for allowing your story to be shared
to raise donations in the
2009 Moonridge Online Auction!
I kept my weapon trained on the perps, while Sandburg holstered his and dropped down to brace a knee in the middle of the bigger man's back to cuff him, before shifting to do the same to his sleazy partner in crime. Blair moved with fluid, economical motion, and looked all business in jeans, black leather jacket and boots, with his hair tightly tied back. When he was finished restraining them, I holstered my weapon and helped him haul them to their feet. He started reciting the Miranda, leaving me to drag out my cell to call in a patrol to take them in and book them. Funny thing, I could hardly speak for the lump that had filled my throat while I'd watched him, a lump that was only the tip of the massive surge of emotion pushing the air out of my chest. Clearing my throat, I finished the call and caught him giving me a look of concern.
“You okay?” he asked, sidling closer to lightly grip my arm. Lowering his voice, he observed, “You sound like you're having an allergy attack or something.”
Allergy — or something. A veiled reference to my errant senses. Swallowing hard to quell the sudden feelings that were very nearly swamping me, I shook my head and looked away, scanning the shadows and reaching out with my hearing to make sure there weren't any other bad guys lurking around and about to ambush us. “I'm fine,” I lied.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see he wasn't buying it, but he shrugged and busied himself securing the briefcase full of cash and the gym bag filled with bags of crystal meth. I moved to help him but he waved me away, probably afraid that I was reacting to being too close to the drugs. We'd literally stumbled onto the buy on our way out of the harbor-front restaurant where we'd had dinner, when I'd overheard what was going down in the dark alley behind us. Figures. I'd hoped for a nice dinner and a quiet evening to celebrate Blair's first anniversary as my official partner. Now, we'd have to spend the next several hours downtown, interrogating these clowns and filling in reports.
Maybe it was just as well that we'd be too busy to think. Celebrating his first year as a cop also inevitably meant silently reflecting on what else had happened a year ago, and everything that he'd given up because of me and my senses. Most of the time, I did my best to not think about any of that so, yeah, on balance, it probably was better that our quiet evening was a bust.
But when I looked at him, my eyes started burning and I sniffed, and had to clear my throat again. What the hell was wrong with me? Why were all these jumbled, suffocating emotions blindsiding me now? Everything had been going great, and he seemed to be happy. But then, Sandburg had a knack for being happy, for treating life like it was one long field trip filled with unexpected twists and turns and adventures. So why was I feeling so ... what? What the hell was I feeling?
The patrol car swept into the head of the alley, its flashing lights bathing the scene a garish crimson that left me feeling queasy. I was thankful that it only took Sandburg a few minutes to brief the uniforms. Glad to be rid of the scumbags, I took the briefcase and led the way back to the street and my truck, while Blair followed with the gym bag clutched in one hand. When he hesitated and eyed the truck bed, clearly wondering if he could risk leaving the drugs outside rather than bring them into the cab with us, I growled, “Don't worry about it. I'm fine.”
“You sure?” he demanded, frowning at me.
“Yeah,” I grunted and climbed in behind the wheel. He chewed on his lip for a moment but then he got in, and ditched the bag on the floorboards between his feet.
“Maybe it was something in the food,” he muttered as he adjusted his seat belt. “A seasoning?” When I just cranked on the engine and pulled into the street, he went on, “Or maybe in the alley? Some waste...?”
I shrugged. “Let it go,” I insisted. “I'm fine.” I was lying again, but I didn't know what else to say. I didn't know what was making it so hard to look at him without feeling that surge of emotion again, without becoming breathless and achy inside. For just a second, I wondered if maybe he was right, if maybe I was reacting to something in the air.
But it wasn't the air, wasn't anything foreign or dangerous, and I knew it.
It was him, everything about him, and everything I felt for him. I'd told him I loved him once, nearly two years ago, and I'd lumped him in with Simon at the time. And a year ago, I'd told him with as much clarity and honesty as I could muster just how much I appreciated him, for his friendship and his help. The best friend, the best partner ... best cop. And now he'd been a cop for real, for a whole year. He was good at it, as I'd known he would be.
But, tonight, watching him so matter-of-factly holster his weapon and cuff those guys, it felt wrong. So wrong.
Maybe I just hadn't gotten past how much his badge had cost him, or my fear that it might, one day, cost a whole lot more than I ever wanted to pay. Or maybe it was the anniversary thing, the sense of time passing, never to be recovered, of things changing, sometimes faster than I was ready for....
But struggling with the why of the emotional upheaval wasn't getting me any closer to figuring out what it was I was actually feeling. Sounds stupid, I guess, to not be able to easily name all the emotions churning in my gut and filling my chest until it was tight and hard to breathe, but I'm not really good with emotion. I usually try to either ignore it or bury it or just deal with whatever as sensibly as I can, given the facts. Huh, now I'm avoiding them by drifting off into why I don't deal with emotions well. I think I've been hanging around with Sandburg too long; obfuscation is becoming all too natural to me, even when dealing with myself. Or maybe I was always good at avoiding emotional issues; maybe I learned how a long, long time ago, before Sandburg was even born.
“You're awfully quiet, man,” Blair said gently, concern darkening his eyes as he reached past the briefcase full of cash to touch my shoulder. “And you look, I don't know, pale, I guess. You sure you didn't eat something that's disagreeing with you?”
“Would you leave it alone!” I snapped. I felt his warmth and solidity through my jacket as his grip tightened, the reassurance that bled into me through his touch, and immediately regretted the undeserved outburst. But my throat tightened, blocking my words of apology.
“What's going on with you, Jim? What's wrong?” he asked then, his voice full of anxious caring.
“I don't know,” I rasped as I tightened my grip on the wheel. My eyes stung, and I blinked at the burn of unwelcome tears. “I just ....” But I didn't know what to say, couldn't explain it, not even to myself let alone to him. “Could we just drop it for now?” I could hear the plaintive note in my voice and hated it, but I couldn't deny the vulnerability that seemed to be consuming me. Couldn't deny it and couldn't deal with it, not until I'd figured it out.
His thumb massaged my shoulder, slow, deliberate circles, and then he patted my arm before easing away. “Okay,” he breathed, so softly no one else could have heard the words, and I hated the sound of defeat I heard, and saw in the slump of his shoulders. Even when he'd done nothing wrong, I could hurt him without even trying, and too often did. I felt tension thrumming through my muscles and would have taken a deep breath to calm down but I couldn't; my chest was too tight. What the hell was wrong with me?
Clamping my jaw, frowning in my effort to focus on the simple task of driving, I grappled with the hodge-podge of emotions that welled within me, their twisting turbulence threatening to tear me apart. Fear lodged in my throat like a stone, and tenderness squeezed my heart, while sorrow filled my chest. Guilt and grief were twin fires in my gut, and I ached, God, literally ached, to grab him and hold on for dear life. Did he know he was precious to me? Did he have any idea of how much I relied upon him, how deeply I cared about him, even cherished him?
Memories skipped across the surface of my mind, conjured up by emotions I couldn't control, couldn't repress. Clayton Falls. 'I love you guys', but I could see the hurt in his eyes. I remember him collapsing in my arms, no longer able to stand on his own after I rushed him out of that house, shaking with fever and the fear of what it meant; watching him being carried away from me, terrified, both of us terrified that he might be dying. I saw again the pain in his eyes at the PD when I told him I couldn't trust him — each time I told him — on the night of the strike, and the night he died, and in the loft just before I walked out on him and his mother, when I could barely stand to look at him even though I knew I was over-reacting and blaming him for more than was his fault. Saw him dead, his face gray and cold after we'd dragged him from the fountain, and saw the radiance of my vision of him when I was lost in the horror of that pool in the temple. Saw his anguish when he denied his thesis and all he'd worked for, all his dreams, for me.
I was sure then, and still am, that no one else in his life had ever hurt him as badly or as often as I had — well, except, maybe, for his mother. He'd never said it, but I knew she'd hurt him, too; had been hurting him all of his life because even though she was the only family he had, he knew he didn't come first with her and never had.
Sandburg deserved to be treated better by the people he loved best.
I pulled into the underground garage, and into my usual space. Just before he got out of the truck, Sandburg said quietly, “I enjoyed dinner. It was nice of you to, you know, want to celebrate my first official year. Thanks.”
I sat there, not saying anything, trying to swallow the damn lump in my throat. He gave me an uncertain look and climbed out of the truck, dragging the bag of illicit drugs with him. “You coming?” he asked.
I nodded and grabbed the briefcase. On the way across the lot, I angled toward him and looped an arm around his shoulder. He flashed me a surprised look and I saw gratitude steal into his eyes. “So whatever's wrong, it's not me, right?” he ventured with a tentative smile.
Tender affection beat back the fear and all the other mangled, mingled feelings, if only long enough for me to tug on his ponytail and pat his back. “Oh, yeah,” I admitted, and tried to smile, “it's all about you. But nothing's wrong. You didn't do anything wrong. In fact, even though I don't say it often, you do pretty much everything right.”
He stopped dead and looked up at me, exasperation warring with surprised gratification in his face and voice when he demanded, “What's all about me? What is going on with you tonight?”
Shrugging, I turned away and lengthened my stride, so that he had to skip a little to keep up with me. “Later, okay?” I asked, when I held open the door into the building for him to precede me inside. “Give me a chance to figure it out myself.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he agreed with a long-suffering sigh as he tossed his free hand into the air. While we waited for the elevator, he gave me a sideways look. “Maybe you could just give me a hint?” When I rolled my eyes, he urged, “Come on, I'm dying over here. Give me a hint about what ... whatever it is. What you're thinking about, something.”
I wasn't sure I could, but inspiration flashed just as the elevator doors eased open. “Clayton Falls,” I blurted. “I was thinking I'd like to go back to Clayton Falls.”
“Oh,” he choked, looking devastated, but he caught himself and straightened, glanced away and nodded. “Yeah, I guess I can understand that. After year with just about no space, literally no break from me. Sure, yeah, I can see that.”
“No, you don't understand,” I replied, wishing my voice didn't sound so rough, as if I was very nearly strangling in my haste to get the words out. “I want you to come with me this time.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed in evident surprise, and this time delight suffused his face, lighting his eyes as he smiled broadly. “Yeah, sure, great,” he went on, and slapped my back. “I'd love to go. Maybe this weekend? We've got the time off. Fishing would be fun.”
“Okay,” I agreed, and nodded, grinning myself and feeling like a fool and happy all at the same time. I hadn't really thought about it before, hadn't realized it, but his smile did that to me every time, his smile and that sparkle in his eyes. Made me happy. Made me glad to be alive.
Damn, that lump was back in my throat, and something was squeezing my heart, filling my chest, quivering in my gut, and I felt almost sick with something that felt a lot like excitement or anticipation. What the hell was the matter with me? Maybe he was right. Maybe I had eaten something that was messing with my senses. It wasn't like me to be such an emotional wreck. Not like me at all.
**
By the time we'd logged in the evidence, identified our perps, finished the interrogation, and typed up all the reports in triplicate, we were both just about dead on our feet. God, when was the last time we'd had a day or a night off? As I climbed into the truck to go home, I honestly couldn't remember, and I was too tired to think about it. Yawning, I thought it was probably a very good idea to get out of town because if we hung around, we'd probably get called in again, just like we always were on our 'days off'. I was still Simon's attack dog, assigned to the toughest cases, and wherever I went, Sandburg went with me, so he had to be exhausted, too. Or maybe not. He wasn't pushing forty and, really, this last year, he'd had less than usual to do every day.
Okay, that thought was a splash of icy water, jerking me back to the here and now, and bringing with it the tidal wave of emotion I'd managed to damp down while we dealt with the case. Damn it. I had to get a handle on this, whatever it was.
I wondered how he knew, what I'd done that had telegraphed that I was a mess again, all torn up inside. Whatever it was, I felt his eyes on me, wide open like searchlights scoping out my soul. I ignored him, pretended nothing was going on, just cranked on the engine and backed out of the slot. His gaze narrowed and his head tilted a little as he studied me when I pulled up into the early light of the new day. Then, without a word, he reached over and gripped my shoulder, just for a moment, just long enough to ground me and steady me, and then he shifted to look away, out the window, as if he knew I still needed time to figure it out, to get my act together.
Most people think Sandburg talks all the time, and that he has no patience, that everything has to be right now, because he lives life with a kind of urgency, as if it's important to pack every possible experience into each and every moment of the day. But the man knows how to use silence as well as he knows how to use words, and he can be the most patient person on the face of the earth when he decides I need time and space. Sometimes his silence is hard, even angry. But this morning it's a good silence, a soothing silence ... a silence that tells me it's okay to not always understand everything. Or maybe just that it's okay to take whatever time I need to sort it all out in my own head. Whatever. It's a reassuring kind of silence ... but I'm beginning to more than half suspect that he's so relaxed about it all because he's probably already figured it all out and he's just giving me time to catch up.
Snorting with amusement, I can't help but shake my head. He probably does have it all figured out. God, he can be an annoying little shit.
“What?” he asked, a smile playing around his lips.
“Nothing,” I growled, wanting to be irritated, but his smile just widened and I couldn't help the grin that twitched at one corner of my mouth. I turned onto Prospect and parked in front of the loft. Blowing out a long, weary breath, I suggested, “Sleep first, then pack our gear and head into the mountains?”
“Sound like a plan,” he agreed, stifling a yawn as he slid out of the truck, suddenly sounding as tired as I felt.
**
When I woke nearly six hours later, the emotions were less raw, but they were still there, just under the skin. Not overwhelming — but I was afraid the least trigger might set them off. Fragments of forgotten dreams floated in my head, but they were hazy, unclear and, scraping my face with my palms, I let them fade away. Rolling to my feet, I headed downstairs to the shower, hoping the hot water would drive the remaining cobwebs from my mind. Leaving the stubble alone — after all, we were taking the weekend off — I went into the kitchen to put on the coffee. That done, I banged on Sandburg's door. “Up and at 'em, sport! Day's a'wasting.” I heard his groan of protest and then a more congenial, “Okay, okay, I'm up,” as, smiling, looking forward to the day, I turned away to go upstairs to dress and pack a few things, like extra socks.
Downstairs, I could hear Sandburg mumbling to himself as he shuffled to the bathroom. The man always remained half asleep and more than a bit bleary until the stinging water brought him fully awake, but he was usually cheerful in the morning. Hell, he was usually cheerful all the time. Seemed today was no different; I could hear him humming happily to himself as he showered and shaved. I know he didn't like it when we often referred to him as 'the kid', but he was child-like in a lot of ways, like the hopeful innocence with which he still viewed the world, his genuine eagerness to meet each new day, his apparently boundless, limitless enthusiasm for meeting new people and learning new stuff, and his resilience, the way he seemed able to bounce back from just about anything that would leave any other guy in the dust. Chuckling ruefully as I headed back down to the kitchen, duffel bag in hand, I thought about how he could wear a person out but, mostly, his good humor rubbed off on me and made me glad to greet the new day, too.
By the time he was dressed and had packed his own gear, I was dishing up the scrambled eggs and sausages and toast. “Mornin',” he greeted me with a bright smile as he darted past to quickly slice up a tomato and then an avocado to put something healthy on each of our plates. Then he refilled my coffee mug and poured a mug for himself while I carried the plates to the table.
“Clayton Falls, huh?” he observed as he put down the mugs and slid into his seat at the table. Picking up his fork and digging into the eggs, he asked, “So, have you got a favorite fishing spot up there?”
“Yep,” I confirmed.
He waited for more but after a beat or two of silence, he asked, “How long have you been going up there?”
“Since I was a kid,” I told him as I cut up the sausages. “Bud took a few of us from the team to teach us how to fish.” I looked up and saw his eyes soften with concern. “Only good memories there, Chief.” Well, until two years ago, when instead of recalling good times, I kept seeing Sandburg being carried into that isolation tent. That year, it hadn't been fun; it had just been damned lonely. But the shadows in his eyes lightened again and he tucked into his breakfast. I knew him well enough to know he probably had a thousand questions he wanted to ask me, but he was swallowing them all with his sausage and eggs to allow me my privacy.
After we'd eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, we loaded up some supplies from the cupboards and fridge, and took them and our bags down to the truck before getting the camping and fishing gear out of the storeroom in the basement. An hour later, the gas tank was full, we'd finished buying groceries and beer, putting six bottles and the perishables on ice in the cooler, and we were on the road, heading east up into the mountains. Sandburg didn't say much during the journey, and he seemed content to simply enjoy the unusually good weather and the views of farms giving way to forests. Two hours later, I passed the cutoff into Clayton Falls and three miles after that, I turned right onto a side road.
“We nearly there?” he asked, sounding eager and excited, just like a kid.
“Uh huh,” I confirmed. Glancing at him, seeing his grin of anticipation and the joy of adventure in his eyes, I couldn't help but smile. A few minutes later, I turned onto the long abandoned old logging road, and the truck lurched and bounced over ruts for another mile before I slowed and parked in the cool shadows under some trees. Looking through the windshield, we could see the wide, sun-dappled grassy clearing, a narrow, rock-strewn beach, and light glittering on the water rushing to the sea. On the far side, wild brush and trees blanketed the steep, rocky escarpment that sheltered this stretch of the river.
“Nice,” he breathed, and inhaled deeply in appreciation. I wondered if he could discern the individual light fragrances of the myriad wild flowers and grasses that mingled with the sweet pine, the rich musk of the earth and mulch of old leaves and pine needles. I knew he wouldn't be able to smell the faint scent of snow that still clung to the breeze that drifted down the mountain to whisper through the trees. Sometimes, in moments like this, I understood why he envied me my senses.
“C'mon,” I said, and popped open my door. “We need to set up camp before we can fish for our dinner.”
Laughing softly, sounding delighted to be there, Sandburg slid out of the truck and cheerfully got to work. In less than an hour, we had the tent up, the gear stowed, the rest of the beer cooling in a net suspended in the cold river, and we were flicking our lines out over the water. The bright afternoon sun was warm, the wind gentle, birds twittered and I heard a squirrel chattering somewhere across the river. I should have felt profound peace, but those wild, unruly emotions were still there, gnawing away at me like an itch I couldn't scratch, just under my skin.
For an hour, there was little but the sound of the lines whirring through the reels as we cast, slowly wound the line back in to drag the brightly-colored feathered lures through water rippling over rocks, eddying and whirling around half-submerged limbs and splashing softly against the stony shoreline. Standing a few long paces upstream of him, I watched Sandburg patiently cast again and again as he hummed or whistled under his breath. He looked strong and sturdy in his checkered flannel shirt over the navy v-necked T, shirt flaps hanging over his worn jeans, and hiking boots. Again, his hair was ruthlessly tied back, most of it hidden under his fishing hat, the brim shading his face and wire-rimmed sunglasses. It struck me that I'd been looking at him every day for five years now, but sometimes I had the feeling that I'd never really seen him, never looked closely enough to really see him.
And then Blair got a nibble. He flashed me a grin and carefully played the line until the fish caught it and began to pull away. He let the line play out to ensure the fish was well and truly hooked, and then he began the dance of bringing it in, his pole bent under the weight of the fish fighting on the end of the line. I reeled in my own line and swept up the net as I moved closer, ready to help him land his catch. He was murmuring a steady stream of encouragement to the fish which couldn't hear him — and wouldn't believe a word of it if he could — and he was smiling like a kid on Christmas. The trout broke water, leaping high, shining silver in the sun before disappearing with a loud splash. It was a big one, twelve pounds
at least. Patiently, Blair played the line and gradually drew it in, and when we landed it, he let out an exuberant whoop of triumph as he punched the air and whirled to face me.
Honest to God, I don't know why my throat closed up or why my eyes were suddenly blurring and burning. I was fine one second and the next, something was welling in my chest, squeezing my heart and I could hardly breathe. His bright smile vanished as concern filled his face and eyes. Dropping his rod, he relieved me of the net and gripped my arm.
“Jim, what's wrong? Jim?”
I blinked away the tears and forced myself to breathe deeply and slowly, cleared my throat and swallowed hard. “I'm okay,” I husked, hoarse and rough.
Frowning, his gaze searched my face. “Are you in pain?” he demanded. “Does it hurt anywhere?”
“No, no,” I assured him. “I just ... I don't know why ... all these feelings....”
“Right, okay,” he soothed and looped his arm around my waist to support me back up to the camp, where he eased me down on one of the logs by the firepit. I felt like a fool.
Blair fumbled in the cooler and pulled out a bottle of water. After twisting off the cap, he handed it to me. “Slowly,” he cautioned when I nearly gulped it down.
I scraped a palm over my face. The surge that had nearly swamped me abated, leaving me feeling shaken. “I don't know what's going on with me,” I rasped, frustrated and frightened. I could face a murderer without batting an eye but I hated this, this feeling of being out of control.
Dropping to one knee in front of me, Blair asked, “You're sure your senses aren't acting up, distorting things ...?”
“My senses are fine,” I grated, shaking my head.
“You said yesterday that this is about me, right?” Blair said then, his voice low, calm, but I could hear the thundering of his heart. I don't think he knows that I always know when he's not sure, when he's scared that he won't be able to figure things out, to help me. But I always know. His body gives him away, just like mine was doing what it wanted, no matter how much I didn't like it.
I reached out to grip his shoulder. “Yes ... and no. I don't know,” I replied, my gaze drifting around, trying to find something concrete to focus on.
His strong hands gripped my legs, just above my knees. “Jim, Jim, come on, look at me,” he urged, and I dragged my gaze back to meet his. “We're going to figure this out, okay? We'll figure it out.”
Wanting to believe him, I nodded. Gradually, the tightness in my chest eased, and the fear that clogged my throat ebbed away. “I'm okay,” I told him, and drew a long, shaky breath. “I'm okay.”
He reached up to cup the back of my neck, and his eyes searched my face. Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I can see it's better now.” Rising, he gripped my shoulder briefly then, turning away, he said, “I'll get our rods and the fish. Be right back.”
I watched him lope down to the shore where he squatted to unhook the fish from the line. Then, gathering up the two rods and the net that held the fish, he brought everything back up to our camp. I took another long swallow of water, and was glad that my hands had stopped trembling. I felt almost normal again. And hungry; we hadn't eaten for hours. The shadows were lengthening and I realized we'd soon be losing the sun. Squatting by the pit, I layered in the kindling and small logs we'd stacked there earlier and got a fire going. When Sandburg approached, I looked at the trout and said, “I guess you want me to clean that.” He always argued that my senses of sight and touch ensured boneless fillets.
“Well,” he hesitated, “are you up to it?”
I gave him a crooked grin. “Whatever is wrong with me, it hasn't affected my appetite. I'll take care of the fish while you get the rest of the food ready.”
Blair made short work of slicing new potatoes, onions and carrots onto two sheets of foil. After dusting the vegetables with herbs, he drizzled olive oil over them and then wrapped each packet tightly before placing them on the grill over the fire. While I finished cleaning and filleting the fish, he added some sliced peppers, tomatoes and mushrooms to a prepackaged mix of salad greens, and then he set the frying pan on the grill to heat. He poured in a little oil, then took the fillets from me to dredge in some flour before putting them in the pan, where they spat and sizzled. I got out our plates and cutlery, and grabbed two beers from the cooler. When I saw him shiver, I brought him his sweatshirt to layer over his other shirts, and his jacket.
“Thanks, man,” he murmured with a grateful smile as he pulled on the extra clothes.
I was practically drooling from the mingled scents of the woodsmoke and grilling food by the time he loaded up our plates. God, the flavors burst on my tongue and I didn't even try to restrain my low moan of appreciation as I savored the first bite and every bite thereafter. Even after we'd eaten our fill, there was more than enough trout and potatoes and onions left to warm up for breakfast the next morning. Replete, I sat back against the log and sipped at my second beer. If not for the memory of my emotional meltdown, I would have been a very contented man.
“So, talk to me,” Sandburg said as he settled beside me and cradled his fresh bottle of beer in his hands. “What's causing these panic attacks?”
“These what?” I snapped, seriously affronted. “What do you mean, 'panic attacks'? I don't do 'panic attacks'.”
“I beg to disagree,” Blair retorted, but without heat. “That was a classic panic attack, and I think that's what you were fighting off last night, too. I agree you don't usually 'do them', but something is really bugging you. If it's me, then say so. What am I doing that's driving you crazy this time?”
“Nothing,” I insisted. “You're not doing anything. It's just ... out of nowhere, I .... Damn it.”
Blair cocked his head as he studied me. “Let's just take it slowly, a bit at a time. Describe to me how it feels. You can do that, right?”
Thinking about it, wincing a bit at the memories, I nodded. “Yeah. My throat tightens, like it's clogged by this massive lump. And then it's like something is squeezing my heart and it's hard to breathe. I feel ... sick, nauseated. And, and then I, well, my eyes ....” I don't cry. I never cry. Hadn't since I'd been a very young child. When I was hurt, I raged, not wept.
“Uh huh,” Blair murmured. “I noticed,” he added, saving me from having to admit it. “Okay, well, it's probably a whole lot of things, feelings, all breaking loose at once. You're really good at repressing them, but maybe something triggered them all at one time. Soooo ... you said it's about me?”
Looking away, toward the darkening river, I nodded. “You were cuffing those guys when it hit me, this wave ....” I blew out a long breath and shrugged. “But I don't know why.”
“We'd just had dinner, celebrating my first official year on the job,” Blair reflected, speaking slowly, his tones deep and thoughtful. “Okay, um, maybe each part of the attack means something different, is triggered by something separate or unique. You said you get a lump in your throat. A sad lump? A scared lump? What kind of lump?”
I rubbed my face and shrugged. I hated this shit. But when I looked at him, I felt the lump forming again, along with a rising tension in my chest. “Fear,” I gusted. “It's fear.”
Frowning, Blair chewed on his lip. “Fear?” he echoed. “What is it about me that would make you feel afraid?”
Like I know the answer? If I did, I suspected I wouldn't be falling apart. He lifted his hands in a calming gesture, which made me wonder what he'd seen in my face, and I sighed in frustration.
“Let's try some free association,” Blair offered quietly. “Close your eyes and just let your mind drift. Tell me what thoughts occur to you when you think about me.”
“This feels stupid,” I groused, but I settled back against the log, crossed my arms and closed my eyes. And let my mind drift on a totally blank sea.
“And ... what?” Blair encouraged.
“Nothing,” I muttered, and tried harder. The fire crackled, and I heard the wind picking up in the higher reaches of the tall trees. “Your room,” I said as the thought arose. “It's ... a closet.”
I heard his amused chuckle and, irritated, I opened my eyes. “Look, you said to tell you what —”
“I know, you're doing great,” he reassured me. “So, something about my small room is worrying you. What? Do you think it's time I should move out, find my own place? I know it's been five years —”
“No!” I blurted, feeling a sudden chill. “No, I don't want you to move out. But ... but you can't be happy in that cramped space.”
His gaze narrowed and he peered at me. “Jim, there are places around this world where whole families live in a space the size of that room. I'm comfortable in it.”
“But you had a whole warehouse,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, well, it was cheap,” he replied with a shrug. “For half my life, I lived out of a backpack. Trust me, I'm not worried about the size of my room. If you're okay with me being there, I feel like it's home, you know? I don't want to move out.”
“It is your home,” I assured him. “But, someday, you'll want to get married, have kids.”
“Maybe,” he allowed, and his gaze drifted away, up to the stars. “But I'm not sure about that. For a lot of reasons. Our work is dangerous. And ... and I'm not sure I'm good at juggling commitments, you know? I think things are good the way they are now.”
Dangerous. I felt a quiver inside, as if someone had just walked over my grave — or his. And then I understood why I'd wanted us to come back here, to Clayton Falls.
“What?” he asked, his wide eyes riveted on me.
Waving my hand to encompass the world around us, I said, “This is where it all started to go bad. And I wanted a do-over. That's why I wanted us to come up here. I want to do things right this time.”
“I don't understand,” he said, confused. “Where all what started to go bad?”
“Us, our partnership. Our friendship. This is where I started screwing up. This is where you got sick. I'd left you behind, wanted to be alone. And then you got sick and I thought you might die and ... and ....” I shuddered, and I couldn't find the words as emotions surged inside of me. I felt as if I might fly apart, and drew my knees up and wrapped my arms around my legs to hold myself together.
“Whoa, slow down,” he urged and shifted closer, to rest a hand on my back. “You had and have the right to want some space and time for yourself, Jim. You weren't wrong to want to get away for a while.”
I leaned into his touch, but couldn't look at him. Staring at the flames, I saw image after image — him being carried into the isolation tent, my yelling at him in the PD garage about his thesis, then in the bullpen, telling him we were done. I saw him floating face down in the fountain, and felt my gut cramp. Sick at heart, I rubbed my eyes, as if that would make the hateful memories, or the tears they inspired, evaporate. His grip on my shoulder tightened, and I felt the warmth of him, the solidity of his reassuring presence. “You died,” I whispered past the massive lump in my throat, and shifted so that I could loop an arm around his shoulders and draw him in close to my side. We'd never talked about it. Hell, I never wanted to think about it. But it was always there, in my mind, the horror of it. And now he was a cop, facing deadly danger for a living. Because of me. For me.
“Easy, buddy,” he murmured, and patted my leg. “I'm not dead. I'm right here. That was a long time ago.”
“Did it hurt?” I rasped past the lump that was choking me.
“No,” he said softly, a bit distant, as if he was somewhere else. “No, it didn't hurt. Just the opposite. The pain was all gone, the hurt. It was warm, and I felt safe. There was nothing to be afraid of, not anymore.” He didn't sound unhappy or hurt, just ... remote. But even as his words reassured me, I felt scared. What if he hadn't come back for me? As if he sensed my rising panic, he twisted toward me and wrapped his arms around me in a tight, fierce hug. “But I'm glad you called me back, man. I didn't want to go.”
I held him close and buried my face in his hair. My eyes burned, and my chest was tight. “The job,” I ground out. “So dangerous. You could ... I don't want you to ....”
“Ah, man,” he sighed and, though I resisted, he drew away so that he could look into my face. “You've lost so many people who matter to you, people you've loved. Other partners. I never thought about how taking the badge might resurrect all that.” He took a deep breath and reached back to pull the tie from his hair, and then he ran his fingers through it, raking it back, as if it helped him to think. “But, shit, man, we can't think about that or it'll drive us nuts, you know? None of us ever knows what our fate will be, what the future might hold. All we can do is our best. Live every day, let our loved ones know they matter to us, share what we can, learn and have fun and just ... just do our best. Sometimes it doesn't seem fair, that some live longer, a lot longer, than others. But it's not about quantity, not about the minutes or hours or days; it's about what we do with the time we have. Like, well, like Bud, for instance. How old was he when he died? Was he as old as you are now?”
Startled by the question, I shook my head. “I don't know,” I admitted.
“And it really doesn't matter,” Blair replied. “What matters is that he made a real difference in your life and probably in the lives of others, too. He gave you this place, this beautiful place, to come and commune with nature. And he pretty much let you know that you're okay, just as you are. That you shouldn't be ashamed or uncomfortable about who you are, about what you can do. And, man, I owe him big time for that. Gonna have to find a way to pay him back in the next life.”
“Next life?” I echoed, and shook my head. I didn't share Blair's beliefs about karma and multiple lives. It was all so ... unknowable.
“Yeah,” he said, and smiled. “There's always a do-over, man. Always a chance to learn more, to give more, to help others become the best they can be. I know you don't believe that, and that's okay. It's not important. What matters is the here and now. What matters is that I'm really glad to be your partner, to have the right to be your official backup. I'd rather face whatever dangers the future throws at us with you, than ... than, well, than anything else.”
“You're not sorry?” I wondered, remembering the pain on his face and in his voice when he'd thrown it all away. “You don't miss what you gave up?”
“Miss what? Marking exams at three AM, or standing in cavernous, overheated lecture halls trying to keep indifferent students awake by projecting my voice and intriguing their imaginations about courting rituals? Or maybe the faculty meetings where everyone was always jockeying for position and arguing over the same old shit year after year, as if any of it really mattered? Nah, I don't miss any of that. Not one bit. It's not like I can't still learn about other cultures or apply my knowledge in ways that make a real difference for the good. Every day is like a new field trip — our work is all about human dynamics and rituals and power structures within groups and ... well ...” He shrugged and grinned. “I work in one huge laboratory called Cascade. It's endlessly fascinating.”
I let his words soak into me and soothe me. The guilt and grief that had been burning in my gut, probably growing an ulcer, seemed to abate. He wasn't sorry to be my partner. It wasn't a consolation prize. He was doing what he really wanted to do, so I didn't have to feel bad, as if I'd let him down or cost him his dreams. The relief that filled me was immense, and only then did I realize how heavy the load of regret had been, that I'd been carrying for the past year. I heaved a deep sigh, and felt the tension drain from my muscles. Tilting my bottle, I took a long swallow of beer, and wondered if we'd gotten through it all, if we'd figured out why my emotions had gone on a rampage, and if things were good now. But when I looked at him in the firelight, at the burnished glow of his hair, like a halo around his beautiful face, and the purity of what he felt for me shining in his eyes, I felt my heart clench and, once again, emotion swelled in my chest.
“I'm proud of you,” I said, and wondered why I'd never said it before. “You make it all seem easy, but it isn't. I know ... I know it was rough, especially at the Academy, and in the first few months.” And he had made it all seem easy, a smooth, effortless transition from doctoral grad student to rookie cop to detective. “You handle yourself like someone with twice your experience — and I don't mean just the past year's worth. I mean the five years of experience you've got.”
Pleasure flushed his cheeks and he bobbed his head. “Wow,” he breathed. “As good as a ten year veteran like you? That's really something. Thanks, man.” Poking at the fire, he went on, “And, yeah, there were a few rough patches, but hazing is a part of every culture — well, every male culture. I don't think women posture quite so much for position and power, not in the same ways, anyway, unless they're already immersed in the hierarchies we already created. But everyone in MCU has been really great, supportive.” He looked at me almost shyly. “I think they've figured it all out, you know. I think most of the PD has figured it out.”
Rolling my shoulders, I looked up at the escarpment looming over us, dark now against the starry sky. “They're cops and forensic techs and lawyers. They're trained to be observers and figure out how the clues add up. I'd be worried if they hadn't put it together by now — and disgusted if most of them really believed you were a fraud after knowing you for five years and seeing you in action.”
“You're okay with that?”
“I don't want to take out any full page ads, but yeah, I'm not as ... as uncomfortable as I used to be about people knowing I'm different. And while you were doing your thing at the Academy, we went through all my old case files to make sure the evidence would hold up if anyone appealed.”
Blair leaned back against the log, his shoulder and arm just barely brushing against mine but I felt the warmth of him, like I always did, the warmth that enveloped me and chased away the cold and darkness, the shadows that haunted my life. “I'm proud to be your partner,” I said softly, but the words were loud in the quiet of the encroaching night. It hit me then, that we were equals now, as we'd never really been before. Different, with different talents and skills, but equal.
“That means a lot, Jim. Thanks,” he murmured, and he leaned a little more heavily against my shoulder, his arm now resting against mine, our hands resting close together but not quite touching. I knew how he felt about me, almost from the very beginning. Of course I'd known — I was what he told me I was, a sentinel. He had no secrets from me and he knew it. But he'd never pushed, nor had he ever pulled back. Through the years, he'd stayed with me, through thick and thin, for better or worse, offering whatever I needed or wanted, my rock, my foundation when my world spun away and left me adrift.
I knew then that it was profound tenderness that clenched my heart at the thought of him, the sight and sound and scent of him. And it was love that swelled in my chest, making it hard to breathe, so huge and all-encompassing that the need to let it spill out was actually painful. I lifted my hand to cover his, to entwine my fingers with his, and I felt him go very still.
“Two years ago, the last time we were up here, I told you I loved you,” I said.
“Yeah, me and Simon,” he recalled, sounding calm, matter of fact, but there was a slight quake under the words, and I heard his heart pounding. “Like friends. Maybe more like family, sort of.”
“I guess that's what I meant, then,” I agreed. “You are my family, Chief. You're the most important person in my world. You know that, don't you? You know I love you?”
“Yeah,” he breathed. “I know. I just didn't know if you knew it.”
Caught by his wry, put-upon tone, I laughed. “I can understand why you'd wonder. I'm not sure I did, not really. Not until now.”
“It's about being equal, isn't it? That's important to you.”
I hadn't thought about it quite like that, but it felt right, and I nodded.
“And it's about trust, too,” he went on. “You had to be sure that I wouldn't take off on you. You had to be sure I wasn't going to be going anywhere. That I'm here to stay.”
“I guess,” I temporized, uncomfortable with the awareness that I was that afraid to risk, that deep down I'd needed him to prove so much to me, over and over.
“And now that I've been your official partner for a whole year, you're beginning to believe you can count on me.”
“I've counted on you from day one,” I told him, and shifted to put my arm around him and draw him in close. He leaned against me, his cheek resting on my chest, his arms encircling my body. “Maybe I needed this much time to know that you could count on me. That it's going to work, and I'm not going to push you away again. Not ever.”
“Well, you're pretty commitment-phobic,” he agreed, and though the words were painfully true, I could hear the teasing in his voice and he held me tighter, letting me know he wasn't going to let me go.
“I love you,” he said then. “I always have. Always will.”
“I know,” I whispered, and pressed my lips to his brow, nearly overwhelmed by the passion I felt for him, and my need to cherish him. “I'm counting on that.”
He laughed and lifted his face and I could see his joy in his eyes. I bent my head and kissed him, softly at first but, for the first time, he pushed for more than I was offering and took me deeper, took me where I desperately wanted to go. I think I've wanted it for a long time, but denied it, and him, until what I felt was too much to contain and my emotions swamped me, blindsided me, forced me to acknowledge how much he meant to me. When we broke apart, he snuggled against me, utterly relaxed, as if it was where he belonged.
And it was.