an hour.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Emily said, her hand on his arm, restraining him. “Today we’re going to have a working lunch. I’m going to go get sandwiches, and, for once, you’re going to eat.” He looked at her, startled, and she gave him a thin smile. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you tend to spend your lunch breaks walking instead of eating. And I bet all you’ve had today is far too much coffee.”
He couldn’t stop the rueful grin that twisted a corner of his mouth. One definite benefit of working in the bookstore was all the free coffee he could drink. “Emily, thanks, but you don’t have to do that…”
She cut him off. “As your boss, I’m informing you that it’s Employee Appreciation Week at Emily’s Books, and I’m buying lunch for all the employees. Which is you. So, what kind of sandwich do you want?”
“Em, really…”
“Blair. What kind of sandwich?”
He sighed inwardly. How could he explain to her that it didn’t matter, that everything he put in his mouth tasted like ashes. “Turkey on wheat, no cheese; mustard, no mayo.”
She gave him a bright grin. “Great. I’ll be right back.”
She was as good as her word; twenty minutes later she was spreading a feast out on the counter in front of him. In addition to the sandwich, she’d bought him a bottle of orange juice, a bag of chips, and a cookie. He thought about protesting, but one look at her determined face silenced him, and he picked up the sandwich and took a small bite.
“You know,” she said, thoughtfully, between bites of her own sandwich, “we haven’t talked about what we’re going to do over the holidays. I usually close the store for the two weeks around Christmas.” She looked over at him hopefully. “So, you could take that time off, go visit your family, if you want.”
He shook his head slowly, feeling the familiar pang of loss echo through him. “No, I don’t have anyone to visit.” He’d cut off all contact with Naomi as well, too afraid that even that oblique connection could endanger Jim. After all, in his dream it had been Naomi that had started it all. But he hadn’t wanted to worry her. He’d left her a message that he was going to Ecuador on an expedition, would be incommunicado for at least eight months. After the New Year he’d have to think up a new lie to tell her.
He looked up to find Emily looking at him, concern in her eyes, and he ducked his head quickly, avoiding her gaze. “I’m…uh, I’m happy to work, if you want to keep the store open. I don’t mind. I’ll be here anyway.”
“Okay,” she said quietly.
His appetite gone, he wrapped up his sandwich and stowed it, with the chips and the cookie, under the counter. He caught the glare Emily directed at him. “Dinner. I promise,” he said. Brushing his hands off, he reached for the pad and pen, nodding at the grocery sack next to Emily. “What’s the next one? You did say this was a working lunch.”
Rolling her eyes, she reached into the grocery bag and pulled out the next book. “History of the American Racetrack,” she read aloud. Her face brightened suddenly. “Oh, good, I know someone who’ll be interested in this.”
“Really?” Blair asked, writing the title down on the pad.
“Yeah, he’s a big racetrack buff.” She flipped idly through the book, then glanced up at Blair, one eyebrow raised. Laying the book open on the counter, she slid it over in front of him. “Recognize this place?”
Blair looked up. Lastings Park, Cascade, Washington read the page header. His heart thumped as he glanced over and saw the familiar lines of the grandstand. Without warning, the memory of Jim smiling at him, looking utterly gorgeous and classy in his tux, swept over him. His throat tightened painfully as he remembered how good he’d felt that night, his heart nearly bursting with pride and happiness for Jim, so pleased that he and Simon had been able to keep the award a secret.
With a start, he realized he’d snapped the pen in two, and now black ink was leaking out onto the pad. “Oh, shit, Em, I’m sorry,” he gasped, grabbing a handful of napkins out of the sandwich bag and trying to blot up the pool of ink.
“Blair, it’s okay, don’t worry about it,” she was saying, her hand gentle on his arm, but he couldn’t respond. Overwhelmed by the memories that circled around him like vultures, he lurched to his feet, reeling; the stained pad and pen fragments dropping to the floor. He couldn’t breathe. He had to get away, get outside, get some air.
Emily was in front of him, her hands on both his arms now. “Blair, what is it? Tell me what happened, what’s got you so upset?”
He shook his head in negation. “Can’t…I’m sorry, Emily, I…I just…I can’t.” His head was pounding, his stomach twisting with nausea.
“But maybe I can help. Is it someone there you’re afraid of? Did you have a gambling problem or something?”
“No. No.” He took a deep breath, tried to focus. “I was investigating a murder…”
“You were a police officer?” Her voice was incredulous.
“No. An observer. I was working with….” But it was too much, too hard; the awful emptiness expanded inside him, taunting him with memories of laughter, camaraderie, friendship. He pulled himself out of her grasp, stumbled around the edge of the counter, headed for the door. “Air,” he gasped, “I just…I just need to get some air…” and then he was out the door, heading blindly down the street, caring about nothing except that he needed to find some place to be alone with his pain and misery.
***
January, 2000
But if your hopes should pass away, simply pretend that you can build them again…
Blair climbed down the ladder, a pile of books in the crook of one arm. He stacked them carefully on the floor and straightened, putting his hands in the small of his back and stretching backwards with a groan.
Emily came around the corner of the bookcase and handed him a steaming mug. He wrapped his hands around it gratefully and inhaled deeply. Green tea.
“I didn’t figure you needed any more caffeine today,” she said, smiling at him.
“Thanks,” he replied, settling himself cross-legged on the floor. He took a long drink, then put the mug down at his side and pulled the heavy three-ring binder into his lap. “Why don’t you read the titles this time, and I’ll check them off.”
His mind wandered as they moved steadily through the inventory. It had been about a month since his little freak-out, and, much to his surprise and relief, Emily hadn’t said anything about it. She hadn’t asked him any more questions about his past, had accepted his decision to stay at the bookstore and work over the holidays without a word, hadn’t mentioned Cascade again, not even in passing. He’d thought she was more tenacious than that; the kind of person who, once she got a notion in her brain, didn’t give up. But maybe his reaction had convinced her that there was no point in pursuing the topic.
“And that’s the last of ones in this case,” she said, straightening and looking at her watch. “We can start with the next bookcase tomorrow; it’s already after nine.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll put these back.” He motioned at the stacks of books on the floor. “Although I might get started on the next group after I close up.” Nights were the worst; once the customers had left and the store was locked up and quiet it was all too easy for the memories to come back. He’d lay awake for hours, fighting them off; then finally fall asleep, only to wake before dawn, hopelessness settling into his heart as he took in his surroundings.
Most of the time, then, he’d unlock the small black footlocker at the end of his bed - his only contribution to the room’s decor - and, pushing aside his few articles of clothing, dig out one of the notebooks at the bottom. He’d written the dream down in one of them, in excruciating detail, and he’d read through it, again and again, reminding himself that he was doing this to protect Jim, to keep him and his secret safe. It didn’t ease the ache in his heart at all - made it worse, in fact, more often than not - but it did help to convince him that he was doing the right thing. That, and the fact that he hadn’t had the dream since he’d left Cascade.
Continuing the inventory would give him something to do, and postpone the inevitable moment when he had to go back into his tiny, barren room and wrestle with his demons. And maybe it would make him tired enough that he’d just drop off to sleep, for once. Yeah, he thought bitterly, and maybe the sun won’t rise tomorrow.
Emily’s hand fell on his shoulder, startling him out of his black thoughts. “I’m gonna head out, then, if you don’t mind closing up.” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He rose to his feet, gathered up an armful of books.
She was halfway down the aisle when she turned back. “Oh, someone called today and asked me to hold a book. Said he’d come by tonight to pick it up. It’s under the counter, next to the cash register.”
“Okay,” he said absently, browsing over the titles of the books he held, trying to figure out where they went on the shelf.
He heard her walk to the front of the store; heard the jingle of the bell as she left. He climbed up the ladder, balancing precariously at the top as he shifted the books in his arms. He tried to keep his mind on nothing but the task, sliding the books back onto their places on the shelf, trying to lose himself in the rhythm of it, the repetitiveness. If he was lucky, he’d find a few moments of relief from the ever-present gloom that dogged his thoughts.
He heard the jingle of the door again and paused, about to put “A Tale of Two Cities” on the shelf. “Em? That you?” There was no answer, and he sighed. Must be a customer, then. Oh, well, at least it would be another distraction.
He climbed down the ladder and headed for the main vestibule, the book still in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he started to say as he came around the corner, “I was in the back…”
Jim Ellison stood in the doorway.
He froze, the book dropping from suddenly numb fingers to fall on the floor with a dull thud. Myriad emotions surged through him - joy, shock, sorrow, relief, fear - closing his throat and rendering him speechless.
He was sure the look of surprise on Jim’s face was mirrored on his own. “Sandburg,” Jim whispered, his face pale, “I…I didn’t realize…”
Fear elbowed its way to the front of his mind. He had to get Jim out of here, had to pretend everything was fine so he would leave, so he would be safe. Swallowing hard, he scrambled to cover. “That I’d gotten back from Tibet?” he said, forcing cheeriness into his voice. “Yeah, man, sorry I didn’t call…we got back just before the holidays; Naomi took off for California and I decided to just crash with some friends…the woman who owns this bookstore, she’s a friend of a friend, and she needed some help, so I thought I’d work a little, make a little extra cash before heading home….” He knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“You cut your hair,” Jim said, breaking into Blair’s monologue, his voice flat.
“Oh, yeah….” He ran his hand self-consciously over the quarter-inch of stubble. Emily had been after him to grow it out, told him it would help keep him warm during the winter, but he’d refused. His weekly ritual with the hair clipper was one of the ways he reminded himself that his old life was dead, that he was a different person now. But he couldn’t tell Jim that. “Tibetan monk tradition,” he supplied quickly. “You know, when in Rome, and all that…”
Jim nodded and an awkward moment of silence fell between them. He couldn’t stop looking at Jim; couldn’t take his eyes off him, the sight of him feeding his hungry, aching heart. He looked pale, seemed a little tired, but otherwise he looked just exactly the same as when Blair had left Cascade eight months ago.
“I…uh, I called…uh, about a book?” Jim said, finally breaking the silence.
“Oh, right,” Blair said, remembering Emily’s parting comment, and then his mouth was off and running again. “Yeah, Em told me…I mean, she didn’t tell me it was for you,” he forced one of the cheery grins again, “or I’d have called you, you know, try and find some time to get together, have a drink or something, catch up, talk about old times, but I’ve got plans tonight, unfortunately…” Shut the hell up! his brain was shrieking, but it was like his mouth had a mind of it’s own.
“Then how about dinner tomorrow night?” Jim said, smoothly. “Know any good places around here?”
“Sure,” he heard himself say, in utter amazement. “There’s a good diner at 11th and Wabash, just around the corner. Got a fantastic deli - great smoked herring, and lox to die for.” God, what was he doing? Was he insane? He couldn’t have dinner with Jim. He wouldn’t be able to keep this act up for an entire meal.
Jim raised an eyebrow, his mouth curving slightly. “I’ll take your word for it, Sandburg. Eight o’clock sound good? Where should I pick you up?”
A modicum of self-preservation inserted itself between his mouth and his brain at that point. He couldn’t let Jim know that he was living at the bookstore. “Uh…I’ve…I’ve got to work tomorrow night…why don’t I just meet you there?”
“Okay,” Jim said, nodding, “eight o’clock, at the diner. 11th and Wabash.” Another heavy silence fell between them, broken again by Jim, this time clearing his throat. “Uh…the book?”
“Oh, right.” He slid behind the counter, fumbling next to the cash register for the book. Desolation Angels, by Jack Kerouac. He rang it up with shaking hands, his garrulousness suddenly deserting him, the enormity of what he’d agreed to sinking in. Jim handed over a ten and he made change, slid the book into a bag, handed the bag and the change to Jim.
“Well,” Jim said, stuffing his wallet in his back pocket, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.” He met Blair’s eyes, and, for a second, Blair thought he saw something that looked like trepidation in those cool blue depths. Then Jim smiled, blindingly, brilliantly, and the sight of it was like a bullet to Blair’s heart. “It’s good to see you, Chief,” he said, warmly.
“You, too,” Blair mumbled unconvincingly, his throat tightening in misery. He watched Jim leave the store and head down the sidewalk, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. Once Jim was out of sight, he ran to the door. Flipping the sign to “closed”, he locked the door securely, then drew the shades. Alone now, and unseen, he let go, dropping to the floor slowly, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Tears slid down his cheeks as his body shook with silent sobs, the ache of loss reverberating through him.
***
Jim turned the corner, out of the biting wind coming off the lake, and then stopped and leaned back against the wall, shaken. He exhaled heavily, running his free hand over his face, tightly clutching the bag with the book in the other. His heart was pounding, and he braced himself against the cold brick, finding the coolness and solidity comforting.
Jesus. Emily had told him, when she’d called, that she’d thought things were bad, but she’d admitted that, since she hadn’t known Blair before, she might be wrong. But she wasn’t.
He was so thin. And with his head shaved like that…Jim swallowed convulsively in a dry throat. He looked like he’d been living on the streets, or in a concentration camp. And his eyes; he might have been trying to put up a good front, pretending to be cheerful and carefree, but his eyes gave him away, just as they always had. The loneliness, the emptiness in them tore at Jim’s heart.
But there had been fear there, as well. And fear in his scent, pouring off him in waves. It was the only thing that was keeping Jim where he was, the only thing preventing him from racing back down the street and breaking the door open and demanding to know what had happened. He was afraid that, if he did, Blair would disappear again, just vanish into thin air like he’d done before.
Which was entirely his own fault, Jim realized. He’d known things were strained between them, known he was acting like an ass, known that Blair had to be picking up on it. But that day at the fountain, he’d realized…no, that wasn’t right. Come on, Ellison, at least be truthful with yourself, he admonished. He’d known, long before that day. Known, but hadn’t let himself admit, or even think about, the place that Blair had come to occupy in his heart. And in his typically craven, repressive fashion, he’d avoided any opportunity to broach the subject with the man himself.
And then: that day. That terrible, beautiful day. He’d experienced the lowest and the highest points of his life within those thirty minutes by that fountain. But then he’d been like a spectator at the hospital, detached, watching himself ramble on about nurses and back rent, watching himself shy away from the truth, again, damn it, when all he’d wanted to do, all he should have done, was to hold Blair close and reassure him that he was never, never going to let him go.
When he’d come up with the idea to go camping, it had seemed perfect. And Blair had really jumped at the idea. He was going to do it this time, he wasn’t going to let himself chicken out. There wouldn’t be any distractions: no crime waves, no stakeouts, no classes, no lectures. He was going to sit Blair down and tell him everything, and let the chips fall where they may. But then Blair had had to meet with his advisor, and turn in his grant application, and Jim felt like he’d be a heel to insist that Blair come, because he knew how important the grant support was, and how Blair was always strapped for funds…so Simon had come instead. But he’d promised himself that he was still going to have that talk with Blair, as soon as he got back…except that when he got back, Blair was gone.
He’d thought that Blair had left because he had just gotten sick of putting up with Jim’s crap, and the bullshit about going to Tibet was just his way of sparing Jim’s feelings. But now it was clear to Jim that there was something else going on. Something that had frightened Blair so badly that it had driven him away; caused him to break off contact with everyone, even Naomi.
He was going to find out what that was, and then he was going to fix it. But he had to go carefully. He’d been through too much in the last eight months to risk it all by jumping the gun. He scrubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath, called up his admittedly thin patience. Tomorrow night. You’ll see him then. Then you’ll find out what’s going on. Sighing, he pushed off the wall and headed for his hotel.
***
Blair stood in the shadowed entrance to the building, watching the diner across the street. He shivered, hunching his shoulders, drawing his threadbare fatigue jacket around himself tightly and shoving his bare hands under his armpits.
He’d been standing out here for thirty minutes now, arguing with himself. He’d seen Jim arrive, watched him go inside, but couldn’t bring himself to follow, torn between desperately wanting to see him and feeling terrified by the idea.
Come on, you can do this, he told himself. It’s just a little obfuscation. Two, two-and-a-half hours, tops. Make up a few stories about what it was like in Tibet, something ditzy that Naomi did, and you’re home free. No problem. The thing was, he didn’t think he was very good at lying any more. For one thing, it took too much energy. Recently he’d found it a lot easier to just say nothing, but nothing wasn’t going to get him through this dinner.
And he was going to have to hear all about what everyone was doing, and how they were, and how he was going to do that and keep up his cheerful front, he didn’t know. The very thought of it made him tired. But, if he didn’t go in, if he wussed out, Jim would just track him down at the bookstore, maybe be worried about him, worried enough to start asking questions, hang around.
Just go, just do it, he thought. One night, one dinner, a few laughs, and then Jim’s gone, gone back to Cascade, and you don’t have to worry anymore. He resolutely ignored the pang that passed through him at that thought. He took a deep breath, psyching himself up, then blew out his breath in a long huff and crossed the street.
Jim was sitting in a booth at the back, wearing a dark sweater that brought out the color of his eyes, and Blair’s heart did a somersault when he saw him. He strolled to the back casually, surreptitiously taking deep breaths to try and slow his heartbeat. Which is ridiculous, to think you’re going to try and hide that from a Sentinel, he told himself. Maybe he could sell the story that it was because of the cold.
“Whew! Frigid out there!” he said, as he slid into the booth. “Sorry I’m late, had a few last-minute customers.”
Jim raised an eyebrow at him, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “You thought Cascade was cold. I’m amazed you can stand living here.”
He wasn’t able to think of a good comeback for that, so he just shrugged. The waiter came by and set down two pint glasses full of dark brown liquid.
“I ordered you a beer,” Jim said. “Whatever this local stuff is that they have on tap - Fat Tire? Sounds pretty good.”
Blair eyed the glass dubiously. He hadn’t had very much to eat today; alcohol was going to go straight to his head, but it was too late to protest. “Great, thanks,” he said. He’d try to make this one last.
“So, what’s good here?” Jim asked.
“The burgers are pretty good,” Blair replied, and they spent a few minutes discussing the pros and cons of the various menu items. That conversation seemed to go pretty well, and he started to relax. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as difficult as he’d thought. The waiter came back, and they ordered. He took a sip of beer - it was pretty good, actually - and decided that the best defense was a good offense. “So, what brings you to Chicago, man? Isn’t this a little out of your jurisdiction?”
Jim looked down at the table, studying his hands, his expression solemn. “Actually, I’m not a cop anymore,” he said quietly.
Blair nearly dropped his beer. “What?”
“Yeah, I retired. Well, actually, I was encouraged to retire, and I agreed.” Jim looked up, met Blair’s eyes, a rueful twist to his lips. “Someone figured out about the senses.”
Fear went through him like a bolt of lightning. “What? How?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He put his glass down, jammed his hands in his lap, clenched them together to hide their trembling.
Jim was shaking his head, his attention back on the table. “It was that new reporter for the Cascade Tribune, Janice Stillweather. I still don’t know if she had an inside source at the PD, or if she was just incredibly lucky. Or incredibly bright. Or both. Anyway, somehow, she put two and two together and ran a series of articles claiming to have proof that I had super senses, and had been using them to catch criminals.”
His chest felt like there were bands of iron tightening slowly around it. He couldn’t breathe. “Wh…what happened?” he managed to gasp out.
Jim shrugged one shoulder, his mouth a thin line. “The PD closed ranks, of course; refused to comment. There was a lot of speculation in the media, but she refused to name her sources and after about two months it all blew over. But the Chief of Police and the Commissioner weren’t happy. They called Simon in, and, of course, he couldn’t lie to them about it. IA went over all my cases. They didn’t find anything; the evidence was solid, but it was too much of a risk for the brass. After everything was cleared, Simon was told that it would be best to get me to accept an early retirement.” He looked up at Blair, his brows drawing together in a frown. “Look, Chief, it’s not…”
But he couldn’t listen, couldn’t hear any more. His heart was thundering in his ears, panic clawing its way up his spine. He could see Jim’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying, his words drowned out by the growing cacophony of jeers and recriminations in his head. He had to get out of there, he had to get away. “Sorry,” he gasped, pushing himself out of the booth, his breath coming short and fast, his head whirling.
He headed for the exit, knocking over one of the waiters who was carrying a tray full of dishes. Dinner plates, cutlery, glasses, everything fell to the ground with a deafening crash, and he saw Jim wince, hands to his ears. He sprinted for the door; he thought he heard Jim call his name, but then he was through the crowd and out on the street.
The next thing he knew, he was inside the bookstore, his back pressed tightly against the door, gasping for breath. His lungs ached as if he’d been running, but he had no memory of how he’d gotten there. His limbs were shaking as if he had the flu; his whole body alternately feeling flushed and chilled. He ran his hands over his face, tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t manage anything beyond a sickly high-pitched wheeze.
He stumbled to his room in the back of the store. Usually he found the small featureless space calming, but now it just felt confining. He felt like the walls were closing in on him. He paced back and forth restlessly, feeling like a caged animal. Tea, he needed tea, something to help him calm down. He forced his shaking fingers around the mug on his bedside table.
He was unprepared for the wave of fury that slammed into him, nearly doubling him over. Damn it, this wasn’t supposed to happen! He’d done the right thing, he’d done what he was supposed to do. He’d left Cascade, left Jim, taken his research with him. He’d given up his entire life, sacrificed everything that was meaningful to him, and for what? - for nothing. His only comfort had ever been the knowledge that his actions were protecting Jim, but now it turned out that it had all been a lie. It had all been for nothing. All the fear, all the pain, all the sorrow - meaningless. Someone had still found out, Jim had still been outed, publicly exposed, forced to retire from the job he loved, the thing that gave his life purpose. His hands clenched around the mug convulsively. How could this have happened? How could things have gone so wrong? Had he misunderstood the dream? Should he have stayed in Cascade, instead of leaving?
A flood of guilt and remorse washed over him. Of course he should have stayed. Jim’s senses had been revealed, and he hadn’t been there to help Jim deal with it. He’d fucked up again, made the wrong decision again; he’d abandoned Jim, just when Jim needed him the most. Abandoned him as a Guide; but also as a friend. It had to have been a nightmare for Jim; telephone calls at all hours of the day and night; reporters and cameramen following him everywhere; IA opening all his cases; suspended, on desk duty…and where had Blair been? Where had the supposed Guide, the Shaman of the Great City, the friend, been? Hiding like a fucking coward halfway across the country. His stomach twisted with disgust, his fingers gripping the mug so hard his joints creaked.
His revulsion built until, with an incoherent howl of rage and pain, he flung the mug against the wall, watching as it shattered into fragments. He crouched down, picked up one of the pieces in his hand, held it tightly, watched as the sharp edges bit into his palm. Blood, bright and red against his pale skin, welled up. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything but this blinding, all-encompassing fury at himself and the mistakes he’d made.
Loathing coiled in his chest. He felt an overwhelming urge to mark himself, tear at himself. Make his outside as ugly and horrible as what was inside him. Hands shaking, he turned the fragment so that one of the sharp edges was pointing outwards.
Then other hands covered his, prying the shard out gently but firmly. He made a noise of protest. His hand was turned over, long fingers stroking gently across the wounds on his palm. He shook his head, a moan of distress escaping him. He didn’t deserve this, this care, this consideration. He deserved to suffer, to be punished for the things he’d done wrong.
He surged to his feet, but before he could do anything, something folded around him, something strong and warm, wrapping him up tightly. He struggled, but to no avail; he couldn’t move a muscle.
It was as if something let go inside him then, and all his anger, all his fear, came pouring out of him, and he fought against the bonds holding him with all his might. Screaming at the top of his lungs, kicking, twisting feverishly, his muscles bunching violently, he flung himself against the force that constrained him; struck out, battling against it furiously. But it didn’t make any difference at all. The strength that held him didn’t weaken one iota.
He wasn’t sure how long he struggled, how much time had passed, but eventually he sagged in the grasp of whatever held him, drained and exhausted. Tears filled his eyes, slid down his cheeks. He started to cry; hopeless, wrenching sobs that shook his entire body. It had all been for nothing. He was lost, adrift; he had nowhere to go now and nothing to be.
He became aware of a low, soft sound in his ear; a warm, soothing murmur. He couldn’t make out any words, but the sound washed over him like water, calming him, comforting him. Still held captive, he hung limply, unresisting, feeling his body being rocked gently. Slowly the grief and sorrow that wracked him receded, and, for the first time in months, he slid easily into sleep.
***
To be continued in part two...