Ministers of Grace
by Lanning Cook

"Get that, will you, Sandburg?" Jim stared at the Jags game on the television as if the fate of all mankind depended on it, obviously determined to ignore the ringing telephone not twelve inches from his perch on the sofa.

Blair raised his eyes from the Cascade PD Procedural Manual he was studying to instead study his Sentinel intently. Jim had been even twitchier than usual for the past week, and for some reason known only to himself (thus far, oh inscrutable one) he and the telephone were not on speaking terms. "And the logic underlying this request would be...?"

"Just answer the damn phone, okay? If it's for me, say I'm not home." Jim gave Blair his most intimidating scowl -- the one that was supposed to inspire terror. It worked pretty well on suspects and rookie police officers, but the only thing it had ever inspired in Blair was vague annoyance and an unholy desire to find out how ticklish Jim was -- the hard way.

Blair tossed aside his book and rose from his chair, muttering a few choice phrases -- pitched for Sentinel ears -- regarding the infirmities of old age and the phenomenon of premenstrual behavior from a non-menstruating individual, and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Blair. Bill Ellison here."

Blair regarded his roommate intently, noting the stubborn set to his jaw and the implacable expression on his face. Ah. So that was it. Yet another round in the eternal struggle between the Chip and the Old Block. "Hi, Mr. Ellison. How's it going?"

"Just fine. Is Jimmy there?"

Jim fixed icy blue eyes on Blair and mouthed emphatically "I'm not home."

"He's right here," replied Blair cheerfully, meeting that icy stare with an equally lethal level of good humor. "I'll put him on." He extended the phone toward Jim.

Jim's eyes narrowed as he rose. "Thanks," he snapped as he snatched the phone from Blair's hand.

"Anytime." Blair gave his friend his sunniest smile and returned to his chair and his book with that peculiar and perverse satisfaction known only to those who do what's good for everyone around them whether they like it or not. It was long past time for Jim to learn how to bend that stiff neck of his. His dad was really trying to reach out; he'd been trying for over a year now. Yet every time Blair thought that progress had been made in repairing that troubled relationship, something happened to send Jim into Silent and Surly Mode. And if Jim thought Blair was going to enable that bullshit, then he didn't know Naomi Sandburg's little curly-headed boy.

"Yeah, Dad," said Jim in a gruff, almost grim tone.

Blair shot Jim a surreptitious look over the rims of his glasses and flinched inwardly in sudden remorse. The pain in Jim's eyes was old and deep. Damn. He never failed to underestimate the amount of unresolved angst between those two. But what the hell had happened this time? Things had been relatively calm for the past couple months.

"No!"

Blair swallowed at the suppressed violence in Jim's tone and did his best to fix his attention on his book. Whatever had happened this time was major.

Jim paced the living room, posture rigid and face ashen. "Dammit, Dad, I said no. No. I don't want to hear it."

Blair found himself straining to hear Bill Ellison's side of the conversation and fleetingly wished for Jim's Sentinel hearing. The Immovable Object (Senior) was evidently speaking softly, despite the Immovable Object (Junior)'s provocative defiance. Dammit, Bill, since when have you had trouble yelling?

"That's final. If you don't want to talk about anything else, then we have nothing to say to each other."

Blair stifled a frustrated sigh.

"Goodbye, Dad." Jim hit the cradle button, tossed the phone onto the coffee table, and stalked out onto the balcony to stare stonily into the distance.

Blair carefully counted to ten, then closed his book and tossed it aside. "I'm hungry," he announced softly. "You up for some lunch, man?"

Jim said nothing, and Blair moved to stand beside him for a few moments. The street was below was quiet. Blair noted that the homeless man who had taken up residence in the alley across the street a few days ago had assumed his usual post on the sidewalk. "Looks like our new neighbor's up." Lifting his eyes to follow Jim's gaze, Blair could see nothing but the buildings of the city, the distant harbor and the vague, misty outline of the mountains beyond it. "What's out there, buddy?"

"Dove," said Jim tonelessly.

"O-kay." Blair paused for a moment, then continued in a gentle tone. "Jim, if you--"

"Don't." Jim turned his head to give Blair a long, quelling stare. "Just don't, Chief. I mean it."

"I was just going to say if you want to talk--"

"I don't."

"And therein lies the bedrock of my world, man," said Blair drily, heading back inside with an air of resignation. "Thanks for not shaking it." He strode to the kitchen and got busy making a sandwich, swearing under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim follow him inside and close the French doors, then wander hesitantly in his direction.

"Do you want a sandwich? We've got some ham left." Blair glanced up at his friend.

Jim shook his head silently with a preoccupied expression.

"How about a beer?"

Another shake.

Blair scowled, knowing from the look on Jim's face that he wasn't listening. "Couple of dead frogs on a stick?"

Same response.

Snorting in frustration, Blair yanked open the refrigerator and leaned inside to grab a bottle of beer. "Fine. Maybe I'll just go for a ride on my damn pantomime horse--"

The words burst out of Jim with such force that they literally echoed off the walls of the loft. Blair jumped involuntarily, smacking his head against the freezer door, and came up seeing stars. "Ow! Shit, man--" He broke off and turned toward Jim in astonishment, rubbing his head. "Your mother?"

"God only knows why," snarled Jim. "He's been on me about it for a week now."

Blair groped for the beer bottle with one hand, his gaze locked on Jim. His friend was white to the gills. Well, he'd called it, all right. This was major.

"And this is a bad thing because…?" asked Blair slowly, closing the refrigerator door.

Jim favored Blair with an icy stare. "You know damn well why. There's nothing more to say about her." Jim turned away to pace the living room floor, his voice rising. "She walked out on us when I was eight, for Christ's sake. We never heard from her again after the first year. She just... dumped us like so much trash--"

"Whoa, man, whoa. Breathe." Blair set his beer down and followed Jim into the living room, amazed all over again that the man persisted in bottling things up until they exploded. He'd been stewing about this for a week and had said absolutely nothing. "That can't be the whole story."

"It's as much of the story as I need to know," growled Jim.

"Bullshit," returned Blair evenly, then softened his tone. "When it comes to this, what you don't know can definitely hurt you. Don't blow this chance, man. Your dad --"

"My dad told us everything worth knowing when she left," said Jim flatly.

"Uh-huh. Then why is he trying to tell you more now?"

"Damned if I know."

"Maybe because he didn't tell you everything then. He must have been angry when your mother left. Maybe some of what he told you wasn't true. Maybe he's sorry about that now. Maybe he wants to make it right."

"You and your damn maybes." Jim kicked Blair's sneakers out of his path. "Even if all that were true, there are some things you can't make right, Sandburg."

"Maybe," said Blair lightly, ignoring Jim's baleful glare. "But you never know which things those are until you try."

"He can try all he wants," said Jim coldly. "I know what happened. I was there. She abandoned us."

"That's the eight-year-old talking," said Blair in as gentle a tone as possible. "It's never that simple when we hurt somebody we care about, man."

"You'd know all about that," muttered Jim resentfully, turning away.

Blair felt his stomach drop. They weren't past this? They still weren't past this? "I think we both do," he heard himself saying.

The silence that followed lasted too long.

"I need some air." Jim turned on his heel, snatched up his jacket and keys, and yanked open the door.

"You'll have better luck getting some once you pry your head out of your ass," said Blair sharply, shock giving way to anger. "Take your time, man."

Jim slammed the door behind him.

**

Jim studied the bottom of his empty beer glass, searching methodically for some physical evidence that the universe was as much of a pain in the ass as he suspected it was. The test results were thus far inconclusive, but the empirical evidence was highly suggestive.

Jim snorted. Christ, he was even starting to think like Sandburg. Then he sighed. That "you ought to know" crack had been way out of line. After what Blair had done for him he should be able to let that go. He'd thought he had let it go. Dammit, why did Blair insist on tap dancing on his last nerve? Defending Jim's father was annoying enough, but defending his mother? There was no defense for a woman who betrayed and abandoned her kids. None.

And damn his old man, too. Why had he brought this up now? Things had been getting better between them. He and his dad could actually talk now, with relatively little yelling. Jim felt that they'd somehow managed to come to an understanding -- sort of. Well, not what Sandburg would call an understanding, but Jim could talk to his father for twenty minutes without feeling an overwhelming desire to wring his neck, and that was a step in the right direction, wasn't it? Nobody but All-You-Need-Is-Love Sandburg could expect everything to be Norman Rockwell at the Ellison house. One year of détente couldn't undo over twenty years of cold war.

But things had definitely been getting better. And then the old man had had to bring this up. Not just once, but again and again, no matter how many times Jim had told him he didn't want to discuss it. Why was his father so steamed up about this now? What could he possibly have to say about it that he hadn't said thirty years ago? It didn't matter. It was over and done with, and going over all that ugliness again just didn't make any damn sense. It wouldn't change anything. Nothing ever changed.

Nothing. Images of recent events cascaded unbidden past Jim's mind's eye, and he flinched. No, nothing ever changed. The people closest to you always let you down.

Jim snapped into sudden awareness as the bartender appeared and set another beer in front of him.

"From the lady."

"Lady? What la--"

"He means me," came a familiar voice from his left, and Jim swung around to see Naomi Sandburg seating herself on the barstool beside him.

Jim groaned inwardly. Great. Just great. It never rains but it pours. "Hi, Naomi. Thought your plane had left already."

"Nice to see you too," returned Naomi tartly, arranging the long, flowing robe she was wearing.

"Didn't mean it that way," muttered Jim, lifting the beer to his mouth. He had meant it that way, though. He had. "Thanks for the beer," he added grudgingly.

"You're welcome. We need to talk, Jim."

"Why's that?"

"We haven't had a chance to talk since... what happened."

"Happened? Did something happen?" Jim's voice oozed sarcasm.

Jim noted with satisfaction that Naomi had the grace to blush, but she forged ahead doggedly. "You're angry. I hear that."

"Do you also hear that I prefer not to have this conversation?"

"No," returned Naomi, looking so much like Blair at that moment that Jim clenched his teeth. Well, nobody could say that the kid hadn't come by his stubbornness honestly. "I don't hear that, Jim. We need to talk."

"How did you find me here?" demanded Jim in irritation. It was a fine state of affairs when a man couldn't find peace and quiet in his favorite bar.

"I followed you from the loft."

Jim nearly spit out his beer. "You've been spying on me?" he choked angrily, after forcing a hasty swallow.

Naomi bridled. "Of course not! I was sitting in the car trying to work up my courage to go in when I saw you leave. I thought it would be better to talk to you without Blair being there, so I--"

"Followed me, so you could go behind Blair's back. Again." Jim didn't bother to disguise the acid in his tone.

"I've already explained to Blair. Now I want to explain to you," replied Naomi evenly.

"What's to explain? You went behind Blair's back, stole his work and sent it to a stranger, the result of which was --" Jim broke off and glanced around the nearly empty bar. It was probably not a good idea to be talking about this in public. He continued in an undertone. "Don't explain to me, Naomi. Explain to Simon. Explain to Megan. Explain to all the other people who got hurt because Zeller wasn't taken down when he should have been."

"I never meant for anyone to be hurt. You know that, Jim." Naomi smacked her open hand on the bar with a frustrated expression. "And if Blair had just let me in on the secret--"

"It wasn't his secret," muttered Jim, rising from his seat and throwing some money on the bar. "This conversation is over, Naomi. Have a good flight."

He stalked out the door to the street and came to a sudden halt, staring, startled, at the large golden eyes that stared back at him from atop the cab of his truck. An owl. A great horned owl. Now, seeing a great horned owl in the middle of Cascade was pretty damn unusual. But seeing a great horned owl in the middle of Cascade three or four times a day for the past week definitely fell into the category of Weird Shit. And Jim had many years ago come to the conclusion that a little Weird Shit went a long, long way. Not that this prevented Weird Shit from arriving by the truckload. Quite the contrary; he generally found himself up to his neck in it. The only logical conclusion was that some sort of cosmic accounting error had resulted in James Joseph Ellison receiving somebody else's Weird Shit. Well, it was long past time to refuse delivery.

"Beat it!" he bellowed, striding purposefully toward his truck. "Get lost!"

The bird regarded Jim with a smug, unperturbed expression, unfolding its huge wings in a leisurely fashion and shifting from one large talon to the other.

"Get off my truck!" Jim waved his arms threateningly, wondering if he looked as stupid as he felt.

"Jim, what are you doing?" came Naomi's astonished voice from behind him.

Jim ignored her, continuing to advance on the feathered predator. "You scratch my paint or crap on my windshield and I'll have you stuffed and mounted, you damn buzzard! Now move it or lose it!"

"Jim!" Naomi seized his arm and turned him toward her. "Just how many did you have before I bought you one?"

"Dammit, Naomi, mind your own business for once," snapped Jim, yanking free and turning back to face his adversary.

Only to find nothing there.

Jim stood still, his mouth hanging open as a harmless gray mourning dove fluttered down to take the owl's place. It cooed softly, folding its wings back, and cocked its head at Jim.

"This is my business," continued Naomi, moving to stand between Jim and the truck. "Blair cares about you, and he would never forgive me if I let you drive in this condition. Give me your keys."

"What?" stammered Jim, tearing his gaze from the dove. What the hell was going on? The sight of Naomi's extended hand and pitying expression blew what was left of his cool. "I'm not drunk, Naomi," he snapped. "Find some other path to absolution." He stalked around to the driver's side of the truck.

"How can he stand to live with you?" Naomi demanded in obvious exasperation. "How could my son manage to coexist with such an arrogant, judgmental--"

"Let it go, Naomi," sneered Jim, thoroughly aggravated. He unlocked the door and yanked it open, sending the dove winging away in alarm. "Detach with love."

Jim knew he'd gone too far when Naomi came charging around the hood of the truck, face flushed, and the all-too-familiar Sandburg battle-light in her eyes.

"Don't you dare mock my beliefs! Just because Blair tolerates your... your complete lack of respect--"

"My what?" Jim froze in the act of sliding into the driver's seat.

"-doesn't mean that I will. You're an ungrateful... selfish... unfeeling...." Naomi seemed to be groping for the ultimate insult, and Jim wasn't all that surprised by what she came up with. "-cop!"

"That's enough!" Jim voice rose sharply. He slammed the truck door shut again and rounded on Naomi, struggling to remember that this was his best friend's mother. "Don't say any--"

"You don't care about Blair at all," continued Naomi, fierce despite the tears in her eyes. "You use him. And when things don't go the way you think they should, you abandon him."

Abandon. He'd abandoned Blair? Jim didn't abandon people. He didn't. He wouldn't. He knew what that felt like. His mother had been there at dinner... and gone by breakfast. Gone without a hug or a goodbye or even an attempt at an explanation. That's being abandoned. He would never do that to anyone he cared about. It was impossible. Wasn't it?

Abandon ricocheted through Jim's mind, yanking out a kaleidoscope of ugly images as it passed: Blair's anguished apology as Jim dismissed him from his life; Blair lying beside the University fountain, lifeless; Blair looking at Jim with hurt amazement at the thought that Jim could for one moment believe that he would sell Jim's secret; Blair's stunned expression at Jim's "people change" speech. Those images rubbed raw every barely-healed wound of the past year, and the rage that had been creeping up on him for days finally downed him in a flying tackle.

"Speaking of abandonment," snarled Jim quietly but venomously, "Where are you off to, Mom?"

Naomi took a step back, eyes widening in obvious surprise. "I... I have a…."

"Meditation seminar in Big Sur? Goat-chasing party in Tibet? Your son's going through one of the toughest times in his life. He needs every friend he can get right now, but your bags are packed and you're out of here. What's the matter? Things didn't go the way you think they should?"

"You... just wait one minute…."

"Not that you'd need an excuse," continued Jim in savage satisfaction. "You've been abandoning Blair his whole life."

Naomi gasped audibly. "I have never abandoned Blair!"

"You abandoned him every time you got bored playing mommy," sneered Jim, some small part of him wondering why he was enjoying the shocked expression on Naomi's face. "I've seen a hundred so-called mothers like you - self-absorbed little spoiled brats who have a kid because it's the most exotic pet they can own. But as soon as the novelty wears off--"

"That is not who I am!" Naomi's face flushed with outrage even as her tears slipped down her cheeks.

Jim's voice rose over hers; the dam had burst and nothing could stop the long-stemmed flood of righteous anger now. "-they're off again. When did you ever put him first? It's always been about you, hasn't it? Dragging the kid wherever your latest whim or the latest fad or your latest boyfriend took you. Never letting him have a normal life. And then as soon as he hit sixteen--"

"Stop. Stop this right now!"

Jim's fury rose to a crescendo; his voice became a shout. "You dump him at Rainier and take off for parts unknown, and only bother to breeze into town every couple years to soothe your conscience. Well, lady, Blair might consider that being a mother, but I've seen stray cats who were better at it than you, so--"

Naomi slapped him hard across the face.

The two stared at each other in shocked silence for a moment.

"Lady, do you want me to call a cop?"

Jim broke eye contact with Naomi long enough to identify the speaker as the bartender, who was standing in the doorway to the bar with a grim expression on his face and a baseball bat in his hands.

"A cop?" Naomi stared at the man for a second before she returned her gaze to Jim. And then, astonishingly, began to laugh, wiping the tears from her face. "A cop."

Her laugh was like Blair's. Slightly higher in pitch, of course, but it was still Blair's laugh, and Jim's rage had no defense against it. It collapsed like a punctured hot-air balloon, spilling its bulk over the ground; Jim was left numb and shocked among the ruins. "Naomi. I... I'm sorry."

"A cop," repeated Naomi, laughing helplessly.

An odd jolt of his stomach muscles and a harsh, unsteady sound from his throat were Jim's first clues that he was laughing, too. "Yeah. A big... dumb... cop."

"Lady," cut in the bartender in obvious exasperation.

"No, I don't want a cop," returned Naomi crisply, wiping the last of the tears from her face. "I have one too many in my life as it is. I want a drink."

The bartender threw up his arms in obvious exasperation and disappeared inside.

Jim cleared his oddly tight throat and tried again to apologize. "Naomi--"

"And so do you." Naomi seized Jim by the arm and dragged him toward the bar door.

Jim, knowing that no mere mortal could battle two Sandburgs in one day and live to tell the tale, uttered a heavy sigh and offered no resistance as he was pulled inside.

*

Blair finally gave up pretending to study. The words simply weren't penetrating. Every line of the manual seemed to read you'd know all about that, and Blair tossed the book away in anger and disgust. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to center himself.

It wasn't easy. Blair's fingers were twitching with the barely suppressed urge to wring his roommate's neck. "You'd know all about that." Prick! Ellison could be such a judgmental prick. Like Jim had never screwed up himself. Like he'd never let a friend down. James Joseph Ellison, God's Gift to Sentient Life. Perfect in every fucking way. Officially authorized by the Creator of the Universe to judge, condemn and punish anyone who didn't live up to the fucking Ellison Standard of Perfection. In short, a size-eleven chrome-plated flaming asshole with delusions of significance.

So Mr. Perfection didn't think Blair felt badly enough about what happened with the diss. Okay, so Blair had screwed up. Big time. In fact, it was the biggest screw-up of a life devoted to perfecting the art. He'd nearly tanked a case. He'd put Jim in danger. He'd put Simon and Megan in intensive care. He understood that. He understood it just fine. Why the hell did Jim think he had to rub his partner's nose in it? Did he really think that Blair didn't understand what he'd done? That Blair wouldn't spend the rest of his life regretting it, trying to make up for it? Did Jim really think Blair was both brainless and heartless?

"Shit," mumbled Blair, going for a deep calming breath and coming up with a shaky little sigh instead. "This isn't helping." He reached for his manual again, and barely managed to restrain a groan at the soft knock on the door. Now what?

Blair leveled a ferocious glare at the door, which for some reason known only to itself remained serenely unmoved by the display. Muttering Chopec obscenities under his breath, he hauled himself from the couch and made his way to the door. Who the hell would come calling unannounced, at 3 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon? He fervently hoped it wasn't some hapless Girl Scout or Jehovah's Witness; with the foul mood he was in they'd probably leave here traumatized for life. Blair plastered a pleasant expression on his face and pulled the door open.

A woman in her mid-sixties with short, light brown hair peppered with gray gazed at him from behind large-lens sunglasses, clutching her purse tightly. She cleared her throat and spoke in a soft, raspy voice. "Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair's heart sank. Not another reporter. Not after a month of relative peace. "I'm not giving any interviews," he said rather curtly, starting to close the door.

"I'm not a reporter," the woman spoke up quickly. "My name is Kathleen Macready. I'm an old family friend of the Ellisons."

"Oh," stammered Blair, feeling his face go red. "I'm sorry. Uh... Jim isn't here right now--"

"I know. I came... I came to talk to you." Her voice shook slightly.

"Me?" Blair stared in confusion.

Kathleen fingered the strap of her purse nervously. "May I come in?"

"Oh... yeah, absolutely." Blair hastily opened the door and gestured for her to enter. "Please. Come in."

The woman surprised him with a broad smile. "Thank you." She passed Blair slowly, glancing around the loft with the air of someone trying to absorb every detail.

Blair closed the door behind her, staring. Something in that smile, in the way she moved, riveted his attention, but he groped in vain to identify what fascinated him. "Have a seat, please. Um... what was it you wanted to see me about?"

Kathleen tore her gaze from some photographs of Jim on the bookshelves and sank onto the sofa. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Sandburg--"

"Blair." Blair moved closer, trying to see through the very dark sunglasses she wore. "It's no problem, really."

Kathleen smiled again, faintly. "Thank you. Blair. I know this will sound a bit strange, but I'm here to talk to you about Jimmy."

"About Jim? Did Mr. Ellison send you?" asked Blair in wonder. He'd never been on overly friendly terms with Bill Ellison, but he hadn't thought that things were so bad that the man would require an intermediary if he had really wanted to communicate something important to his son's partner.

"No," said Kathleen quietly. "Bill didn't send me. Grace did."

Blair stared blankly for a moment before light dawned. "Grace? Grace Ellison? Jim's mom?"

"Yes. She's been staying with me while she's in town--"

"Jim's mom is in Cascade?" Blair nearly missed the edge of the sofa as he sat down. "That's great! Does Mr. Ellison know? Does Jim know? How long will she be here? Will--" Blair brought himself up short at the startled look on Kathleen's face. "Ah... sorry. That's none of my business, is it? I didn't mean to--"

"Grace thinks it is," said Kathleen softly. "She saw your press conference."

"My press conference?" Blair fumbled for understanding. What could that damn press conference have to do with this?

"She saw what you did to protect her son."

"I just told the truth," said Blair stiffly, every internal alarm going off at the direction this conversation was taking. If this woman wasn't who she said she was…. A reporter? An investigator? Or even more dangerous, an academic in search of her own holy grail….

Kathleen smiled faintly. "Have you ever read the Chronicles of Narnia, Blair?"

"Narnia?" Blair floundered helplessly, lost. "Ah... yeah, when I was a kid."

"Jimmy loved those books when he was little. I would babysit Grace's boys, you see, and Jimmy would beg me to read those stories to him. And then he and Stevie would play hide-and-seek with me... you remember the children hiding from Mrs. McCready in the magical wardrobe?" Kathleen's voice took on a dreamy quality. "They loved that game. But whenever Jimmy was 'it,' he always found us right away. Always."

Blair felt his muscles tightening as if preparing to spring. "He did?"

"Always. He heard us breathing, you see. Or our heartbeats. Or he would smell my perfume, or the tollhouse cookies Stevie had stuffed into his pockets. And of course a dark closet was as bright as day to him--"

Blair rose from the sofa, now thoroughly alarmed. "Mrs. Macready, I told the truth. My research was a fraud. I don't know who sent you, but--"

"Grace did. She was afraid to come here to see Jimmy. Bill told her that Jimmy is still very angry," cut in Kathleen in a strained voice. "She was even afraid to see you. She could see how devoted you are to him. She wasn't sure how you would treat the woman who had... abandoned him. So I told her that I would speak to you."

"About what?" demanded Blair tautly, warring with the impulse to throw the woman out immediately.

"About her son. About what sort of man he is, and what sort of life he lives. If he's happy. And...."

"And?"

Kathleen adjusted her sunglasses and slid down the sofa a few inches, out of the late afternoon sun that was shining through the French doors. "And... how he's managing with his senses. If you've been able to help him…."

Blair whirled in a blur of panic and anger, and strode to the door to yank it open. "Mrs. Macready -- or whatever your name is -- I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Kathleen didn't move. "I know you're trying to protect him, Blair."

"He doesn't need my protection!" Blair drew a steadying breath and continued in a calmer tone. "There's nothing unusual about Jim Ellison. It was a lie, okay? It was a story to further my career. Sentinels don't exist--"

"We both know that's not true."

The strained, hushed quality of her voice lent her an air of conviction that made Blair hesitate, and he peered uncertainly at the woman. Kathleen removed her sunglasses and raised brilliant blue eyes to meet Blair's.

Blair almost gasped aloud as Jim's eyes, Jim's face cast in a feminine mold stared across the room at him. He pushed the door shut without thinking.

"Could you draw the blinds?" asked the woman softly. "My eyes are a little sensitive."

*

"It's amazing how many more mistakes you make when you're sure you're doing exactly the right thing than when you're not." Naomi poured herself another glass of wine from the carafe. "When your child is young, you make all his decisions for him. And somehow while you're doing that, you lose the ability to distinguish the point where you stop and he begins."

Jim scowled into his beer, grateful that they had managed to claim a booth in the most secluded corner of the bar. This conversation had Weird Shit written all over it. "Come again?"

Naomi laughed a little sadly. "Oh, you know. The Invisible Umbilical Cord. No mother has ever willingly cut it. Our children are part of us, a part that we never want to lose. That's the trap, you see. Sometimes they're so much a part of us that we're absolutely certain that whatever we're doing is for them. Never for ourselves."

Jim lifted his mug. "No offense, Naomi, but that's bullshit," he said bluntly.

"No offense, Jim, but unless your dick was sewn and not grown, then you don't know what the hell you're talking about," snapped Naomi, eyes snapping with irritation. "I carried Blair in my body for nine months. I gave birth to him. I raised him, whatever you may think of my methods. Do you really think that I don't love my son? That I wouldn't do anything in the world for him?"

"You love him," allowed Jim reluctantly, then continued with growing determination. "And you'd do anything for him, except put him first."

Naomi smacked the table between them with an open hand and a frustrated expression. "I thought I was putting him first. When I sent Blair's dissertation out, it was because I thought that it was what he wanted, that only a lack of confidence prevented him from doing it himself. And I wanted Blair to be a success, to have the rewards that he'd earned after so many years of hard work. I was positive that it was the right thing to do."

Jim snorted derisively despite himself, but Naomi continued, her voice softening.

"What I didn't realize was that Blair's definition of success was no longer mine. His definition of a life well lived was no longer mine. He had become his own person." Naomi's voice dropped. "He had cut the umbilical cord. And I hadn't been here to notice." She hastily took a sip. "You had become his brass ring."

Jim stiffened at the familiar words. "Brass ring?"

Naomi nodded, swallowing. "That's what he said right before the press conference. That he didn't want what I had tried to give him. That he already had everything he wanted right here. The brass ring, he said."

"Oh," said Jim thickly. He tried to say more and couldn't. He couldn't imagine himself as anyone's brass ring. Jesus. Blair.

"And that he still loved me." Naomi laughed a little, hastily wiping a tear away. "I wasn't sure. I should have been, though. Blair is an old, old soul. Blair forgives."

"Yeah," muttered Jim, beginning to wonder if there was in fact something lower than whale shit. "I know."

*

"I wish I could tell you more about how he felt about all this stuff he's been through. But Jim doesn't talk much. He has a hard time trusting people enough to open up." Blair handed Grace a cup of chamomile tea and sat down beside her. She was thin, he could see now. Too thin. Her clothes were impeccably clean, but worn. Her whole body seemed to be wracked with incessant waves of fine tremors.

"He opens up to you," said Grace, her searching blue eyes fixed on Blair's face as she took the cup into trembling fingers.

Blair snorted in renewed irritation. "Sometimes. And sometimes he's just as much a mystery to me as he was the day we met. Getting this guy to communicate is like pulling panther teeth."

"He's stubborn." Grace stated it as a certainty.

"He's a mule."

"And demanding."

"A cross between Mr. Clean and Dudley Do-Right, with a little Genghis Khan on the side."

"And judgmental."

"The scourge of human imperfection for miles around," snapped Blair, too raw on the subject to censor himself.

"And you love him," continued Grace softly, a ghost of a smile playing around her mouth.

Still hurting and angry, the last thing Blair wanted to say was that he loved Jim Ellison -- even to Jim's mother. But to say anything else would be a lie. "Of course I love him," he admitted in resignation. "He's my best friend."

Grace's smile deepened. "Tell me why."

Blair floundered in surprise for a moment. "He's... he's... well, he's honest." He grinned at Grace's raised eyebrows. "That's not as lame as it sounds. I mean, he's honest when it's really hard to be, when there's nothing in it for him but being honest. It may take him a little while to calm down enough to think things through, but once he does he'll figure out what's right and do it, no matter what it costs him. He's got more kinds of courage than anyone I've ever known. I owe him my life. And I'm not talking about all the times he nearly got himself killed getting me out of trouble -- there are too many of those to count. I'm talking about him showing me what a good life is -- a life well lived, like my mom says. Jim is all about helping people, protecting them, you know? And he's taught me how to do that. He's taught me how important that is, putting other people first. Man, I was such a self-absorbed jerk when I started working with Jim. I just didn't get it. You see, I'd been a part of academia since I was sixteen, and that world... well, it has its altruistic aspects, but it's basically about an academic's ability to parlay abstractions into status. Jim's way of life was a complete 180 from mine. It was real, not abstract. It was selfless, not selfish. Working with Jim has made me a better person--"

"Bill tells me," cut in Grace in a soft yet arresting tone, "that on the day you met Jimmy, you saved his life by pushing him out of the path of a garbage truck."

Blair stared at his visitor, taken aback by the apparent non sequitur. "Ah... well, actually, I sort of dragged him under it with me."

"That doesn't sound very self-absorbed to me." Grace was smiling again.

Blair felt the blood rise to his face. "Oh. Well. Every self-absorbed jerk has his lapses. You know, we've got some great oatmeal cookies. Would you like some cookies? I'll bet cookies would be great with that tea."

*

"Do you understand why I raised him that way?" Naomi poured the last of the chardonnay from the carafe and waved charmingly in the direction of the bartender, who smiled charmingly in return.

"No," said Jim flatly. He didn't understand it. And he didn't like it. And no amount of free beer was going to make him like it, even if he was a bastard for saying so. He took another swallow. "Do you?"

Naomi's wine glass halted an inch away from her lips. "I understand perfectly. I did it to protect him from the straight society that tries to destroy anyone who differs from its pathetically limited definition of 'normal.' To keep him away from my parents, who would have turned him into a budding Ivy League CPA schmuck by the time he was twelve. To expose him to different ways of life, different beliefs, different people, so that he wouldn't become one of the rigid, bigoted little assholes that used to yell 'kike dyke' at me in the street. Got it?" Her voice could have pierced titanium plating.

"Yeah. I get it," replied Jim, impressed but unconvinced. "You couldn't handle real life, so you ran away to your counter-culture fantasy world and dragged Blair along with you."

"Define real life," snapped Naomi. "What Blair and I lived was not a fantasy. We experienced life to the fullest. We were the best of friends. Blair had a wonderful, happy childhood. He learned--"

"That he wasn't part of the 'pathetically limited' real world. That he had nothing and nobody he could count on -- no family -- and he never would. That he'd always be on the outside looking in, and that everybody who was inside could only be a damn lab rat to him," snapped Jim in return, with more feeling than he had intended.

Naomi went very still, her mobile features settling into a stunned expression. "You can't really believe that. Jim. You are not a lab rat to Blair--"

"This isn't about me! We were talking about--"

"My failings as a mother. I got the drift," said Naomi tartly. "Jim, if I'd really done as bad a job as you seem to think, how do you explain Blair?"

Jim stared blankly. "What?"

"Blair." Naomi put down her glass and leaned forward, smiling. "Our Blair. My beautiful son. Your beautiful friend. The man you trusted enough to share your home, to call your partner, to guard your back and keep your secret. Our brilliant, compassionate, courageous Blair."

Jim felt the heat rising to his face. He wondered if his mother would ever have talked about him that way, if she had stayed. Probably not. He wasn't the sort of son a mother could wax eloquent over. "As unbiased a description as I've ever heard," he managed in a strained voice.

"Tell me I'm wrong," challenged Naomi.

Jim struggled for a moment. "You're not wrong," he said gruffly.

"See? I couldn't have done that badly, could I?"

"Naomi--"

"Look, Jim, I'm not saying that I didn't make mistakes. Of course I did. Every mother does. And some of a mother's most spectacular mistakes are made when she's trying to do what's best for her child. But most mothers beat themselves up quite enough without being raked over the coals by their child's best friend, thank you very much."

"Naomi, I--"

"There are a lot of things I regret. Blair knows that. He's forgiven me, Jim. Letting the guilt go isn't easy, even when your child forgives you. But I didn't fail. No one who knows Blair can say I failed." Naomi leaned back and nodded defiantly, as if daring Jim to contradict her.

"No," croaked Jim, conceding utter defeat. "You didn't fail."

"You bet your ass I didn't." Naomi took a triumphant sip of wine as the bartender laid another full carafe on the table. "And judging by you, neither did your mother."

Jim stiffened involuntarily; he spoke without thinking. "My mother walked out on us when I was eight."

Naomi's eyes widened; her hand brought her glass to an unsteady rest on the table. She said nothing for a second or two, her keen eyes searching Jim's face as Jim squirmed inwardly, cursing the beer. Why did she have go and mention his mother? Why did he have to go and answer her? Now he was in for it. Now he'd get the full Sandburg treatment, boy oh boy oh boy. The mother ship had landed. On him.

"Mike," Naomi said firmly. "Bring Jim another beer."

*

"I don't blame him for not forgiving me," said Grace quietly, paging through Jim's photo album with shaking hands. "He's had a hard time. And a lot of it can be laid at my door."

Blair hesitated, but his memory of the anguish in Jim's face wouldn't allow him to remain silent. "Mrs. Ellison, I know it's none of my bus--"

"Grace. You want to know why I left."

Blair cleared his throat uncomfortably. "No. I mean, yes, but not because…. I mean--"

"So you can help him." Grace raised those strikingly familiar eyes to Blair's with a grave expression, and Blair fell silent, startled by the woman's perceptiveness. "Bill has no idea what Jimmy means to you. Even after what you did for him. That left Bill more confused than enlightened, you know. I imagine it confused Jimmy, too."

Blair considered that possibility wonderingly for a moment. Confused? He thought Jim had understood his reasons... for everything. Maybe he shouldn't have made that assumption. Sometimes when it came to emotional stuff, Jim's reasoning was Twilight Zone material. But for crying out loud! What reason could Blair possibly have had for renouncing his work other than the fact that Jim was... well, whatever Jim was to him? Blair didn't have a name for it. Best friend? Absolutely, but that didn't cover it. Brother? That wasn't enough either. Jim was his Sentinel. Jim was his partner. Jim was his family.

Jim was an idiot.

Yeah, and it would be just like that idiot to think Blair's press conference was some sort of exercise in moral rectitude. Sure, it had been the moral thing to do. But Blair suspected that he was capable of a hell of a lot of immorality if that's what it took to keep Jim Ellison alive and well.

"My reasons were a lot like yours," Grace said thoughtfully, one unsteady finger gliding over one of Jim's wedding photos.

Blair started out of his reverie. "Like mine?"

"I thought it was best for the boys. Jimmy's condition was getting worse all the time. Bill thought that I was setting a bad example for our children. And I eventually agreed with him."

"A bad example?" Blair was flabbergasted. "You had heightened senses. There's nothing 'bad' about that. It's a gift."

Grace turned sad eyes to him. "You still believe that? After everything you and Jimmy have been through?"

"Yes." Blair was emphatic. "If you only knew how many lives Jim has been able to save with his senses--"

Grace sighed softly. "I'm glad. I'm glad you've been able to give him a sense of purpose for his... gift."

"Grace, that's not something I gave him. That's something he was born with," protested Blair earnestly.

"I wasn't," returned Grace with stark simplicity. "I was perfectly normal, you see, until the summer Jimmy turned five. We spent that summer at our cabin in the mountains--"

"Seclusion," murmured Blair. At Grace's startled look, he continued hastily. "It's a possible trigger for dormant Sentinel abilities--"

"So I've been told." Her tone had become harsh, and Blair subsided in confusion, noting her intensified trembling. "But I thought I was going insane. My 'gift' served no purpose that I can see. All it did was alienate my husband and frighten me. I didn't know what was happening to me. And when I saw it starting to happen to Jimmy--"

"You thought that if you left Jim's senses would just go back to normal again?" asked Blair incredulously.

Grace shook her head, and even in the dim light Blair could see the gray hair glinting among the brown. "No, that wasn't it. You see, I wasn't able to control my senses at all, or hide my reactions. They were overwhelming. Sometimes I would just... become hysterical. That's what Bill meant about my setting a bad example. It was a question of discipline and character, he said."

Blair suppressed his outrage with difficulty. "Grace, that's absolutely rid--"

"I agreed with him then. I just couldn't manage to control myself. I had no Blair Sandburg, no…."

"Guide," supplied Blair. "I'm Jim's Guide." He felt an odd, pleasant jolt of pride at being able to say that aloud to someone.

Grace nodded as if the word made sense to her. "Guide. Yes. I had no Guide to help me. And things kept getting worse and worse. I was beginning to scare my own children, Blair. I can still see their faces…." She broke off and hastily turned another page in the album. "I finally couldn't stand it any more. It was bad enough to be torn apart myself without tearing my family apart too. I packed and left in the middle of the night. Bill doesn't know if Jimmy remembers any of this."

"I don't know either," Blair managed to stammer, shaken at the pain in the woman's face. "Jim has an amazing ability to repress painful memories."

"Does he? I envy him." Grace turned the page of the album, her gaze sweeping the photos voraciously, as if she couldn't get enough of them.

"Where did you go when you left?" asked Blair softly.

Grace was silent for a few seconds more. "To the doctors," she said finally. "More of them than I can remember. Neurologists. Psychiatrists. All over the country. Every one of them said they could help me, could make my senses normal again. They did tests. They prescribed treatments. Nothing worked. It took years for them to go through all my money. But they did it."

"God," muttered Blair, shuddering inwardly at how close Jim had come to the same desperate, hopeless search.

"They get angry when they can't figure out what's wrong with you," continued Grace, her voice beginning to shake as much as the rest of her. "And when they get angry, they start to hurt you."

"Grace--"

"Bill says you got Jimmy away from the doctors."

"Yes," said Blair unevenly.

Grace reached over and clutched Blair's hand tightly. "Please promise me you won't let them have him again. Don't let them hurt him."

Blair answered with passion and without pausing to think. "Grace, I will never let anyone hurt Jim."

*

Naomi regarded him in exasperation. "What is it you're afraid your father will tell you? That your mother isn't the monster you've tried to convince yourself she is?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." Jim glanced around in concern, but nobody in the crowded, noisy bar was paying any attention to their conversation. "And I never said she was a monster. I just don't see the point in going over all that again. It's over."

"Is it? You're still in pain. It still affects how you see the world. It isn't over, Jim. It won't be until you come to terms with your mother as a person. And you can't do that if you won't even listen to what really happened."

"I know what happened! She left, okay? She left us. End of story." Jim took another long gulp of his beer.

"It's never that simple," said Naomi firmly.

Jim glared. "That's what Blair said. What is it with you two? Are you on some sort of half-assed mission to spread peace, love and happiness wherever you go?"

"Aren't we all?" asked Naomi serenely, flourishing her wine glass.

"Jesus H. Christ," growled Jim, thoroughly aggravated. "You're hopeless, Naomi. You and Blair both. A couple of flower children in a defoliant tank."

"Which I suppose is your quaint way of telling me that we don't stand a chance of succeeding? That we're outnumbered and we should just give up?"

"Something like that," muttered Jim.

"I see. So when does the police department plan to retire en masse to Tahiti and let the murderers and rapists and kidnappers have free run of Cascade?"

Jim groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Somebody kill me."

"People who tilt at windmills themselves have no business putting flowers in defoliant tanks." Naomi cleared her throat as Jim raised his head with an incredulous expression. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Since when have you started attributing noble motives to the police?" Jim saw her blush slightly. "I thought it was all about the 'tyranny of the pigs.'"

"You are never going to let me forget that, are you?" demanded Naomi. "Don't you ever let anything go? I was wrong, all right? It was a prejudice from my adolescence that I never addressed until I met you. I'm working on it. I could hardly feel that way when my own son is planning to become a cop."

"Actually, I'm surprised you didn't throw him over your shoulder and haul him off to a Tibetan monastery," returned Jim with ample sarcasm.

Naomi ran her finger around the rim of her glass thoughtfully. "Blair is his own person. He has to choose his own path. He's chosen a path of atonement through service. I don't agree with his choice, but it's honorable."

"Atonement?" Jim leaned forward, beginning to wish he hadn't had quite so many beers. "Atonement for what?"

Naomi flushed again and waved rather desperately at the bartender. "I have had much too much wine. I think it's time for coffee."

"Naomi," growled Jim dangerously. "What's going on? Why the hell would Blair need to atone for anything? Are you telling me he doesn't want to be a cop?"

"Of course he does, Jim. Working with you means everything to him. Mike!"

"Dammit, Naomi, spill it!"

"Mike, two coffees, please!"

"Fine. I'll just go ask Blair." Jim rose a little more unsteadily than he would have liked.

"No," gasped Naomi, grabbing his arm. "Jim, please don't mention this to him!"

"Fine." Jim fell back into his seat gratefully. "Then tell me."

*

Grace reached for the most recent photo album. "Bill tells me you're going to become a police officer," she said, nodding at the procedural manual lying next to the albums on the coffee table.

"Yes."

"Jimmy must be very happy about that."

"I guess so," said Blair quietly.

"Are you?"

Blair struggled for a response that wasn't a lie. "It's the right thing to do."

Grace met his gaze for a moment, concern in her face, then nodded and opened the album. "He smiles more in these pictures than in the earlier ones." She bent over a photo of Jim and Blair on a fishing trip.

"Does he?" Blair leaned over her shoulder. Jim was holding up his catch with one hand, his other arm draped around Blair's shoulders. He was grinning ear to ear. Blair instinctively smiled in return. "Yeah, I guess he does."

"He smiles more since he met you," added Grace with soft gratitude.

Blair studied the pictures again, at a loss for a response. Was Jim really happier with Blair around? Jim had never given him that impression, but then, that wasn't really the kind of thing a guy says to his best friend.

Grace hesitated, her fingers caressing the photo lovingly. "When I left I was so certain that I was doing the right thing, that it was best for my children. But it hurt them so badly. I don't think now that staying with them would have been any worse. When I asked Steven about that the other day, he couldn't answer me."

"You've spoken to Steven?" Blair was surprised. Jim and Steven spoke on a pretty regular basis, and as far as he knew, Steven hadn't breathed a word to Jim that their mother was in town.

"Yes. The day before yesterday."

"How did it go?"

Grace's smile was strained. "He's his father's son. He was... polite."

Blair flinched inwardly. Still, polite was probably more than Jim would have been, if Grace had tried to speak with him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I honestly didn't expect any of them to be willing to see me. Just being able to have polite conversations with Bill and Stevie was more than I could have hoped for." Grace hesitated. Blair could see that she was fighting tears. "Could I... could I please see where Jimmy sleeps?"

"Sure," murmured Blair around a tightening throat, rising from the sofa. "His bedroom's up in the loft, right up the steps here--"

The phone rang, and Grace gasped loudly and jumped, clutching Blair's arm.

"Whoa, whoa, easy," said Blair in astonishment, supporting the woman as she leaned trembling against him. "Dial it down."

"Dial?" breathed Grace wildly, clamping both hands over her ears and backing away from the phone.

Blair snatched up the phone and answered it, for no other reason than to kill the shrill ring that was obviously so painful to his guest. "Yes?" he snapped.

"Blair, it's Bill Ellison."

Blair saw Grace blanch, then turn to climb the stairs to Jim's bedroom, leaning heavily on the railing. "Yes, Mr. Ellison."

"Is Grace there?"

"Yes."

"Tell her that her time's up."

A surge of anger deprived Blair of speech for a moment. "Her time's up? What the hell does that mean? Grace is welcome here for as long as she wants to stay."

"If you'll just give her the message--"

"No," said Blair in hot indignation. "I won't. Who do you think--"

"Dammit, Blair, it's dangerous for her to be over there at all! Now give her the message!"

The voice was so much like Jim's that Blair instinctively stopped to listen. Dangerous?

"Tell him I'll be leaving in ten minutes," came Grace's unsteady voice from above.

"She says she's leaving in ten minutes," repeated Blair haltingly, completely at a loss.

"She's pushing it. The car will be waiting in the alley behind your building."

Blair almost laughed aloud. "Mr. Ellison, you've got to be kidding."

There was an uncertain pause on the other end of the line. "Ten minutes."

Blair stared at the receiver as Bill broke the connection.

*

"This is so damn typical. What the hell is he thinking?"

"Jim, you promised to be calm."

"I'm always calm!"

"Uh-huh."

"Karmic debt? Cosmic sign? What the hell kind of New Age bullshit is that? Typical, half-baked, flaky Sandburg reasoning--"

"Why are you angry?"

"What the hell kind of reason is that to pick a career? What's the next sign going to be? Lint in his navel? Dog shit on the sidewalk? For crying out loud, Naomi--"

"Why are you angry?"

"Your beautiful son is a mental case, okay? Our brilliant, compassionate, courageous Blair is going to get a good swift kick in his brilliant, compassionate, courageous ass for pulling this stunt--"

"Why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry!" shouted Jim, loudly enough to attract the curious attention of the people closest to them. He couldn't have cared less at that moment. Damn the kid. Damn the beautiful kid! What was he trying to prove? "I'm…." He groped for an adjective.

"Very angry," finished Naomi archly.

"Fine," snapped Jim, at the end of his longest rope. "I'm angry. I've got every reason to be. What the hell is he thinking?"

"He isn't thinking. He's feeling."

"What the hell is he feeling, then?"

"How did you feel when you found Blair in the fountain?" Naomi's eyes met Jim's and locked.

Jim instinctively recoiled. He felt like he'd taken a two-by-four to the stomach, and it was all he could do to breathe for a couple seconds. "He told you," he croaked.

"Yes. How did you feel?" Her voice was like steel.

Jim tore his gaze away, unable to face her. The image of Blair lying cold, blanched and motionless on the grass tortured his mind's eye for the thousandth time in the past year. "Jesus. Naomi…."

"Tell me."

"This has nothing to do with--"

"I think you owe Blair at least that much."

Jim's head jerked up as the blow with a two-by-four became a stab with a knife. "That was a fucking low blow," he snarled. "You want to know how it felt? Fine. It felt like I'd just drowned the best friend I'd ever had with my own two hands. Like I'd murdered someone who'd done nothing but help me and stand by me. Like I was fucking damned for all time. Okay? Satisfied?" He started to rise, unable to stand the resemblance to Blair in Naomi's face, but Naomi laid her hand on his.

"That's how Blair feels," she whispered.

Jim froze.

Naomi nodded, eyes bright.

Jim eased himself back into his seat, knowing that this time the weakness in his legs had nothing to do with the beer. That's how Blair felt? God. He didn't want Blair to feel that. He wouldn't wish that feeling on his worst enemy. And Blair was a far from an enemy as a man could get. There was no name for what Blair was to him. He was too close to name.

"He just made a stupid mistake, for God's sake," stammered Jim.

Naomi nodded again. "Yes. A mistake that put people he loves in harm's way."

"He never meant for any of that to happen. Blair would never betray a friend."

"Jim--"

"He'd die first." Jim heard his voice rise passionately, and lowered it again with an effort. "That's the kind of man he is."

"That's exactly what he says about you." Naomi's gaze remained firmly locked with his as her fingers tightened around his hand.

Jim felt something tight in his chest give way, and he drew a ragged breath, blinking furiously to clear his blurred vision. "He said that?"

"Yes."

"He's... he's nuts, you know that? He's fucking certifiable."

"Jim, you don't have to--"

"Why the hell would he say something like that?" Jim knew his face was wet and didn't care. "I abandoned him. I nearly killed him. Why would he say that?"

Naomi studied him with wonder in her face for a moment, then spoke very slowly and carefully, as if to a child. "Because he loves you. Because he's forgiven you."

"Forgiven me." Jim repeated the words stupidly, feeling like he'd taken one blow to the head too many. Just like that? Blair had just wiped the slate clean? How?

"Of course he did. A person's mistakes aren't who they are. Blair loves who you are, Jim. What else would he do but forgive?"

"It's that simple?" rasped Jim, wiping his face with his free hand.

"Not for most of us," murmured Naomi wryly, brushing her own tears away. "Drink your coffee."

*

Blair threw down the phone and took the stairs to Jim's bedroom two at a time. Grace sat on the edge of Jim's bed, her face in her hands. Damn. Her shaking was worse; he could see it from where he stood. What was she so terribly afraid of?

"Grace." Blair squatted down in front of her. "If you're in trouble--"

"I have to go," breathed the woman, a tear slipping past her hands and into view.

"You don't have to go. Tell me what's wrong. Jim and I might be able--"

"No!" Grace's head snapped up with a determined expression. "Jimmy can't get involved in this."

Blair nodded, startled at the violent fear in those blue eyes. "Just me, then. Tell me how I can help."

Grace smiled tremulously, laying a shaking hand on Blair's shoulder. "You've already helped. More than you can ever know."

Blair restrained his frustration with difficulty. "Grace, I can't just let you disappear into the night if you're in trouble. Is it Bill? Is he--"

"Oh, no." Grace's grip on Blair's shoulder tightened. "He was the only person in the world I could trust, until I met you. I'm sorry, Blair. I don't have time to explain." She rose unsteadily and made her way toward the stairs.

*

"Tell Blair I'll be staying at Siobhan's if he needs me." Naomi opened the door of the cab.

"You're staying?" Jim regarded her with surprise.

"Yes. A guy I know pointed out that I haven't been there for Blair as much as I should have." Naomi regarded Jim gravely.

"Oh. Yeah. Well." Jim cleared his throat in discomfort. "Maybe that guy ought to keep his mouth shut until he gets his own act together."

Naomi gave him a broad, beautiful Sandburg grin. "Maybe. But he'd be a lot less enlightening that way."

"Enlightening," growled Jim in feigned exasperation, feeling his throat tighten. "Swell. You've made my day."

Still smiling, Naomi leaned closer and planted a soft kiss on Jim's cheek. "Still friends?"

"Yeah," said Jim gruffly, returning the kiss. "Still friends."

"Call me."

"Okay."

"Remember, you owe me a drink."

"Yeah," said Jim quietly. "I owe you, Naomi."

*

"Thank you for everything, Blair." Grace wiped her cheeks hurriedly and donned her sunglasses again, turning to take one last look at the loft.

"It's dark outside," Blair said wonderingly.

"Street lights. Headlights." Grace shook her head as she picked up her purse, which slipped from her shaking hands to land on the coffee table, spilling some of its contents.

Blair watched her, dismayed. She had no control at all. How had she managed to stay sane all these years? Grace quickly snatched up her scattered belongings and stuffed them back into her purse. Blair realized with a sinking heart that a lot of the small objects were pill bottles.

Medication. God only knew what she was taking to dull her senses. Whatever it was, there was a lot of it, and it didn't work very well. Blair began to suspect that her constant trembling wasn't due to fear alone. That much medication must have God-awful side effects. Blair groaned inwardly, aching for her. What was she running from? She should stay here. He could help her.

"Grace, please stay. I know Jim would want you to. We can help--"

"I can't," breathed Grace shakily. "Please believe me, Blair. I can't. I've stayed too long already. Don't worry, I'll be all right. Thank you for everything you've done for Jimmy." She turned toward the back door of the loft, but Blair touched her arm.

"Wait." Blair quickly slipped the photo of Jim and himself from the album and scribbled their phone number on the back. "Here. Take this. If you ever need anything, call me. Please, Grace."

Grace ran a gentle finger over the surface of the photo lovingly, then slipped it into the side pocket of her purse with great care. "Thank you," she whispered.

Blair nodded bleakly, kicking himself thoroughly as he realized that nothing he could do would stop her from leaving. "I'll walk you down."

*

Jim watched Naomi's cab disappear around the corner into the dark, then turned purposefully toward his truck. He was going home right now. And then he and young Mr. Sandburg were going to have a nice, long Sentinel-to-Guide talk. No more of this 'atonement' crap was going down on Jim's watch. Blair was going to withdraw from the Academy immediately. Blair was going to do whatever he wanted to do with his life. Blair was going to be happy whether he liked it or not, and Jim was going to make damn sure he liked it.

And then Blair was going to understand that... that whatever dumb mistake he had made in not removing Jim's name from that damn dissertation, that that's all it had been. A dumb mistake. There were half-a-dozen people ahead of Blair Sandburg when it came to guilt or responsibility for everything that had gone wrong, and Jim was one of them. Somewhere in the back of what passed for his mind, he'd known that. But he'd turned on Blair anyway. And the kid had been beating himself up every day since. You'd know all about that had been just one more kick to a man who was already down.

Yeah, Sandburg was going to get an earful. Probably the longest speech he'd ever heard out of Jim's mouth, and the phrases 'I'm sorry' and 'I was a fucking asshole' were going to figure prominently.

Jim grunted determinedly to himself and fished his keys out of his jacket pocket, only to be brought up short by a familiar, mournful sound. Raising his eyes, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of a beautiful, silver, pale-eyed wolf lying curled up on the hood of his truck. The animal didn't move, but merely stared back at him, crying softly. Jim drew a shaky breath at the sound. He hadn't heard that since…. Jim struggled to block out his nightmare image of Blair lying dead on the forest floor.

"What... what the hell…?" whispered Jim, too shocked to move.

The wolf lifted its head and pricked its ears forward, then uttered another whimper as a different sound reached Jim's ears. With a rustle of feathered wings and a soft hooting call, the great grey owl glided out of the dark, hovered momentarily, and to Jim's sickened horror, landed on the wolf's back. The wolf uttered another piteous cry, and Jim exploded into an anguished scream.

"No! No, get away from him, you bastard!" Jim sprinted forward, waving his arms like a lunatic. "Get off him! Get off--" His headlong rush failed to reckon with the curb, and he stumbled onto all fours in the street, his keys escaping from his grasp to land a few feet away.

Scrambling to his feet, he snatched up his keys and turned toward the truck again, knowing as he did so that both owl and wolf would be gone. Not a trace of either animal remained, but Jim was struggling to unlock the door before his mind had fully registered that fact. He wrenched open the door and threw himself behind the wheel, starting up the engine and roaring away into the night before he remembered to close the door behind him. A small gray bird fluttered past his windshield, dodging impact in the nick of time.

"Jesus, sweet Jesus," he heard himself babbling as he blew through deserted intersections, red light after red light. "Don't do this, Chief. I'm coming, hang on. Just hang on. "

*

Blair opened the back door of the building and peered out into the dark of the alley uncertainly. A black Mercedes that Blair recognized as one of Bill Ellison's cars was waiting, engine running, a few feet away. The vaguely familiar man leaning against it turned toward him as he stepped outside.

"Where's Mrs. Ellison?"

"I'm right here, Mark."

Blair placed the man. Mark Troy, Bill Ellison's lawyer. He'd seen him once when he'd come to see Jim about Bill's will.

"Let's go." Mark opened the rear door.

Blair turned toward Grace as she paused long enough to drop a quick kiss on his cheek. "Take care. Keep him safe for me," she whispered.

"I will. You take care too," murmured Blair. Grace seemed about to answer, but her attention was attracted by something over Blair's right shoulder. "Grace?"

With widened eyes and a sharp intake of breath, Grace grabbed Blair and shoved him forcefully toward the open door of the car. "Get in!" Blair stumbled and fell half-in and half-out of the car, looking over his shoulder at the woman in blank astonishment as she tried frantically to push him the rest of the way in. "Mark, drive, drive--"

Before Blair could gather his wits enough to move, Grace uttered a little shriek and made a wild attempt to clamber over Blair into the car -- and made another as long, muscular arms and broad hands grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her out again. Blair let out a startled yell and struggled to his feet. He paused long enough for his mind to register the sight of a tall, well-built man wearing ragged clothes and long, dark hair wrestling with Grace, who was wrapped tightly in his arms, and with Mark, who had jumped on his back.

"Let go of her!" Blair threw himself forward to grab one of the stranger's arms, yanking with all his strength to free Grace. He was vaguely surprised to find that the arm wouldn't budge. The man had taken on all three of them and was somehow managing to hold his own. Who the hell was this guy?

"You heard him," gasped Mark, with an awkward, ineffectual punch to the side of their attacker's head. With something like an annoyed grimace, the stranger threw himself backward, ramming Mark's back into the side view mirror. Mark cried out in pain and let go, falling to the pavement on all fours.

"Son of a bitch," snarled Blair, still trying to pry an arm loose. The blind panic and pain in Grace's face was too much to stand. "Let her go now."

As if in response, the stranger freed one arm long enough to take Blair by the front of his shirt and toss him like a rag doll into the garbage cans lined up against the side of the building. Blair's peripheral vision caught the blur of the man's freed hand disappearing inside his tattered jacket, and all his experience with Cascade's best cop told him what was coming next. Without stopping to think, Blair snatched up the nearest garbage can lid and brought it down on the hand holding the gun, then smashed it into the man's face.

At the same moment, Grace sent an elbow into his stomach and staggered free; she immediately dove into the back seat of the car and shut the door behind her. Blair struck the man again on the side of the head as he turned toward her, and this time the attacker fell to his knees. Blair dropped his weapon and launched himself on top of him, wrestling him to the ground.

Mark pulled himself to his feet, his face twisted in pain.

"Drive. Get her out of here," gasped Blair.

"You can't--" began Mark doubtfully, but he was already feeling for the door handle.

"Go, go!" shouted Blair, staying on top of the furiously shifting man with difficulty.

Mark yanked the door open and jumped behind the wheel, slamming the door behind him.

"No! We can't leave him here," came an anguished cry from the back seat, almost drowned out by the roar of the engine and the squeal of tires.

Blair caught one last glimpse of Grace as the car turned the corner, her tear-streaked face and trembling hands pressed to the window. With a muffled curse, the man beneath him bucked upward, knocking him aside. Before Blair could regain his balance, he was flipped flat on his back and pinned to the ground. His opponent stared down at him, breathing hard.

"Well," the stranger said sardonically, with a distinctly British accent. "If it isn't the infamous Professor Sandburg."

Blair stared back, suddenly realizing that he recognized the man. This was the same face that had stared up at him from the pavement as he'd dropped money in the upturned cap, or left a sandwich or a cup of coffee by his side; it was their homeless neighbor from across the street. "Get off me!"

"It seems I underestimated you."

"Get off me now!" shouted Blair at the top of his lungs, hoping against all probability that someone might hear him.

The man grimaced and rose, hauling Blair up with him, then shoved him back through the open door into the stairwell and yanked it shut behind them. Blair made a dash for the stairs, but was taken roughly by the arm and propelled off the steps and up against the far wall before his foot had hit the second step.

"It took me almost six months to locate that woman," barked the man, leaning against the wall with one hand on either side of Blair. "You've ruined half a year's work."

"Yeah, well. Sucks to be you," panted Blair, looking for an opening and seeing none.

"My employers are expecting delivery tonight. They are going to be very unhappy."

"Sucks to be them, too."

"I'm not going back to them without a Sentinel."

Blair could almost hear his own jaw drop. A Sentinel? This guy knew that Grace was a Sentinel? He'd tried to kidnap her because she was a Sentinel? Shit oh shit oh shit…. "A... a what?" he managed to stammer.

"Don't waste my time."

Blair pulled himself together. "Look, man, I think you're a little confused. There are no such things as Sentinels, okay? The dissertation was bogus. It's fiction, got it?"

The stranger started laughing softly, and bent even closer. For one bizarre moment, Blair thought the man was either going to kiss him or bite him. He froze, watching in confusion as his captor took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Oatmeal cookies," he drawled, looking straight into Blair's eyes. "And chamomile tea."

Oh, shit.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit….

"Ham on rye. And a... Budweiser? Christ. You Yanks have the most bleeding awful taste in beer."

Oh shit oh shit oh shit….

"I've never reported to my employers empty-handed and I'm not going to start now. I want to know where she's heading."

"I don't know," breathed Blair, feeling himself start to shake. This was trouble. This was big trouble.

"No?" The man observed him a moment with narrowed eyes. "Fine. I'm adaptable. He wasn't my assignment, but I suppose any Sentinel is better than none. Where's Ellison?"

Blair's mouth went dry. "I don't know."

"Don't be a damn fool, Sandburg. You haven't heard my offer yet. How much is he paying you?"

"Paying me?"

"Whatever it is, I'll double it."

"What the hell would Jim be paying me for?"

"Drop the act. Ellison was self-destructing from sensory overload before you started training him. It was only a matter of time before he was institutionalized. Then you show up and within weeks he's manipulating his senses like an old pro."

Blair fought to keep his growing panic out of his expression. How could this guy possibly know all this? "Who are you?"

"He's a cop, for God's sake. He's going nowhere. He can't afford what you're worth. You sang your little swan song to the press for the wrong Sentinel; I would have made it worth your while."

"Worth my--"

"Tell me where he is, and when I've delivered him, you can come work for me. My employers will be placated, and then you can help me track down the old lady. Everybody's happy."

Blair felt his stomach turn over. Deliver him? Deliver Jim? To whom? For what? Oh, God. Jim was out there somewhere, right now, with no one to watch his back.

"Fuck you," said Blair hotly, shoving the man away. "Jim's not for sale, and neither am I. I don't care how much money you've got."

The man shoved him back, betraying genuine anger for the first time. "I don't have time for this."

Before Blair could respond, his attacker's hands were on his neck, fingers probing deeply, then jabbing. Blair started to scream, then choked it back with what was left of his strength. Every part of his body was seized by blinding, suffocating pain, and the only reason he didn't collapse was that the stranger was still pinning him to the wall.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The man's tone was grim. "I can make it hurt worse. I won't have to if you tell me where Ellison is and when he's due back. Where does he spend his free time? What's his schedule? Cooperate, Sandburg. You'll thank me for it in the end."

Blair clutched the man's wrists, trying desperately to pull the torturous hands away, but the strength left his arms; they fell limp and useless at his sides. "No." He spoke the only word his shattered thought processes could produce, in something that sounded like a sob. Jim keep away keep away keep away God keep him far away…. "No no no no no--" The fingers shifted slightly, and Blair's full-throated scream echoed wildly in the stairwell as the pain seized what was left of his mind. "No!"

And then it was gone, and he was falling. He landed hard on the cement floor and lay there on his side, unable to move, watching in stunned silence as Jim Ellison rammed the stranger into the wall Blair had previously occupied, black fury in his face. "Dead," he snarled, wild and dangerous. "You're dead."

The stranger stared back at Jim with an expression of complete and devastated astonishment. "Where the hell did you come from?"

He didn't sense Jim, thought Blair in a sort of numb, vague amazement.

Jim seemed oblivious to what had happened; he shoved his gun under the man's chin with a feral glitter in his eyes. "Dead," he snarled again, his finger on the trigger.

Blair drew a breath. "Jim," he whispered with an effort. "Don't."

Jim froze for a couple heartbeats, looking with open loathing into his enemy's face, then glanced over his shoulder at Blair. The savagery in his expression melted away.

"Don't," breathed Blair again, locking his gaze with Jim's. "Please."

The wildness faded from Jim's eyes; he grimaced as if in pain. Then in one fluid motion, he holstered his gun and whipped out his handcuffs. The stranger relaxed visibly, a mocking smile touching his face.

"I take it this means I'm not dead?"

Jim slapped one cuff on with unnecessary force and yanked the man over to the stairs, where he secured him to the steel banister.

"Aren't you going to Mirandize me, Detective?"

Ignoring him, Jim knelt beside Blair and, with a gentleness that startled Blair more than his violence had, stroked the hair back from his face. Blair tried to smile, but had a feeling that his face muscles weren't quite up to it. "Good timing, buddy."

Jim's face twisted; he drew a sharp, funny little breath. "How bad are you?" he demanded. His voice was shaking.

"I don't know." Blair drew a deep breath. "Everything aches."

"Can you move?"

Blair set all his will to moving his arm, but it was as if it were someone else's. He swallowed his panic down hard. "No."

"You'll be all right, Chief." Jim slipped an arm under Blair's shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position, cradling him within the protective circle of his arm. "Okay?" He bent to examine Blair's face carefully, his own drawn with anxiety.

With some effort, Blair managed to hold his head erect. "Yeah. Okay," he said firmly, more to reassure Jim than to say anything resembling the truth. He could feel the arm around his shoulders trembling.

Jim's mouth became a thin, tight line, and Blair sighed inwardly. The Blessed Protector wasn't buying it. Evidently Blair Sandburg, Master Obfuscator, was not in top form at the moment. With his free hand, Jim dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed the dispatch line. He glanced at Blair's attacker, who was observing their interaction with great interest. "What did you do to him?" His voice was deadly now, cold.

"Nothing that won't wear off in the next half hour or so," returned the stranger coolly.

Blair let go a little sigh of relief.

"Start praying it does." Jim turned back to Blair, giving his shoulders a slight squeeze. "Yes, this is Detective Ellison. Officer in need of assistance at 852 Prospect."

*

"I can't believe you," snapped Blair, as Jim laid him on the couch. "I can't believe you just carried me--"

"Shut up," said Jim quietly, covering Blair with the old afghan. Blair had fought him every step of the way up to the loft -- as much as any man could fight when he couldn't move any muscles below his neck. Which meant, of course, a lot of classic Sandburg kvetching at top Sandburg volume.

"-like a fucking baby," continued Blair in furiously high dudgeon. "In front of a perp," he added, his emphasis making quite clear that this was the ultimate indignity.

Jim almost laughed. Almost. "Relax. Your reputation is safe with me, Rambo."

"You can't leave him unguarded, man, he's dangerous!"

"I know he is. That's why you're up here and he's down there. Backup will be here any minute. They can handle him."

"They can't handle him! He's a Sentinel, for God's sake. Don't tell me you didn't sense him either."

"I sensed him," returned Jim, with more rage in his tone than he ever wanted to show. He knelt beside the couch to bend over his friend, carefully examining the site of the injury to Blair's neck with shaking hands. "And I swear to God if I go back down there, there won't be anything left of him to sense." Jim reined himself in with difficulty. God, it had been close. As close as it had ever been. If it hadn't been for Blair, that son of a whore's brains would be splattered all over the stairwell by now.

A moment of wide-eyed silence from the man on the couch was the only response Jim got for a moment. "Don't go down," stammered Blair finally.

"I won't." Jim got the distinct impression that Blair would have grabbed him to make sure of that -- if he could. But he couldn't. Damn, what had that bastard done to him? Jim had seen holds like that during his time in covert ops, but nothing that affected the entire body for this long. Whatever this guy might be, he was no simple street thug. "The paramedics should be here soon. Feel anything yet?"

"Yeah. It... burns, sort of."

"What does?"

"Everything." Blair tried to laugh and didn't do very well.

Jim swore silently at the pain in Blair's face. Blair was hurting, and there was nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing. Where were the damn paramedics? He was fucking useless. "I'm sorry, Chief."

Blair shook his head slightly, frowning. "Come on, man, don't go there. You can't--"

"I should have been here."

"Jim, you can't protect me from--"

"And I would have been here if I hadn't been acting like such an asshole."

"Well, you have me, there, tough guy," breathed Blair raggedly, with a crooked little grin. "You are one honkin' big asshole."

"I'm sorry. I let you down," rasped Jim, not having heart enough to rise to the bait.

Blair's grin faded to a confused expression. "What... what the hell are you talking about? You just saved my life... again. I hope you're keeping count, man, 'cause I have completely lost track... oh, shit…." Blair drew a rasping little breath as pain and fear flooded his expression. "Jim--"

Acting on some unnamable instinct, Jim scooped Blair's head and upper body into his arms and cradled his friend close. "Easy. Breathe." He could feel the muscles in Blair's chest and arms twitching uncontrollably. "It must be wearing off." He hoped it was wearing off. He prayed it was wearing off. That the bastard downstairs hadn't lied. That it wasn't the beginning of something worse.

"God, Jim... it really... hurts." Blair's voice was a pained whisper; he gasped as his right arm jerked visibly.

"Don't talk. Don't fight it. Just breathe, Chief. Try to relax," chanted Jim in as soothing a voice as he could manage. He was dimly aware of sirens in the distance, but Blair's entire body went suddenly into a violent spasm, and he had no time or thought for anything but the man in his arms. Blair choked back a cry of pain, hiding his face against Jim's chest. "Breathe, buddy, breathe," whispered Jim in his ear, Blair's rampaging heartbeat and shallow, uneven breathing pounding his eardrums, his convulsing body setting every nerve ending aching in empathy. "Hang on. Just hang on."

Blair nodded against Jim's chest, taking a long, shaky breath that caught unnervingly in his throat as his body shuddered against Jim. "Hang on," he echoed in a labored wheeze.

Jim restrained an exultant shout as Blair's right hand clenched around his arm. Yes. Yes! Jim clutched Blair to him in a paroxysm of blind gratitude, setting every sense he had to monitor the convulsing muscles as they very gradually quieted to fine tremors and Blair's breathing and heart rate slowly returned to normal. Blair lay huddled in Jim's arms for a few minutes longer, breathing hard, and Jim made no effort to dislodge him. He rested his head on Blair's, letting his relief wash over him in a cleansing wave, letting himself breathe for the first time in what seemed like hours. Then he lowered Blair to the sofa with as much gentleness as his own tired muscles would allow, examining Blair's sweat-covered face anxiously. "Chief? Okay?"

Blair nodded wordlessly, patted the arm he had been clinging to, and closed his eyes.

Jim started as the familiar voice boomed into his world, accompanied by the wail of sirens and the screeching of tires.

"Cavalry's here," murmured Blair with eyes closed, and with more irreverence than an invalid should in decency have.

Jim felt the tightness in his chest give way, and he chuckled softly, ruffling Blair's sweat-dampened hair. Blair was okay. He was okay.

"Ellison! Sandburg!"

"Simon sounds a little upset," continued Blair, opening one eye. "Maybe you'd better let him in."

*

"She's gone." Blair watched Jim clutch the phone so tightly that his knuckles went white. "Yeah, Dad. I understand. But... I mean, she's okay?"

Blair gazed at his friend in bewilderment. Jim was worried about his mom -- the mom that a few hours ago he hadn't wanted anything to do with. Blair had expected an explosion of Ellisonian proportions when he'd told Jim what had happened. But Jim hadn't exploded. He'd stared at Blair in wonder for a few moments, rubbed Blair's shoulder thoughtfully, and picked up the phone.

"Good. Good. Yes. He's a little banged up, but he'll be okay. Yes, I'll tell him."

Blair closed his eyes and settled deeper into the sofa cushions. 'Banged up' was a good description. He ached in places he hadn't known he'd had. But everything seemed to be working. The paramedics hadn't found anything wrong with him, apart from a few bruises. They had tried to get him into the hospital for observation anyway, of course. But he hadn't budged, despite characteristic yelling from Simon and uncharacteristic quiet persuasion from his Blessed Protector. Blair had no intention of being more than ten feet away from Jim for the foreseeable future.

"No, Dad. I blew it. I had him, but he slipped the cuffs while I was busy getting Blair away from him and God knows where he is now. Simon has an APB out on him."

Simon would never find him. Blair had known the man would disappear the minute Jim had turned his back on him to do his Me Sentinel, You Guide bit. Blair felt his face go red in remembered anger and frustration. Sentinel and Guide were going to have a nice, long talk about that little stunt -- no expletives deleted. Jim must have known that that would happen. He'd let a man who abducted and 'delivered' Sentinels for a price -- a man who represented a very real danger to Jim's existence -- escape, all so he could play Save Little Buddy. Well, Little Buddy would have been just fine where he was until backup arrived, and Jim would have known that if his brain hadn't been vacationing on Planet Blessed Protector. That was not going to happen again. Now this... this hunter was out there somewhere, and Jim would be in constant danger until he was caught.

And he wouldn't be caught. Every instinct Blair possessed told him that this Sentinel would have no trouble whatsoever in eluding local law enforcement.

"Jesus Christ. Is that all she told you? Who are they?"

Blair nodded absently. Good question. Vital question. Somehow he doubted Bill Ellison would know the answer, though. He wondered if even Grace knew whom she was running from.

Jim sighed. "Okay, Dad. If I find out anything I'll let you know. Oh, and Dad? I'm... I'm sorry."

Blair's eyes snapped open in astonishment.

"You know. That I wouldn't listen to you about Mom. That I blew my chance to hear what she had to say."

Blair propped himself up on his elbows, eyeing Jim up and down, certain that if he looked hard enough he'd be able to see the zipper in the Jim costume this alien being was wearing.

"I hope so. Tell me if you hear from her? Okay. Dad, if you do... tell her... tell her I want to help, okay? Tell her to call me. Oh, he did?" Jim paused and looked at Blair with raised eyebrows. Blair swallowed, resisting the urge to hide his head under the afghan. "Yeah, well... he's always been the brains of the outfit."

Blair flopped back against the pillows. Ooo-kay. We were definitely over the rainbow. Jim Ellison had left the building.

"Right. Talk to you later." Jim hung up and tossed the phone onto the coffee table.

"She's okay?" asked Blair quickly.

"Yeah. Thanks to you." Jim perched on the edge of the couch and surveyed Blair with a sober expression. "Dad says if there's anything he can do for you, name it."

Blair snorted and made a dismissive gesture, uncomfortable.

"That goes for me, too."

Blair shot his friend an appraising look, his astonishment kicking into overdrive. "You okay?"

Jim shrugged. "Just saying thanks."

"You're welcome," said Blair wryly, certain there was more.

Jim fidgeted for a moment. "Chief, we have to talk."

Whoa. So much for bedrock. "We have to talk?"

"Yeah."

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"What drugs are you on?"

Jim pressed on determinedly. "We have to talk about you and the Academy."

Blair had to steel himself against a visible start. He scrambled to assume his most nonchalant attitude, wondering what the hell had gotten into the man. "Me and the Academy? Any particular context?"

"Why are you going to the Academy, Sandburg?"

Blair eased himself into a sitting position, fighting a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Jim had never asked that before. "I could have sworn you were there. Okay. Once upon a time there was this brilliant, incredibly good-looking anthropology student who--"

"Do you want to be a cop?"

"I'm at the Academy, aren't I?" Blair found his gaze wandering everywhere but Jim's face.

"Look me in the eye," said Jim sharply, "and tell me you want to be a cop."

Shit. Shit!

Blair raised his eyes to Jim's. "I want…." He'd thought he could do it. He'd thought he could lie to the man. But he couldn't. "I want to be your partner," he said desperately.

Jim let out a little gust of a sigh, as if he'd been holding his breath. "You are my partner. You'll always be my partner."

"Jim--"

"What happened was not your fault."

Blair froze, knowing his jaw had dropped, knowing he should say something and finding himself completely unable to speak.

"It wasn't," persisted Jim as if Blair had denied it. "There are a whole hell of a lot of people ahead of you in this line, Chief. Including me. You didn't--"

"Jim, just listen to me," blurted Blair, wondering frantically how the big lug had put this together and why the hell he was trying to take it apart. "I screwed up."

"Welcome to the club," returned Jim wryly.

"No!" Blair grabbed Jim's shoulder and shook it. "You don't get it. I didn't just screw up as a cop. I didn't just blow a case. I didn't just put Simon and Megan in intensive care."

"Zeller put Simon and Megan in intensive care," said Jim, quiet and fierce. "Not you. And you didn't--"

Blair shook Jim again and kept right on going, his voice becoming less and less steady. "I screwed up as your Guide. I didn't protect you. I let some crazy idea from my childhood keep me from seeing what was important. From doing what was right. I was a selfish, careless asshole. I took your life apart. I nearly got you killed, man. You're my best friend, and I nearly got you killed."

Blair's vision blurred and his voice broke. Shit. Shit. This wasn't supposed to happen. Jim wasn't supposed to ask those questions. And Blair wasn't supposed to have to answer. He had been so damn pissed at Jim for not knowing all this, but he hadn't really wanted him to know. Not really. There was just no way in hell Jim could understand how this felt, or what Blair needed to do about it.

"Chief." Jim's voice shook, but Blair ploughed ahead without looking at him.

"I've got a lot to make up for. I need to do this."

"No!" Jim grabbed Blair's shoulders this time, and shook them hard. Blair looked up, startled, to see the anguish in Jim's face. "Dammit, Chief, I've seen guys make that commitment out of guilt. Nine times out of ten they wind up dead before their first year is up. If I weren't such a lucky son of a bitch -- if Jack Pendergrast hadn't steered me straight -- I'd be dead too. But that wouldn't have brought my men back. It wouldn't have undone the mistakes I made in Peru."

Blair struggled in shock for words and found none. Jim took another breath and continued at breakneck speed, as if he were determined to have his say or die in the attempt.

"You say you screwed up as my Guide. Well, okay, if you say so. But I've screwed up as your Sentinel more times than I can count, and you've always given me another chance. You say you took my life apart. Well, what the hell have I been doing to yours from day one? You say you nearly got me killed. Well, I didn't stop at nearly. I got you killed." Jim's breathing was labored and he faltered, eyes bright.

Horrified, Blair clutched Jim's shoulder convulsively. "Jeez. Jim, no--"

"And do you know why? Because... because I let some crazy idea from my childhood keep me from seeing what was important. From doing what was right. Because... because I was a selfish, careless asshole." Jim drew a shaky breath. "So what do I do to make up for that?"

Blair exploded, unable to stand any more. "You don't make up for it! You don't have anything to make up. You didn't knock me out. You didn't dump me in that damn fountain. You never could. You'd never even let it happen, man, I know you. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?"

"I did let it happen," muttered Jim, wiping his wet face with his sleeve impatiently, as if something other than tears had fallen on it. "I abandoned you."

Blair caught his breath. 'Abandon' was probably the most painful word in Jim Ellison's vocabulary. That he would consider himself guilty of abandoning someone…. Blair continued more quietly. "You couldn't have known what would happen. All you knew is that I hadn't been honest with you, and that you wanted some space. You were under incredible pressure and you overreacted. But you'd never deliberately put me in harm's way, Jim. That's just not who you are."

Jim cleared his throat and met Blair's anxious gaze with a shaken but determined expression. "That's not who you are either, Chief."

Blair searched Jim's face in wonder, realizing too late that he'd just derailed his own Sackcloth and Ashes Express. "Oh," he said finally, in a weak voice. "I get it. We're doing a little Guide-and-petard-hoisting, right?"

He was rewarded with a broad, lopsided Ellison grin. "If that means that what goes for the Sentinel goes for the Guide, then yeah. Never been too sure what a 'petard' is, exactly."

"Petard: a case containing an explosive to break down a door or breach a wall," returned Blair in his most pedantic tone. "Derived from the Latin pedere, to fart."

Jim's jaw dropped a fraction of a second before he burst into unrestrained laughter. "You... you lie, Sandburg. You lie like a dog."

Blair, delighted, nevertheless did his best to look indignant. "Hey, look it up if you don't believe me."

"Nah, on second thought, I believe you," said Jim, still laughing. He ruffled Blair's hair affectionately. "That's exactly the kind of shit you'd know."

"Hey! My vast and intricate knowledge is not limited to fart references, tough g--"

Blair found himself being yanked into a massive bear hug before he could finish. He froze in surprise for a moment, then relaxed happily into the embrace. Wrapping his arms around Jim, Blair patted his back soothingly, resting his head on Jim's shoulder.

Jim held on to him as if he'd never let go. "Yeah." His voice was gruff. "I get it. You know all, Einstein. The universe is your plaything."

Blair chuckled contentedly. "Now you're catching on. There are a few things I don't know yet, though."

"Lay 'em on me, Chief. Amaze me."

"Why didn't Racer X sense you?"

"Don't know," growled Jim dangerously. "Don't care. Next?"

"How am I going to be your partner if I'm not a cop?" Blair asked more quietly.

Jim fell silent for a few moments. "I don't know, Chief. We'll figure something out, don't worry."

Blair sighed in exasperation and lifted his head. Jim gazed back at him, relaxing his grip but not completely releasing him; Blair was relieved to see the brittle misery of the past week fading from his friend's expression. "Don't worry? There's some nutcase out there collecting Sentinels, man. You need somebody to watch your back."

"And I've got him. The rest is details. Next?" Jim spoke in his most flippant tone, raising his eyebrows as if he were daring Blair to contradict him.

Blair grinned and gave his friend a smack on the side of the head, almost believing him. "How'd you know we needed to talk?"

"Oh, that." Jim smiled and uttered a small, soft laugh, tousling Blair's hair again. "A little bird told me."

*

Jim turned off the light and eased himself into his bed, listening for the comforting heartbeat in the little bedroom below. It was there, strong and steady, and he smiled in spite of everything.

Naomi was right. She hadn't failed. Not by a long shot. And Jim Ellison was the living proof. Here he was, alive, sane, loved and forgiven, ready to face whatever Weird Shit the universe had in store for him -- all because of the wonder that was Blair Sandburg. Who else could have taught him more in one day than he'd learned in forty years of painful experience? Who else would have stuck with him long enough to give him the chance? Only Naomi Sandburg's beautiful, compassionate, courageous son, who had somehow managed to get through that conversation without getting his ass kicked after all.

Jim snorted softly. Well, there was always tomorrow. He rolled over with a yawn, sliding one hand under the pillow on the other side of the bed, and felt something that didn't belong there. He pulled it out and stared at it a moment in confusion. It was a book, a book that Jim hadn't seen since he was a child, and its presence here stunned him, all the more so as he realized who must have put it there.

Opening the front cover, he read the inscription in ink that had faded over the years.

To my beautiful son, from Mrs. Macready. Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia. Christmas, 1965.

Jim's eyes misted over. He carefully closed the once- and newly-cherished book and held it against his chest, smiling again in spite of everything as he realized that his mother had waxed eloquent after all.

End

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