Real Pain
by Heuradys

It's getting damned lonely in here. You've got to admit, Brian, that it's a nice closet. Yes, but it's still lonely. Let's put up that new mental snapshot of Blair… Pulling his ponytail out of the collar of his jacket and the scarf he'd borrowed from me, and running his fingers down the silk to make sure it hung evenly.

Shit. It's a good thing all these snapshots are memories and not real photos. Someone would think I’m stalking him and creating a shrine. I could tell anyone what he wore each day this week in vivid detail, how his hair looked, if he'd missed a spot shaving.

I've either got to tell him, or get out to the bars soon and have wild, anonymous sex with strangers. Guess where I'll be spending the weekend.

With short, Semitic, long-haired guys in darkened corners, cheap motel rooms, parked cars; acting out my fantasies with a series of nameless men; fucking and sucking and getting fucked and sucked by pathetically vague facsimiles that could never compare to the real deal.

Then I'll go to work on Monday, and I'll hate myself some more.

Like I'm not doing that enough right now.

Today was awful. Well, not entirely, but damn close. I've come to the conclusion that any day that involves both a head wound and close-quarters time spent with Blair Sandburg evokes ambivalence. Two entirely different kinds of pain from one day's work. My head still hurts, and I'm really dizzy. Okay, writing with a concussion probably isn't the wisest thing I could be doing, but I've got to work some of this out, and I can't sleep. Not yet.

What happened? I fucked up. Bad. And people might be dead because of it. Blair might be dead because of me. There. In black and white.

Green and ecru.

I got pulled off a couple of my cases to work on the Hydra case today. I guess I didn't mind at the time. No, I didn't mind at the time. If I can't be honest with myself here, I don't know… I was just happy that I'd get out of the office on a sunny day after being trapped there most of the week.

It's not like someone else couldn't call all five hundred and twelve Nguyens in the Cascade white pages to see if one of them has a son who may or may not be the witness (out of a group of other children) who actually saw the face of the guy who shot up a convenience store. Fourth one in six months. Seven people dead. I want to nail that fucker before he does it again, but we all do... My ear hurt before I was an eighth of the way through the list.

The other stuff was equally as routine and monotonous. Not like the Hydra thing. That's really big. Conner and Ellison are the leads. If the case is still active, anyway. Murder, extortion, conspiracy all wrapped up together.

Time to record my fuckup for posterity.

I stretched my legs as best I could. You'd think that the damned cars we use for surveillance would have more comfortable seats. You'd be wrong.

That one was the worst yet. God, it was hideous. Who the hell wants a gray interior in a golden brown sedan? Aesthetics aside, the car was a nightmare. Obviously it was driven by a series of guys who were really out of shape. The springs were completely shot, and I was sitting in a depression made by an ass much, much bigger than mine.

And mine was going numb.

Well, at least it was keeping me distracted. How does Ellison stand it? How can he be immune? No one is that straight.

Blair was going over his lines, trying out emotional variations. "Don't you know that I love you?" Repeated in a variety of tones from heartfelt to piteous to distraught, it was echoing through my brain… and my heart.

If my ass wasn't numb, other parts of my anatomy would have been listening.

"Hey, Sandburg, you're breaking my heart here. I think you'll convince the Amazon." I tried to sound exasperated.

Believe me, it wasn't a stretch.

God, on top of the conversation about his image – irresistible, and his outfit – which, with the exception of the hat, was, bluntly, hot, listening to that voice (Oh, God!) pleading for the understanding of Anthony's tortured passion was driving me crazy.

I'd already rolled down the window because I was overheating.

So beautiful… so very, very beautiful. I was trying not to watch him, but I was so aware of every move he made.

I wanted to get rid of the stupid hat, then slowly – oh, ever so slowly – pull the scarf from around his neck. I can imagine – could imagine – his expression, his lips parted and eyes wide, bold sensuality shining through the smokescreen of innocence, as I smooth the silk in my hands. His eyes close, and his tongue brushes his lower lip in expectation when I raise the cloth to blindfold him. With his eyes covered, his jaw relaxes, and a low moan escapes him. I free his hair…

Jesus, I could go on for hours! If I don't get the rest of what happened down now, I never will… I'll lose the courage and just gloss over it. Fantasize later! So…

He looked at me, kind of worried. "If she doesn't shoot me the second I identify myself."

"Can't blackmail the lovely Olivia without you, Anthony. Don't worry; you've got the role down perfectly. Just don't ham it up too much and throw yourself at Conner's feet begging."

Say that line around me again, Blair, and I might be tempted to parrot it right back at you. Don't tempt me to make that huge mistake, please. It's getting tougher every day, and I know it would be a mistake. No matter what I wish, hope, dream… fantasize. I know I'm not ready to be out of the closet to anyone I work with.

When did it go from just wanting to fuck him blind to falling in love with him? I don't know. I've looked back through this journal, and I can't find the epiphany I must have had. Could it have been gradual?

Damn. I'll think about that later.

"Thanks, man. I appreciate the vote of confidence." Cocky grin. "But there's no way she could make me beg."

I'm sure I only imagined the emphasis.

I looked at my watch, quickly, escaping those damned eyes of his. "I think they've been in there long enough. You're the stalker, how about you?"

"Yeah, yeah, Megan's probably wondering what's taking so long. How do I look? Tortured artist enough?" He primped, adjusting the hat again, and turned on his most earnest expression.

I swallowed hard. "For the last time, you look perfect. Just – just perfect." He did. "Don't forget to have Conner call, okay? Remember that Jim and the captain are keeping me updated on what Jim and Vince are up to."

God, you treat him like a child, Rafe. Despite all the teasing, which you're part of, remember, he'd make a great detective. He knows what to do, and he's not that much younger than you are.

Jesus, Blair, how we patronize you! But you don't get nasty about it. Why?

He smirked, but it was blown by the hint of humor in his eyes. "I'll remind her. She'll probably forget in the heat of passion."

Heat of passion, my ass. All that was planned was a kiss, and if he tried anything Conner would probably draw blood. Knowing Conner, she'd probably do that anyway, just on principle. The lady is fierce. You couldn't pay me enough to lock lips with her.

"Wish me luck."

He'd gotten the door almost shut before I replied. "Break their hearts, Hairboy."

He flipped me off and flashed that killer grin before transforming into the obsessive and love-struck Anthony Drake.

I, the obsessive and love-struck Brian Rafe, watched him walk into the building, tried to get more comfortable, and regretted deeply that his jacket covered his ass. Those pants fit so fucking well!

Okay, it was time to slip into stakeout mode. I found it ironic that I was wishing for someone to talk to not fifteen minutes after Blair left the car. Keeping alert wasn't the problem – the chilly air did that. Keeping my mind on the job wasn't the problem – I was backup, nothing I haven't done before.

Keeping myself from being jealous of Megan Conner was the problem.

If she wasn't on the case – one of the leads, if there wasn't an appropriate Australian cover, if…

If only it could have worked out that his tempestuous, obsessive, passionate, drop-dead sexy, male, artist lover was threatening a closeted South African businessman with exposure. I'd have been the one with his lips on Sandburg's.

Just to know, just to find out if he could be interested in me as a lover.

I passed some of the time on the scenarios that wish conjured up. If – that word again – I ever get the courage, playing out that little fantasy has potential.

What gets me, what really, really gets me, is that I'd managed to wrestle my brief hormonal daydream under control long before my head exploded with pain and everything went black.

I'm so fucking angry! I was doing everything right. Five minutes later, I would have been on the phone with Conner letting her know that Jim's cover was blown.

I don't know how long I was out. I was just starting to see big, fuzzy shapes when Jim's truck pulled up. It was the car door opening that brought me back all the way.

Jim was all serious and concerned, with his hand on my shoulder. "Rafe, what happened?"

There was blood on my face, still wet, and I could feel it oozing from my scalp. There was more on my pants leg, the steering wheel, and the floorboard of the car, and a lot of that was dry. I guess I had my head on the wheel for a while. "Somebody sapped me." My head was throbbing; the blood ran into my left eye and it started to water. "Oh, God." Everything must have gone to hell. Shannon and Bentley, or some of their associates had to have made me. Oh, God. Sandburg and Conner! "I – I never even saw it coming." That stung.

It still does. Both the gash on my scalp and my ineptitude. I can't actually remember someone hitting me with anything, but that's what had to have happened. I've been trying to… God, I wish I could remember!

In retrospect, rolling down that window was a big fucking mistake.

I didn't get the chance to warn them. Some backup.

Ellison didn't accuse. He didn't blame me. "You hurt anywhere else?" I knew that if Sandburg and Conner ended up dead because of my inattention, I'd get all the negative attention then. Always enough time to place responsibility after the funerals.

And believe me, if I thought I was responsible for Blair's death… God, I can't believe I'm admitting this… They'd have to make another grave, and not because Jim beat the shit out of me.

No. No. No. Fuck. I didn't just write that. I'm not suicidal. I am NOT suicidal. No and I won't be, either.

He is NOT dead. Not dead.

God, my head hurts! Why don't the drugs kick in?

That was the time for focus and concentration – of which I could do neither. I lied through the pain. "I'm okay." Stoicism for Ellison, covering my total embarrassment for myself. Nothing but fucking macho posturing. I'm sure he saw right through it.

"All right, Vince, call 911 and get some squad cars over here." He left me with the actor with a final encouraging, "Just hang in there."

Simon called while I was still getting medical attention, after Jim left the scene. He told me to go home if the paramedics let me, so here I am. He'll be pissed that I came home against their suggestion, but it's not like I haven't been knocked out before. I've got the drugs, and though there's no one I can have check on me every four hours, I'm not worried. Not about that.

Not about myself. I just have a concussion.

The man I love is probably dead because of me, and all I have is a fucking headache. Fuck going to the hospital to be 'observed'.

Tough choice, right? Have a major headache at the hospital or in the comfort and privacy of my own home where I can wallow in self-pity and loathing? Home 1, hospital 0.

That ham-handed blonde EMT was more concerned with hitting on me than treating me, anyway. I guess she was pretty enough, but I'm not interested. Never will be. She actually slipped her number in my pocket!

I know a little. Blair and Conner were gone when Jim went upstairs. Vince stole that ugly, uncomfortable car – good riddance to it.

Damn, did I forget to thank Holzer for driving me home? I'll do it tomorrow.

No one has called to tell me what's going on. It's not that late, really. I hope that means everything is going well. They'd call me if Blair and Conner… if anything happened. Wouldn't they?

IA would. Shit. I don't want to think about that at all.

Optimistic thoughts only, Brian.

Please, please, please let them be alright! All of them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{Next entry, later the same night}

What the hell is wrong with me?

I haven't had nightmares like these since I was a rookie. I think I got about two hours of sleep so far tonight – in fifteen-minute increments. My head still hurts, but I don't know if it's from the lack of sleep, the nightmares, or getting hit so hard.

Or it could be from throwing up for the last hour or so.

I think I hit my head again, this time on the toilet, but there's no blood and I didn't check the time on my mad dash for the bathroom. I just don't remember deciding to fall asleep on a cold tile floor. Guess I'll never know…

I'm having trouble remembering how to write, too. Moving's a challenge, I'm lightheaded, and I can hardly keep my eyes open. Can't sleep, but can't do anything else either. Stupid, huh? If the drugs are affecting me like this, why aren't they doing anything about the pain? That seems to be getting worse, but is it the pain in my head or the pain in my heart that I'm feeling so strongly?

You know if the pain went away, I could really like this feeling. Floating, really, and disconnected from the anxiety – like I'm kind of watching myself.

Light of head, heavy of heart. Yeah, that's you, asshole.

I thought it was bad when Blair drowned. We've almost – I've almost – lost him so many times, but the only time I had nightmares was that time. Dream after dream where Jim didn't do whatever it was that he did to bring Blair back, and Blair just wasn't around anymore. Those nightmares went away when they came back to work, and he was so very there.

Did I fall in love with him then, or was it already there? Does it really matter when it happened, or only that I love him now?

Ok, back to these nightmares while I still remember snatches of them.

He's alive. He hates me. Actively hates me, a hatred that goes beyond loathing into despising me, killing something deep in my soul. As a passive-aggressive revenge, he outs me to the department, sits back with a derisive smirk, and watches my life fall apart, knowing that he's breaking my heart and setting me up to die myself. And when I die… he doesn't mourn...

Blood everywhere, looking like EVERY different gunshot victim I've seen and a few I've had described to me – because, of course, Shannon and Bentley wouldn't waste time making it look like an accident. Accusing me of getting him killed. And the whole time I'm protesting that it wasn't my fault, that I was hurt, that I was unconscious, and he takes my face in his bloody hands and kisses me, and I'm loving it even though it's awful and painful and he's so cold and so very, very dead. Then he vanishes, leaving me alone, covered in gore…

I'm in the morgue, and he's laying there under a sheet, and I know it's him. And I lift the sheet and Dan's obviously been interrupted close to the beginning of the autopsy because he's still mostly intact. Y incision wide open, his beautiful body ruined from collarbones to pubic bone, his ribs removed for access – they're beside him, and I can see all the insides of him. And I reach out my hand to touch his face which isn't peaceful in death, to touch the hair that's matted thick with blood… Then the scene shifts, and my hands are bloody, and my lips are… Oh, my fucking God, I'm kissing his heart…

I don't think I'm going to write any more of them down. In fact, it would probably be better if I could just forget them. I just had to clean the rug, the coffee table, the couch, and a pillow.

Vomiting is either the result of the dreams, the concussion, or the drugs. The label on the little envelope Blondie gave me is all smeared and blurry. I'm hoping it says 'may cause nausea'. Then again, everything is a bit smeared and blurry right now. Could be because I'm crying… Fuck! I'm falling apart here, and it's after three a.m., and I've got to be at work at eight.

I wish Lizzie was here! Oh, sis, I miss you… Your little brother's a mess, and he needs you. You'd soothe me back to sleep after I cried myself out, hold me while I slept, and keep the nightmares away just like you did all those nights after Da broke my arm. I can't figure out the time difference right now, but I'm sure it's too early to call you…

The dreams about Blair, the nightmares, are horrible, but I can understand them. They're the products of my guilt, embarrassment, anger, fear, and sexual frustration. And the gruesome detail is the product of being a cop.

What are really weird are the nightmares about stakeouts and everybody I work with dying while I just watch it happening. Right now I don't know if I'll be able to do them anymore. The thought of sitting in a parked car, an apartment, anywhere just watching and waiting has me shaking. Probably should talk to the shrink about that. Soon, too. I'm way too young to be riding a desk. How could what happened yesterday fuck me up that much?

Maybe it's the not knowing if my error was fatal? Could it be that this obsession with Blair is making me lose my objectivity? That because I believe that I personally failed him, professionally failed him, I'm going to do it again? And to others, too?

We all face death, sometimes every day, sometimes more than once a day. It's part of the job; I know this. I know this, and I accept it. Any one of my friends, partners, co-workers could die anytime, and it may not be unpreventable. Blair could die. He could be dead, and if my nightmares are indicative, he is. My fault.

This is the first time I've felt so responsible for fucking up.

Scary shit, that.

Yeah, I think a nice, long, painful talk with the shrink is seriously in order. At least the shrink is required to keep what I tell her confidential.

Positive thoughts, Brian… Your subconscious is far too pessimistic tonight.

Let's try thinking more about what made today good.

While Megan was at Hydra, setting the stage and signing a contract for a bodyguard, we talked about image. His image or lack thereof. Her comment, two days ago, really messed with his head. I don't know why it bothered him so much, why he didn't shrug it off. I'm pretty sure she was just giving him shit. Sometimes he makes it so easy to bait him.

I pointed out that I was wearing three layers on top, just like he usually does. I had to hold my breath when he looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, man, but you're always so… together, you know?" His hand waved in a gesture encompassing my entire body. "Even when you're casual. Does that image get you what you want?" I couldn't come up with an answer that would ring true without sounding wistful. I shrugged.

I suppose I could have interrupted his commentary about visual displays, appearance reflecting personality, what impressions we make on others with our clothes and hair, and the expectations we have, but what could I have said?

I could have said that dressing the way I do makes witnesses comfortable, more comfortable than H does with his Hawaiian shirts – a lot of the time anyway. They know that I'm taking what they say seriously, that I'm a serious professional.

I could have said that my parents had always been strict about hygiene, about neatness, about dressing properly, but I didn't want to lie to him. Better yet, I could have described their slovenliness and their contempt for their pretty son who wanted to dress nice and be clean. Imitated my father with his constant and prophetic, 'Jissus, boykie, where are you going all dressed so larney? Boy's a woesie, ek se!' just to make Blair laugh.

I love making him laugh; the expression on his face when I told him that 'jags' is slang for 'horny' in South Africa was absolutely priceless.

Best of all, I could have said, "No, Blair, it doesn't get me the one thing I want most in the world – you." God, I'm such a fucking coward! "No" isn't the worst word in the English language, even when it's directed at me.

Instead, I suggested that we get over to the apartment and wait for Megan to show up. That is, if he was done with lunch. All that earned me was a glare, and the opportunity to watch him check his breath with his cupped hand, trying to be subtle about it, pretending he was yawning.

Ma used to do that after she got stoned. Clothes and hair reeking of dagga, and she'd check her breath. I think she would have liked him. She'd have gotten along with his mother and tried to commiserate about having a faggot as a son, but subtly. She was always much more subtle than Da. She didn't like me or understand me, but she loved me.

Yeah, while I'm exploring the impossibility of Ma and Naomi chatting, Jim and my father could have talked surfing while I made my move on Blair. Then Simon could have showed up, and we all could have seen how fast Da could kill me for calling a Black man my friend let alone my boss.

Happy, happy family. Got to talk to Lizzie, too. Maybe even better than the shrink… At least I don't have to come out to Lizzie. I'll call her tomorrow. Simon will let me have the time off, I think. Two weeks in Minneapolis might do me a lot of good. We can get drunk, and I can tell her all the things I can't over the phone or email. Share a laugh about Ma and Da meeting Blair, Jim, and Simon… and to add a bit more spice, H and Joel; share a toast that it's absolutely impossible.

Fell asleep for a while, thinking about Lizzie, and didn't have a nightmare this time. I dreamt about Blair and woke up mid-orgasm. The dream was beautiful.

In this one he is most gloriously alive, absolutely unscathed by my fuckup, and forgives me for it before I could even apologize. We go out, just as friends, for lunch. I lose my fear for a while because it's just so normal being out with him, and we're walking and talking like nothing had happened. Then the rain starts. Torrential downpour, very cold rain.

We have to run for shelter, and find it in a doorway halfway down the alley we're nearest to. We're both drenched by the time we reach it, but no matter. Two cement walls and the featureless metal door, just enough of an overhang. Water pours from the roof, sheeting with the rain to enclose us in a gray, relatively dry space. We might as well be in the most private place the world has to offer, be the only two people alive. He's the only color in sight, and while we rest, wiping rain from our faces, I look my fill. He's a sodden mess, but he's so damnably hot.

He looks at me, and laughs. "Your hair does get messed up, man! I was starting to believe H."

"Don't spread it around, Sandburg. You'll blow my secret plan." I can't hide the grin, and he laughs again.

"Secret plan?"

"I'm trying to convince him I'm really an alien, and that I'm here to study him."

The chuckles turn into full fledged, gut busting laughter. "Is it working?" He leans against the wall, grinning at me.

"Not yet." I shake my head, spattering him with water. "It still moves."

"Then change the plan, man. Find another way to do it. Messy hair looks good on you."

Our laughter stops, and we look at each other for a long moment. He's soaked, bedraggled, hair sticking to his face; his cheeks are a bit flushed; his eyes are sparkling with amusement and something I can't read. His hand shakes just a little as he raises it, and then he's brushing the hair that's fallen into my eyes out of them.

"Looks really good on you." There's a certain hoarseness to his voice, and I'm instantly hard.

I capture that hand. "Looks good on you, too." I know the heat's showing in my eyes, and I let it. Holding it lightly enough that he can pull away if he wants to, I bring his fingertips to my lips. Meeting his eyes the entire time, I slowly suck his index finger into my mouth, tracing the nail with my tongue, scraping the pad with my teeth.

His other fingers caress my chin, he moves away from the wall, his free hand slides up my chest to the back of my head, and he pulls my head down to his level. I release his finger with no regrets, and our lips meet in a blistering kiss.

His are hot, firm, and sweet; his tongue plays with mine, but the kiss is deadly serious.

One hand on his ass, the other working its way into his hair, I pull him tightly against me. We both groan, not breaking the kiss as our cocks meet through layers of wet denim. Then I'm leaning against the wall, his thigh between mine, and we're working frantically to find skin under coats, shirts, T-shirts. There's nothing gentle or romantic about it, just a raw expression of lust.

His lips, tongue, and teeth attack my neck and collarbones just as I uncover a tantalizing patch of stomach, pale, with just enough hair to tease my fingertips. I'm already breathing hard, holding his head so he can't stop what he's doing. He bites down hard, and I know I'm going to have that mark for days. I work my fingers into the waistband of his jeans, just brushing the tip of his already weeping erection. I find his ear, bite the lobe hard. He pulls away from my throat with a gasp, raking my lower back with his nails.

"Tell me what you want, Blair." I'm achingly hard, willing to do anything to him, to have anything done to me. I rim his ear, continue to tease his the head of his cock, bite down hard on his earlobe again.

There's no hesitation in his voice, or in his hands which move to my shoulders, pushing downward. "Suck me."

I slide down the wall while he frees his erection from its denim imprisonment. He backs up a little, to allow me to kneel, then his hands twine into my hair. I've got my hands on his hips, and in seconds, I'm swallowing him whole, giving him the best I know how to give.

He's moaning above me, his hands clenching and unclenching, guiding me. "Oh, yeah, Rafe, do it… Your mouth's so hot… Harder, you slut!"

I get my hands involved, using every trick I know to bring him to the edge. As he gets closer, I stop. I look up at him, meeting his eyes and relishing his frustrated groan.

"Want something, Brian?"

I unzip my own pants, stroking my cock. He's still holding my head, thumbs caressing my temples while he watches me. I rub my face against him, his precum and my saliva leaving slick trails on my cheek. He tilts my head back, lightly slapping my cheeks with his cock. I close my eyes, letting my other hand fall away from his hip.

"Tell me what you want, Brian."

"Fuck my mouth."

I open my eyes to see him grinning at me. "Oh, yeah." I take a deep breath, open wide, relaxing my jaw and throat as much as I can, allowing my eyes to close again.

I'm pinned against the wall, his hands holding my head steady, and his cock is filling my throat. He's all I can feel, all I can taste. The scent of him combined with the scent of wet leather fills my lungs with my infrequent breaths. My cock is slick with precum, and I speed up my stroking. He's speeding up, too, pulling out of my mouth. His fist is tight in my hair, still holding me in place.

My orgasm overwhelms me at the first surge of his cum hitting my parted lips and my tongue.

Would it be so bad if he said no? I've survived more than one broken heart.

I keep asking myself the same questions, over and over. Every page of this journal is full of them, and only one person has the answers.

Tomorrow. Today. I've got to do something about it today.

If he's alive, I'm going to ask him out. If I chicken out on the rest of it, I suppose I can just use it as an opportunity to apologize for what happened.

Please, please, please don't let me chicken out. It may be a mistake, but I can't live like this anymore. I don't like what I'm becoming.

God, I'm soooo dizzy, the fucking drugs still aren't working on the pain, and I can't take any more for an hour and three minutes. I hope that no one expects me to do any serious physical activity today…

I just threw up for another half-hour.

It's getting to the point where it feels like my brain is running an IMAX-quality, surround-sound, simultaneous showing of Brian Rafe's greatest hangovers.

Should probably call in sick, shouldn't I? But I won't. I can't. I've got to know, got to take responsibility for fucking up.

I don't think I can sleep anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

boykie – little boy
larney – fancy, dressy clothes, snob
woesie – pansy, wimp, weakling
ek se – roughly, 'I tell you'
dagga – marijuana

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a lovely afternoon, so far, lazy and sunlit. Full of long, slow, wet, kisses and languid conversation while watching a game knowing neither of them cared much about the outcome of it. A rambling walk had followed, with no clear destination in mind; just more conversation and hands brushing against each other's and the slow burn of continuous arousal growing stronger each time their bodies collided accidentally on purpose, and then he'd said it.

"I want you to fuck me."

The detective grabbed the scarf dangling around his neck, and pulled him close, kissing him hard. "You're sure, lover?"

"Never been more sure, man."

Then he was in the empty apartment he and Jim had spent three long nights at a few months back, turning Jim's sentinel abilities on the warehouse across the alley and said warehouse's complement of criminals.

Only this time he wasn't there with Jim, and he was kneeling on the scarred hardwood floor in a puddle of sunlight, arms stretched and bound in front of him, shirts still on but naked from the waist down, feeling wanton and exposed and so very desperately aroused.

Brian Rafe was kneeling behind him, running his long-fingered hands along the back of his thighs. Fingernails digging in just enough, driving him even more frantic with lust. He turned his head to the side so he could watch the stunning, fully clothed detective who was going to deflower him, take the last virginity he had.

Brian chuckled at his moans and his happy struggle with the scarf binding his wrists to the radiator. "Such a hot ass, Blair…" Hot, smooth palms spread the cheeks wide, and Brian's thumbs pressed against and possessively caressed the tiny opening his cock would be invading. "I'm going to fuck it, fuck that virgin hole until you're screaming my name…"

"Oh, man, do it! It's yours, Brian, all yours." He arched into the touch, trying to encourage his partner to do more, do something, anything. "Fuck me!"

"Not yet, lover." Brian planted a tender kiss on his tailbone. "Patience."

The thumbs continued their teasing massage, one just barely breaching the first ring of muscle, and his own hands twisted in their silken bondage, fingers curling to try to reach the knots. "God, let me touch you!"

"No, lover, I'm doing all the work."

The thumbs moved away from his twitching hole, and the hot moisture of Brian's mouth replaced them. His hips bucked, and his lover's arm snaked across his lower back to hold him still, tugging him back a few more inches. Pinioned by silk-wrapped wrists, his arms stretched to their limits, a delicious tension radiated down his spine. The muscles in his widely spread thighs were trembling, and his cock twitched, hungry for Brian's touch, at every electric jolt caused by Brian's talented tongue. Unable to speak coherently, he moaned his approval as the devilishly agile muscle penetrated his anus, alternately flicking the entrance and probing deeply.

Brian punctuated a long sweeping lick from perineum to tailbone with an ellipsis of bites across his left ass cheek. "Like that, lover? Like having my tongue inside you? Hmm?" While Blair struggled to come up with the word 'yes', Brian continued his oral investigation, getting his fingers involved as well.

Brian's nails traced complicated runic patterns on the inside of his thighs; gentle caresses to his balls had him trembling. He craved more contact, wanting to give Brian the pleasure he was getting. He struggled fruitlessly to escape his bonds, every muscle freezing then relaxing as Brian worked his index finger into Blair's ass without removing his tongue and his other hand finally touched Blair's cock. "Love… you…" Blair gasped. "Want to touch… you… Bri—" A stinging bite on his right cheek cut off his words in a moan. The finger twisted, slipping deeper inside him; the hand left his cock.

"I said no, lover," Brian murmured, sliding his free hand up Blair's stomach to tease already erect and aching nipples. "This is all for you, Blair, all for you. Just relax and enjoy." While he spoke, he stroked back and forth between the pair, fingers carding through Blair's chest hair.

"Tell… me…" Blair breathed, "tell me… what…"

Brian's fingers ghosted down his chest, swirled around his navel, and started to toy with the head of his cock. "I'm going to fuck your," he said, emphasizing his words with a firm thrust of his finger, "gorgeous, virgin ass, lover; make love to you the way you've craved for years." His fingers slipped through the precum that oozed from his cock, spreading it slowly down the shaft. "Because I love you, and I want you, and I'm all yours, lover."

"All yours, Brian… make me all yours… your slut…" Blair's words, choked out between Brian's strokes of his cock, got the desired reaction. Brian groaned deeply, pressing his face into Blair's flannel covered back for a long minute, obviously fighting for control.

Moving to Blair's side, Brian brushed two moist fingers over Blair's lips. "Suck them, lover, my beautiful slut. Taste yourself."

Blair hastened to obey; sucking hungrily, knowing that pair of fingers would be buried deep inside him minutes later, replacing the single digit that was piercing him gently. He tried to get Brian to increase the speed and pressure, but wasn't able to move enough. Slurping, drooling around Brian's knuckles, he keened his pleasure and his distress.

Brian laughed, not cruelly, but more out of happiness that Blair was enjoying himself so much. "So eager, lover! So impatient." His tongue explored the nape of Blair's neck, teeth sinking into the flesh in a firm bite. "My virgin slut. Just look at you, Blair. Your cock's hardly been touched and you're leaking precum like a fountain." He twisted his finger, encouraging Blair to move forward – taking some of the strain off his arms and allowing him to fuck himself with the digit.

Rocking back and forth between the fingers in his mouth and the finger in his ass, he tried to communicate his desire. With another warm chuckle, Brian pulled his fingers out of Blair's mouth. "Brian," Blair gasped. "More!"

"You want more, lover?" Brian kissed his ear, pulling the finger out of his ass to stroke soothingly down his thighs. "I'll give you more, baby, but…" A teasing rake of fingernails and a firm swat on his upturned butt cheeks that elicited a startled yelp from him. "I'm not going to fuck you until you're begging me for it." The last was in a low, near whisper, and sent a hot chill through Blair's entire body.

Blair shivered in anticipation as Brian moved behind him again. The two slick fingers pressed against his anus, then slid inside. "Brian… Oh, God!"

Starting slowly, Brian finger-fucked him. "C'mon, lover, do it! Beg for what you want, and I'll give it to you." He increased the tempo of his fingers and spread them wider, targeting Blair's prostate every few strokes. "What do you want me to do to you, Blair?"

Panting, sweat dripping all over, shuddering uncontrollably, Blair begged shamelessly. "God, Brian, more! Please… fuck me… tongue… fingers… cock… whatever… just please, please fuck me!"

Then the fingers were gone, and Brian's hands were busy with his own zipper, and Blair, for a fleeting moment, felt what it must be like to have Jim's hearing. The sound of parting cloth, of Brian lubing himself with their mingled precum and saliva; they carried to his ears without seeming to pass through the intervening space.

"I love you, Blair," Brian whispered as he took hold of Blair's hips. "Just relax, lover…"

The thick, blunt head of Brian's cock pressed against his entrance, and there was a feeling of hot, steady pressure, a hang time of delirious waiting while his body negotiated with the invader. The inner sphincter relaxed, and the delicious, burning stretch made him gasp and tremble. "Brian…!"

"Okay, lover?" Slow, gliding nudges further into him. "You're so tight, so hot… Oh, God, Blair…"

It wasn't long before he felt Brian's balls against his own, coarse hair teasing the edges of his widely stretched hole, Brian's hands shifting on his hips. His breath was erratic; intoxicated by the fullness, the sheer, crazed need for motion, he squeezed the impaling cock, moaning as it shifted inside him. "Yours, Brian…"

"Oh, yeah, baby, you're mine…" Brian's voice was hoarse and thick. He pulled back, and drove back in, a smooth, hard thrust. "Fucking you… lover…"

They gave up trying to communicate with words; grunts, moans, a sudden, hissing 'yes' when Brian's hand wrapped tightly around Blair's cock and started stroking a counterpoint to the rhythmic pounding of the cock in his ass were all they needed.

And it built, inferno-strong inside him, feeling like he was going to explode. And the pace was getting frenzied, the movements jerkier, and Brian's earlier words had been prophetic because he was screaming his lover's name as he came and came and came, Brian's own semen flooding him, searing hot inside him.

Repetitive, invasive noise, and Jim's voice shouting his name distracted him. The scene shattered, and confused, he muttered aloud, "Huh? What?" The noise resolved itself to Jim pounding on the doors of his room. He groaned, dragged unwillingly into waking from the afterglow of the dream.

"I'm not your fucking alarm clock, Chief! You're late. Now haul your ass out of bed."

"Sorry, Jim! I'll be up in a second." He heard his roommate walk back into the kitchen, and sighed. "Damn."

He couldn't decide if he was more chagrined at the interruption of his dream, the angry tone of his partner's voice, or being late – again. He hadn't gotten much sleep; vague, unpleasant dreams that bordered on nightmares, disquieting presentiments, nebulous anxiety that had nothing to do with the previous day's events, had kept him tossing and turning most of the night. At least Jim had waited until after he came to wake him. That he could be thankful for; the last thing he needed was to be running late and unsatisfied.

He rolled over, feeling hungover and sticky from one of the best dreams he'd had in a while, took a deep breath, and smiled in remembrance of feeling so well loved. He decided not to let Jim ruin his mood before he opened his eyes to take stock of his body. The faint, lingering scent of Rafe's cologne filled his nostrils along with the scent of his own semen, and inexplicable tears streaked his face. The bedclothes were twisted around his legs, and somehow during the night his sweats had managed to work themselves down to his knees.

The scarf he'd borrowed to wear as Anthony Drake, which he'd eventually spread over his pillow against the bad dreams – like a child's security blanket, had wound itself around his hands and wrists while he slept, and he brushed the silk against his lips as he untangled himself. "No wonder I dreamt he had me tied up; indirectly, he did," Blair thought, amused. "Wonder what Jim would have to say about me sleeping with this last night? Nothing good, I'm sure." He folded the scarf carefully, tucking it into the pocket of the jeans he was planning to wear. "Wish I could keep it longer, if it gives me dreams like that last one."

He checked the clock, and swore fluently and creatively. Jim wasn't kidding about him being late. Yanking his sweatpants up, grimacing at the damp residue of his orgasm, he stumbled for the door. He had just enough time for a quick shower, thankfully. He wiped his face and eyes, grateful that Jim probably wouldn't notice the added salt scent of his tears through the more obvious aroma.

Jim was wearing a suit; Simon had insisted on his attendance, along with Simon himself and Megan, at a charity breakfast. A long, irritating, full of guest speakers, charity breakfast. He chuckled to himself silently, remembering Jim's expression when Simon, ever so sweetly, had 'invited' the detective. Exasperated and sour just about covered it. Particularly when Simon had added the comments about the breaking of the Hydra case, all the good publicity they'd just garnered, and how happy he was that it had wrapped up quickly enough that they could accompany him. Blair was cordially not invited. More than grateful, he'd laughed.

The laugh had been a mistake, he realized. It had to have attributed to Jim's sarcastic and unpleasant mood that morning. The teasing had a nastier edge to it than usual, and it ruined Blair's attempted good mood immediately.

"Who was it this time, Romeo? Another harem of personal love slaves attending your every whim?" Jim had asked the question the moment he'd emerged from his room, nose wrinkling in visible disgust at the scent of Blair's semen. "Some other brick wall across the tracks?" He slid a cup of coffee across the counter to him. Blair nodded his thanks, surprised by Jim's tone. "So what's this one like, and how extensive of a background check should I run on her? Or, wait, let me guess, you're just expressing your unrequited lust for Conner all over your bed."

He simply tried to smile and laugh, going about his morning routine as quickly as possible. "Funny, man. Remind me to make fun of you the next time you have a wet dream – and I do not have any lust for Conner unrequited or otherwise."

Absolute, God's own truth, he swore to himself. Even if he had in the past, the kiss he'd shared with the Aussie the day before would have cured him of it. Megan was great as a friend, and that was as far as his interest would ever, could ever go. Not that flirting with her wasn't fun; there just was no chemistry and the thought of sleeping with her left him cold.

Jim was on his way out the door when Blair emerged from his frantic shower. "Wash your sheets before you leave, Chief. I don't want to be smelling your rut all evening just because you fucked your pillow imagining it to be some tall, leggy redhead you'll never nail." The door closed firmly behind him, leaving Blair alone.

Seething and shocked by Jim's cutting tone, he stood, hair dripping onto his shoulders, unmoving in the doorway of his room. "Well, fuck you, man! I'm already so fucking late," he whispered. He glared at the door, and, motivated by his own longing, integrity, and actual unrequited lust, shouted, "Brunette, asshole!"

Remembering as he drove, he shook his head, not looking forward to the mood Jim would be in when he finally got to the station. "Someone is definitely not getting enough, James Ellison. Go find yourself some action, man, or I'll go find some for you." It felt good to say aloud – knowing that Jim was out of earshot – for once. "You can quit being so fucking nasty just because I have natural bodily functions I can't control and you have to do things you don't want to do."

After Jim left, he managed to burn his fingers on the toaster, spill his algae shake all over the floor – necessitating a thorough cleaning, nearly brain himself on the kitchen table tripping over the trailing edges of his bundled sheets, and discovered – too late – that the washer wasn't working properly. The dripping laundry, sodden with detergent and water, left a wet patch on his jeans as it leaked through the basket, making it look like he'd pissed his pants. Not enough time to change, he prayed it would dry before he made it to the precinct.

All of the good mood from the dream had been shot by the shittiness of reality.

"How can this day get any worse?" Blair mused, pulling his Volvo into the Cascade PD garage. "No, I didn't mean that! You don't have to show me!" He looked heavenward, crossing his fingers. "I can't deal with psychotic guys threatening to shoot off my ears today, okay? Yesterday was more than enough."

"Should have stayed asleep, Blair. Should have kept right on dreaming," he met his own eyes in the rear-view mirror as he parked. His hair was going nova; it was way too windy. Grimacing as his fingers brushed the lump caused by one violent landing during the chase the day before, he smoothed the unruly locks, securing the leather strip holding his ponytail. "What's one pissy Sentinel compared to that dream?" He sighed, starting to gather the few things he'd pulled out of his backpack to wedge them back in. He could have lived happily ever after in that one, kinks and all.

He got out of the car, distracted, and locked his keys inside. "Son of a bitch! You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

Seven uniformed officers responded to his angry outburst, and he tried to be tolerant during their good-natured teasing, but his temper was getting closer and closer to the breaking point. He did see the humor in the situation; where else could you be guaranteed that your keys would be out of your car in such a short time? Unfortunately, the stupid move would be gossip in a heartbeat, and he'd have to suffer yet more ribbing about it until the next one.

H, Simon and Jim would be merciless; he'd better work on some snappy comebacks in advance that wouldn't be too angry. Not that he didn't deserve it for something that stupid, of course, but sometimes the jokes got old fast. At least Rafe would have a sympathetic glint in his eyes even while he gave him shit for that brilliant maneuver, and that beautifully accented voice would be directed at him.

Waiting for the elevator, he smiled. Rubbing his lower lip, wounded by Megan the day before, he thought, "Wish it could have been you, gorgeous. Like you'd ever be interested, like you could love me. Right, and Megan's really from Des Moines. God, Sandburg, you're such a putz."

The elevator was packed, and he let his mind drift. Pulling his jacket to hide his crotch from his fellow passengers, just in case, he cast back his memory to the vibrant remains of the dream… If the fantasies and dreams were anything at all like real life, he knew he wouldn't regret waiting for Brian to take that final cherry. The very infrequently used toy he had hidden under his bed just couldn't compare to the feel of another man's cock in his hand, so it obviously couldn't compare to the real thing in his ass.

He supposed he could just go pick up someone who kind of looked like Rafe, but he could have done that months ago, years ago. He wanted it to mean something, not just some anonymous fuck. Stupid and romantic, he realized, but he wanted love. Wanted to give up the parade of women who meant nothing, the charade of being a happy straight man. Wanted a serious, committed relationship with the one man who made him so… so… so hot for so long he was contemplating coming out to a cop – at the station.

Damn, that could get him killed, 'Blessed Protector' notwithstanding.

If only he could come out to his Sentinel, things might be easier. Or they could become infinitely more complicated. Probably more complicated than he was willing to deal with. The vague soundings on the subject that he'd ventured over the years they'd been partners and roommates weren't very encouraging. "Jim, man, I'm sorry, but my closet's still way too small to let you in, best friends or not." Silently sending the message to his roommate, he turned his thoughts back to his unknowing beloved.

If they'd been undercover together yesterday, they might have – they would have – shared a kiss and he'd at least know how Brian, no – he's Rafe to you at work, felt about guys.

Now, if only he'd ever get the courage to ask Brian out as something more than a friend…

If only he could be guaranteed not to get the shit kicked out of him by the man he was desperately, head over heels in love with…

If only…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blair started guiltily out of his internal debate, thinking he'd heard someone mention Rafe. He looked around, trying to pinpoint whom he'd heard.

Some of his fellow passengers were laughing. "Shit, pretty boy's so fucked!"

"Heard he took a swing at Brown."

"Nah, Taggart. That's what I heard. Drunk."

The sick feeling he'd had most of the night started up again. No way they were talking about Rafe. Couldn't be talking about Rafe. He'd heard wrong, and it was probably some perp.

The uniformed pair got out on five before he could push his way through the crowd to ask them about it, and he made his way to the front to get out on six. He tried on a grin, hoping he could fake happiness for a while, worried but not overly so about what he'd heard. He'd been distracted by his thoughts, and he'd find out soon enough.

Blair ran into Joel just outside the elevator. The captain was shaking his head, with a confused and sad expression on his face. Blair smiled at the older man; if he could cheer up Joel, it might shake him out of his own funk. "Hey, Joel, what's up? I just heard the weirdest damned thing on the elevator…"

"Oh, hi, Blair! Glad to see someone's in a good mood today."

"Don't let the smile fool you, man. You don't want to hear about my morning so far."

"Well, being here won't make it any better. Simon better show up soon, or all hell's going to break loose. I've got court in half an hour, and I've been afraid to leave." Joel indicated Blair should walk with him, and led him to the bathroom. Blair followed, bemused until the man's next words. "It's Rafe that's the problem, really."

Blair perched on the counter, mentally congratulating himself for avoiding the inevitable puddle around the sinks, trying to keep his concern at a 'friend' level. "Talk to me, man. What's going on? The story I heard has him taking a swing at you or H. I didn't hear the whole thing, but it didn't sound right."

"It was Brown. Rafe just kind of snapped when he made a crack about him getting sapped without messing up his hair."

"Whoa, wait a minute, that's all? Hell, I've been tempted to pop H one myself once or twice for less. So he's in a shitty mood; so am I. They'll both get over it, Joel." Blair laughed, but the laughter died when Joel shook his head again. "What?"

"Rhonda met me at the elevator when I came in this morning." The old detective sighed. "Apparently when she came in, Rafe was already here, sitting at his desk looking at his computer like he'd never seen one before. She was worried, but not too much, you know… Then she really looked at him."

Blair raised an eyebrow, starting to feel shaky. He tried to be nonchalant about slipping his hand into his pocket; needing to touch the scarf, to feel a connection with Brian he'd spent time with the day before. "We all have our off days," he offered lamely.

"This is more than a bad-hair day, Blair. Have you ever seen him with a hangover?" Blair shook his head. "Neither have I, but that's how he's acting. Noise too loud, light too bright, headache, you know. You'll understand when you see him. He didn't shave; it looks like he didn't bother to even try to comb his hair, and I'm not sure, since I didn't see him yesterday, but it looks like he slept in his clothes."

Hand clenched tightly around the scarf in his pocket, Blair said, voice tense, "Light brown polo shirt, long sleeved tan and brown plaid shirt over it, brown suede jacket, jeans." He continued in his mind, "And the whole outfit made his eyes more brown, and he smelled like cinnamon and wood smoke, and…"

"Yeah, yeah," Joel agreed. "Thought he might have; there's blood on the jeans."

It took all Blair's restraint not to jump down from the counter and shake the story out of him faster. Trying to keep the growing worry out of his voice, he asked, "Blood? Jim said that he was knocked out, but that he thought he was okay. What happened?"

"He's got a bandage, so I suppose he got a scalp cut when he was sapped. Couldn't be anything serious or he'd have been in the hospital. I think he spent last night getting drunk. What I don't understand is why he would do something so stupid and come to work still messed up."

Blair could feel his fingernails biting into his palm, probably drawing blood and not caring. "So you're saying he's still drunk? That doesn't sound like Brian at all, Joel. You know that."

"Neither does taking a swing at Henry for what he said, either. Something's wrong, really wrong, and he won't talk about it. Insists he's fine, and we should just leave him alone. Simon's going to take a huge chunk out of him. He says he doesn't care, says he won't go home because there's nothing wrong with him." Joel's liquid chocolate eyes met Blair's. "I really don't like what he said about… about…"

"Damn it, Joel, just spit it out, okay? What did he say?" Joel looked taken aback at Blair's loss of his temper. "I'm sorry, man, but this is like pulling teeth!"

"Sorry, Blair, but this… It's got me rattled. He won't talk to me; he won't talk to anyone! He just keeps writing." Joel's voice kind of shook, and although Blair ached with sympathy for him, he couldn't spare it.

His entire concern was for Brian, and the ache of his own gut. "Please, don't let him say what I think he's going to say," he prayed silently. "God, I couldn't stand it if he quit!" That was the worst he'd let himself contemplate. Ruthlessly he clamped down on an incipient panic attack.

"He said he's going away, and we shouldn't worry because nothing's wrong."

"Shit!" Blair leapt off the counter heading for the door, nearly shoving Joel out of his way. "I'm going to try to talk to him, maybe get him to go home. Take him home. Hell, I'll stay with him! Where is he now?"

"He was at his desk when I left to come in here. Rhonda's keeping an eye on him." Joel moved toward the sinks, his relief that Blair had taken over the situation evident. "Hey, Blair, you're bleeding!"

Blair looked at the red-stained puddle where he'd put down his hand for leverage, holding up his crescent wounded palm, and he shrugged, bothered deeply by Joel's willingness to let him try to make everything better. "Big fucking deal, Joel. Sounds like Rafe's thinking suicide. Maybe I'm not a cop, but I can hear that cry for help, man, and there's no fucking way I'm going to ignore it – not for court or anything."

"Blair!" Joel sounded wounded, but he was just a friend. He could apologize to him later.

Dismissing the older man from his mind, he headed to try to save Rafe from whatever demons were plaguing him. Dropping his backpack on Jim's desk, he glanced to where the young detective should be sitting. He wasn't. "Oh, shit, man, where are you?"

Rhonda waved at him, shrugged helplessly and indicated through not very complex hand signals that she'd lost track of him because of the phone call she was on. Blair started asking others in the room if they'd seen where Rafe had gone, and got no helpful responses. "Don't you people fucking care?" he muttered under his breath. "A room full of detectives, and no one notices anything!"

He sat down at Rafe's desk. "Okay, Brian, where did you go? Not the men's room, obviously." Scattered on the desk's surface, papers covered in Brian's fairly impenetrable handwriting caught his eye. "Did you leave any clues?"

Picking up the one on top, he scanned it quickly. Only a few phrases, but what they said shook him even more. "'Hurts so much. My fault. Must be dead.' Oh, Brian, what the hell are you talking about? What have you done?" He rubbed his forehead. "What happened last night? You were fine yesterday, weren't you, or did you ask me for help then and I missed it?" He started to sort through the other pages. They seemed to be aborted attempts at a report about the previous day's events, but he didn't get a chance to read them.

"Mr. Sandburg?"

"Huh? Yeah?" He looked up to see a sour faced, gray-haired woman in an unflattering suit. The hair on the nape of his neck rose. "Icky aura," he thought. "This can't be good."

"I'm Lieutenant Ginger McCauley, Internal Affairs. I'd like you to answer a few questions about the Hydra case. If you'll accompany me to Interview Room 3, please."

"No wonder her aura's so foul," he mused. His heart sank. "This really isn't a good time, ma'am. I've –"

"Now, Mr. Sandburg."

"This isn't about me going undercover, is it? Because Captain Banks cleared that, totally legit. Talk to him."

"Your conduct is not in question, Mr. Sandburg. However, this is not a matter I'd like to discuss in such an open forum. Rest assured I will be speaking with the captain and the other officers involved. Now," her voice and expression grew patronizing, "I'm going to talk with you."

"Okay, but I really do only have a couple minutes." He followed the unpleasant woman, who, despite her tugboat shaped, short body, moved fast, thinking, "Bitch!"

The next twenty minutes were, frankly, a nightmare. She started grilling him about everything he and Rafe talked about the day before, about what Shannon and Bentley had said in his presence. He answered a few of her questions, leaving out the personal stuff, and finally got an answer to why. When she'd said that an investigation was being opened into the conduct of Detective Brian Rafe, he thought she was kidding, and told her as much. She assured him that she was serious. The suspects, Shannon and Bentley, had accused Rafe of being dirty, of giving up Conner and Blair to them.

He was furious at even the implication, and the lieutenant's grating personality had quickly pissed him off even more. "Listen, lady, this is the biggest pile of SHIT I have ever heard! They're just trying to complicate things, and they're lying." He paused. "Does B – Rafe know about this?"

"He was informed by memo this morning to report to my office. He has not."

"Then fuck this! I'm not answering any more of your questions." He stood up and walked to the door.

"Mr. Sandburg, the accusation was made, and it's my responsibility to investigate it." She stood, blocking his way, responding to his anger with belligerence. "I'll be having words with your captain about your lack of cooperation!"

He pushed around her. "Then investigate it. But you're doing it without me. And, please do have words with Captain Banks. No, wait, do it when I'm there so I can watch him laugh in your face!"

He slammed the door on his way out, hardly able to see in his rage. He walked blindly back to the bullpen, muttering to himself his frustration and disbelief. Stopping outside, he leaned against the wall. "Okay, Blair, just relax, relax. Breathe." Several fruitless deep breaths later, he turned to punch the wall.

A strong hand caught his wrist before it could make the connection. "Whoa, chill out, Hairboy! What's it ever done to you?"

"H!" Blair shook of Brown's restraint. "Rafe's in deep shit."

"For what? Trying to throw the most uncoordinated punch ever at me?" Henry laughed. "I've already forgiven him, and I'm going to try to convince Simon to go easy on him. I deserved it for not spotting that he wasn't feeling well. He's just in a mood. Not unlike you. Just mellow out or I'll start looking for your pod, too. Haven't found his yet, but I'm still looking."

"I've got to talk to him. Know where he is?" He half expected Brown to shrug like everyone else he'd asked before his infuriating delay. When the other man nodded, he was almost relieved enough to kiss him. Almost. Finally, some good luck!

"Break room. He's been in there for, shit, almost an hour." Henry checked his watch. "If you could convince him to, oh, come out, I think everyone would appreciate it. We've been steering clear, and I, for one, would kill for more coffee." A friendly slap on the shoulder, and H walked away still chuckling, before Blair could tell him about the IA farce.

"Okay," Blair mused on his way to the break room, unconsciously smoothing his hair, "so H isn't worried. Joel's worried, but not at anywhere near the level I am. They're basically his best friends. Am I overreacting because I'm in love with him? Oh, man, I hope so!" The break room blinds were closed, but he could see through the irregular glass window in the door that Rafe was sitting at a table, and peering closer, he could tell that he was holding his head up with one hand.

His hand on the doorknob, Blair took another deep breath and pasted on a smile. "No use treating him like he's damaged if he isn't, right? Here goes nothing!" Rafe didn't look up when he came inside and closed the door. "Odd," he thought. "Oh, fuck, he's beautiful like this." He was sitting in profile with his fingers buried in his hair, looking debauched. "Shut off the hormones, Sandburg! He's hurting, and there's not a fucking thing beautiful about that!"

The room stank of vomit, and his stomach rebelled. He covered his mouth, swallowing convulsively. Emotional or psychological problems aside, Rafe was definitely physically ill.

He was also muttering, seemingly to himself, slurring his words. "I can't remember. How… how did I get here? No, can't… remember."

Gag reflex under control, Blair decided to get Brian's attention. "Hey, Rafe! I've been looking for you, man." He moved closer. "Oh, I didn't know you were on the phone! Sorry, I'll come back…"

Brian turned the second he heard Blair's voice, and the telephone receiver fell from his hand to land on the table with a plastic clatter then slid off to dangle, spinning, beside it. "Blair?" he whispered.

"Yeah." He indicated the phone; a woman's voice was emitting from the receiver. "Um… your call."

Brian didn't seem to be listening to him, just looking at him with a curiously blank expression. He stood quickly, winced in pain, holding his head, and reached out to touch Blair. "Blair."

Blair moved quickly to help him. "Watch it, Brian! Looking a little dizzy there. Maybe you should sit back down."

Brian's hand rose toward Blair's face, and Brian whispered his name again. Blair watched the hand, unsure of how to react, and then the fingers brushed his cheek in a caress of startling tenderness. He looked up to meet Brian's dilated eyes in surprise. There were tears there, and his heart skipped a beat, thudding in his chest. "Brian… what's wrong, man? What's going on with you?"

"Not dead. You're… not dead." Brian traced his cheekbone, stroked his sideburn.

"One hundred percent alive as far as I know." Confused, breathless, he swallowed hard.

"Oh, God! I'm so sorry!" Brian slurred.

"For what? Me being alive? I –" Rafe's lips pressed against his, cutting off his words, and his brain short-circuited.

In his astonishment and blinding joy, he finally realized that he wasn't responding to the kiss, and mentally kicked himself to do so before Brian pulled away. "Brian's kissing me," he told himself. "We're kissing in the break room of the station. Oh, fuck! Who cares? I'm not missing this chance, damn it, and if I'm dreaming… Could I please not wake up this time?"

He parted his lips, tasting Brian's with the tip of his tongue. No matter what was wrong with Brian, he wasn't drunk; no alcohol flavored his lips, just the heat of a cinnamon breath mint trying to cover the acidic tang of bile. Then Brian's own lips parted, and their tongues were tangling together for several long seconds.

Brian pulled away first, and Blair tried to meet his eyes again. His joy transformed into alarm as he took in Brian's chalky complexion and the older man sagged against him without a sound. "Rafe, Brian, are you alright? Brian? Brian! C'mon, man, talk to me!"

He carefully eased himself and Brian onto the floor, still talking, hoping to evoke some kind of response. "Oh, please, don't do this to me, Brian! Don't leave me like this!" Checking for a pulse, he was relieved to find it. Cradling his unconscious love half in his lap, he shouted, "Hey, can anyone hear me? I need an ambulance here now! Somebody, anybody! God fucking damn it! I can see you all walking by out there! Call an ambulance!"

His urgent call got the result of H opening the door, taking one look at him and Rafe, and shouting the message to the hall. Crossing to join them, kneeling, Henry asked, "What happened?"

"He… we were talking, and he just collapsed," Blair explained. He looked at the doorway; a crowd had gathered for the spectacle. "Something's seriously wrong. He's not drunk, either!" Shooting a glare at the onlookers, he shifted Brian slightly.

A loud noise emitted from the forgotten telephone, and Blair fumbled blindly for the receiver. "Hello?"

"So that got your attention. What the hell is going on?" A woman's voice accented like Brian's, urgent and upset. "What hospital will he be at?"

"Huh? Who is this?"

"Elizabeth Rafe. Who's this? What's happened to my brother?"

"Blair Sandburg. He… he's unconscious. He just… passed out."

"While you were kissing?"

Blair choked. "What?" He could feel himself start to flush. "No, no, uh –"

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. What hospital will he be at, Blair?"

"Cascade General, most likely." He looked at H; H shrugged.

"I'll catch the next flight out." She hung up abruptly, and Blair was left listening to a dial tone, arms full of the man he loved and heart filled with dread.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He's going to be fine, he's going to be fine, he's going to be fine, he's –" With each repetition of his new mantra, Blair took another cleansing breath. Trying to ignore the chaos of the emergency waiting room, he had folded himself into a half-lotus on an uncomfortable plastic chair. Jostled by the room's other occupants, revolted by the smells, half-deafened by the crying baby next to him, he waited to hear what was happening.

He managed to capture a tiny kernel of calm, and opened his eyes.

He'd been there twenty minutes, and he already knew he'd be there a lot longer. The paramedics who'd showed up had been grim. Rafe was completely non-responsive to either voices or other stimuli. Blair and Henry were shooed from the break room, leaving Rafe and the medics alone, and Blair's last sight of Brian was heart-breaking. A young woman with curly, blond hair was putting an oxygen mask over the lips he'd just been kissing.

"Sandburg, c'mon. I'll give you a ride." H pulled him by his sleeve to the elevator. "Rhonda will tell Simon and Jim where we are."

"But –"

"They're going to transport him immediately; I guarantee that."

He was the only one waiting now; unfortunately life and crime didn't stop just because a detective might. Henry was called to a crime scene ten minutes ago. Simon and Jim would show up. He was sure of it, bone deep. H had called them even before they or the ambulance pulled away from the precinct. He hoped they'd arrive soon. 'Observer' didn't have nearly the same cachet as 'Detective' or 'Captain' did, and barring the arrival of Brian's sister, they were the best chance he had of getting any information about Brian's condition.

Looking around the room, crowded for the time of day, he shuddered. There was no way that Jim would be able to deal with the input, even dialed down. Hell, he admitted, there was no way he could deal with it himself – not any longer. The uniformed officer sitting by the door nodded an acknowledgement as their eyes met. H had greeted him by name, introduced Blair, and let him know that Brian was on his way in. Blair uncurled his legs, and went to talk to him.

"I've got to go outside, man. Can you, I don't know, let me know if anyone comes looking for me?"

"Sure thing, kid. Sandburg, isn't it?" The gray-haired but still fit cop waited for Blair's nod. "Whatever this is, I hope it doesn't take Rafe out of the game. He's a damn fine cop."

"Yeah –" Blair cleared his throat. It felt wrong to think that way, but he couldn't fight the power of the double entendre. Flashes of reality, his fantasies, Brian's grin. A split-second burst of heat. "Yeah, he is. Thanks, man."

Outside, he paced. He couldn't pin down what he was feeling. Fury, fear, guilt, confusion, a still startling, hesitant joy… Was it a suicide attempt or not? Why hadn't he noticed that Brian was depressed? Sorry for kissing Blair or sorry for Blair being alive or sorry for dying? Sorry for being dirty, for what IA was saying was true? What the hell could Shannon and Bentley offer him that would be worth it? Sorry? For killing himself? Was that kiss a goodbye or a pass?

Did he know how Blair felt?

None of his questions had easy or even readily available answers. He couldn't talk to anyone about what he was feeling, either. Nothing new there. So many friends, some very close – like Jim, and he couldn't go rage and cry to them about the impossibility of his emotions. Jim, his best friend, a man not comfortable with emotion; he'd bought into the macho, stoic ideal. Anger, yeah, anger was fine, and so were a few other choice selections from the feeling menu, but this would so stress Jim's tolerance level.

Call mom? Naomi was halfway around the planet, and might as well be on the moon. He could picture the conversation vividly. "Yeah, mom, I'm in love with a cop and it's not who you think. He just tried to kill himself, and…" Detach with love. "Not this time, Naomi. I'm not letting go of him."

"When did I start feeling so alone?" Wrapping his arms tightly around his ribs, he stopped in mid-step. Could Brian have the same problem? The despair of isolation, of being horribly lonely?

Finally, wrung out, Blair leaned against the harshness of a brick wall, sliding down it to sit on the sidewalk. "Brian, why?" He rested his folded arms on his upraised knees, burying his face in them. "God, why? You can't die on me, you son of a bitch! You can't just say you're sorry, kiss me, and die!" Bitter tears soaked into the sleeves of his jacket. "Please, Brian, don't die…"

~~~~~~~~~~~ It doesn't hurt anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Waiting. Still waiting.

It was driving him crazy. No Jim, no Simon, no word about Brian.

He passed the time by alternately pacing or sitting in the same spot he'd cried in, balancing his grief with speculation about Rafe's sister. Brian didn't talk much about his family, but he always talked about his sister with affection. It was kind of shocking, he realized, but he'd never seen a photo of her. He didn't know what to expect from her.

Despite her promise of keeping the kiss a secret, could he trust her?

It said something that she stayed on the line, clearly worried, waiting until she could somehow get his attention. It revealed even more that she was hopping the first available flight to come to her brother. She unmistakably loved her brother, but how would she feel if…?

If.

Oh, how he hated that word, despised it passionately now. So many ifs in his life today.

What was the point of speculating about being outed when the subject of his homosexual desires – all of them – was in the ER and his life hung in a very precarious balance?

"C'mon, Blair, think, you idiot! It's Brian's secret, too." He paced another circuit of the sidewalk. "Maybe." Another loop. "I hope."

Back to the wall again. "I hope I get to find out."

It was quite a struggle, but Blair managed to get himself under control by the time Simon and Jim showed up. He felt a twisted sort of pride when they both attributed his condition to compassionate concern and the nasty shock of having a co-worker, a friend, suddenly lose consciousness while they were chatting.

Neither one of them took the news of the IA investigation well.

The possibility Brian had tried to kill himself went over even worse.

Armed with his badge, Simon went inside to determine Rafe's condition. Jim, on Blair's advice, stayed outside with his guide. "How are you doing?"

He didn't know whether to laugh or punch the wall. "How do you think, man? I feel like shit, okay? Today sucks!"

Jim's hand massaged his shoulder. "Sorry about this morning, Chief. I –"

"Yeah, you were a complete dick. Forget about it."

~~~~~~~~~~~ Where am I?

~~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Rafe was at her brother's bedside, and Blair sat in the ICU waiting room envying her. Not immediate family, boss, or significant other, he wasn't allowed to see Brian. Irregardless, he'd refused to leave the hospital with Jim and Simon, insisting that someone should be with Brian's sister and since he really didn't have anything more important to do, really, he should be the one.

Not that Elizabeth seemed helpless, but he felt that way himself.

Elizabeth had arrived shortly after Brian had been transferred to the ICU. She was shorter than Blair, brown hair shot through with plenty of silver, comfortably plump, and sharing Brian's laughing, hazel eyes. The scent of Greek spices overlaid with vanilla wafted through the air when she moved, and he vaguely remembered Brian mentioning that she managed a Greek restaurant. Blair had taken to the older woman immediately. She had kind of a 'Naomi' feel to her but somehow more grounded; she could root and remain stable while his mother sought flight.

She'd called the station when she was about to leave Minneapolis, and Rhonda had arranged for her to be met at the airport and driven to the hospital. Blair, needing again to escape the hospital confines and be able to vent his frustration at not being allowed to see his love, waited outside for her to arrive. He was sitting, on a bench this time, by the main entrance, fretting the silk scarf he'd used as a talisman during the long hours of waiting, of keeping the true depth of his worry and pain from Sentinel senses.

Four and a half hours after she hung up the phone, he was face to face with her for the first time. He didn't notice her arrival, but looked up when a shadow remained on the ground in front of him for too long. "Blair Sandburg?"

"Yeah, and you must be Elizabeth. How was your flight?" Her hand was small, soft and cold in his, stinging against the gouges in his palm.

"Wretched." She sat beside him with a sigh. "How's he doing? Bad news first, please."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think that I have any good news." He tried, but couldn't smile. "Captain Banks is waiting to talk to you upstairs. Maybe I should let him tell you."

"Blair," she said exasperatedly, "I've spent over three hours on a plane breathing recycled air. We're outside, and I know I'm not going to be outside again until I know my brother is going to be okay or if he's – if he's not. Please tell me."

When he was done, she asked for a minute alone. "I'll be right inside," he promised. "Whenever you're ready, okay?"

It didn't take her long, and they went upstairs. He'd locked down his deeper feelings and hidden them with the scarf. She met his eyes, and nodded, understanding. It felt, to Blair, like they were conspirators somehow. It had been so long since he'd let anyone see the inside of his closet, but he felt comforted knowing she wouldn't casually give anyone the key.

Jim and Simon were both on the phone taking care of damage control at the station. Jim was on with Conner, giving her the facts they knew so far to quell the gossip and finding out what truths she'd sorted from the myriad of rumors and guesses in the office. Simon, in an argument with Lieutenant McCauley, was trying to get the IA investigation halted. From the expression on his face, he wasn't being successful. Simon cut his conversation short at Blair and Elizabeth's entrance, promising that the subject wasn't closed. He wanted to keep the investigation from Elizabeth, to spare her the added worry.

Privately, Blair thought that was totally bogus. After all, she had been on the phone with her brother, and she probably knew about it already. Hell, it probably was what sent Brian over the edge – depression-wise anyway. That phone call might have been a farewell to Elizabeth, and he didn't know why Jim and Simon didn't ask her about it, about what they talked about, before they left for the station.

Detectives. Go figure. He'd ask.

Shifting on the couch, staring unseeing out the window and digging the scarf out of his pocket, Blair mentally reviewed what he'd been told. It was a lot to process, he thought, and the sooner he did the better. He brushed the scarf against his lips, pleading again for Brian to live, for everything to be alright, for himself to wake up. For Brian to wake up.

It was obvious, now, that Shannon and Bentley were the direct cause of Brian's condition. A meeting between Simon and the DA was scheduled for later in the afternoon – to add another attempted murder to the charges already pending against the Hydra Security owners.

The blow to the head he'd received had done far more than just knock him out. However, the relief of finally knowing what was wrong with Brian was tempered by just what it was.

His scalp wound had hidden a skull fracture the paramedics didn't spot. While that alone didn't require surgery, he would be needing it within the next twelve hours. According to the neurosurgeon who would perform the emergency operation as soon as he could, Brian's CT scan revealed a subacute subdural hematoma. His chance for surviving just the bleeding was sixty-forty, and it decreased the longer they waited.

Complicating things, he'd taken an overdose of Vicodin – probably accidental, but possibly not. They wouldn't operate until the drug level in Brian's blood had decreased, not wanting to risk negative interaction with the anesthesia.

Right now he was on a ventilator, a bolt in his skull monitored the building pressure inside, and drugs to counteract the one he'd taken coursed through his bloodstream, while everyone waited for the moment he could be rushed to the OR.

The head injury alone would account for the drastic personality change he'd displayed earlier that morning, and the Vicodin would only augment that. According to his doctors, the painkiller would exacerbate any depression he'd been feeling before the injury. Moodiness, confusion, and anxiety were other common side effects, and he'd displayed them all – particularly the nausea and vomiting.

The coma could be the result of either cause.

"He's going to be fine, he's going to be fine, he's going to be fine, he's –"

~~~~~~~~~~~ Blair? Anybody?

~~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth walked into the room, and he stood, not knowing what news to expect. She was wiping her eyes with a much-crumpled tissue, and he reached for the box on the table in front of him, wordlessly extending it to her. She waved them away. "Blair, do you need a hug as badly as I do?"

He nodded; he'd needed one for hours. He dropped the tissue box, opened his arms, and without further conversation for the moment, hugged Brian's sister as a surrogate for the man he wanted to hold. She was shaking, and he realized that he was too. It didn't take long for his tears to start again, and they stood there for a long time, hugging tightly.

Separating awkwardly, they shared the couch. He twisted the scarf around his fingers, and she smiled a lopsided smile. "That his?"

"Yes. He borrowed it to me yesterday, and I – I was going to return it today." He shook his head. "I think I've ruined it." Stained now with his blood, spotted with tears, and torn in a few places from his fidgeting, the silk wasn't holding up well from his attentions. "Elizabeth –"

She murmured, "Lizzie to you. He'd like that, I think. I – I would."

"Lizzie, how did you know? You couldn't have heard." He met her eyes, so like Brian's.

She knew without asking what he meant. "I know my brother." She frowned briefly. "I know that doesn't explain anything, but… well, we need to have a long talk, and now's not the time for it really."

"As soon as you like," he said. "I'm not leaving."

She reached for Blair's hand and he gave it to her willingly. Turning it palm up, she lightly touched the wounds his nails had inflicted. "I… I'm glad you're not. They're taking him into surgery in half an hour."

His breath caught, and his heart pounded uncomfortably. More tears gathered, thickening his voice. "Oh, God –" So many things that could go wrong on the table, the shitty odds they were giving for Brian's survival; his mind whirled with them. He fought the tears, firmly lecturing himself, "Damn it, Blair, stop mourning! He's alive!"

"His surgeon says that everything will go just fine," she whispered, reading his mind. "I believe him. There's something… I'd like you to do before then…"

"What? Any–"

She squeezed his hand lightly, and pressed a finger to his lips. "I told the doctor and nurses that you're Brian's lover, sweetie. You're on his paperwork. Go see him, Blair."

~~~~~~~~~~~ I'm scared…

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Go see him, Blair," Elizabeth repeated.

"But –" He swallowed around the lump in his throat, more than a bit surprised to be given his wish and ambivalent about being outed. It must have showed on his face, because Elizabeth sighed.

"Don't be angry. I haven't told anyone but a group of very discreet and understanding people. They won't mention it to anyone, understand? By outing you, I outed Brian, too. They know he's a cop, and just how soon they might see him in here again if his coworkers found out he's gay." Her face was very solemn. "I told you your secret is safe with me, and I mean that."

"But I'm not – I'm not his – his lover," Blair whispered, looking down at their still linked hands. As accustomed as he was to bending the truth to suit his own purposes, taking advantage of the opportunity Lizzie was presenting him with would feel like taking advantage of Brian somehow. If it wasn't something that Brian wanted… He closed his eyes.

"Do you want to be?"

He chuckled, a harsh mixture of longing and bitterness. "Want to? God, yes!"

She took his face in both of her small hands. "Trust me, sweetie, he won't mind the ruse."

Stunned, he met her eyes. She was smiling that lopsided smile again. "He's –" Blair shook his head. "He really is gay?"

She nodded. "And until either one of us hears differently from him, you are his lover, if you want to be."

~~~~~~~~~~~ Blair…?

~~~~~~~~~~~

The hiss of the ventilator and the assorted pings of the monitors and other machinery faded into the background as he stood at Brian's bedside. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and dried it on his jeans. Then, finally, he took one limp hand in his.

"Brian, man, this is so fucked up. It's so… just so damned stupid, you know? You shouldn't be here like this. I never thought I'd… You don't deserve this."

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, solemn and awkward. "I know you guys all think I know what to say all the time, but, man, I don't. I… There are all sorts of theories about whether you can hear me right now or not, and I don’t know which one's right, but I hope you can. I want you to live, okay?"

"I want you to live. But, Brian, if you took that overdose on purpose, I'm going to kick your ass so far into next year… Fuck, man! There's nothing worth suicide! Got that?" He glared fiercely at Rafe's slack face, and an angry tear slipped down his cheek. He swiped at it with his free hand, and his other squeezed Rafe's. "You're too important to all of us, man… Okay? We're going to get you help if that's what you need…"

"You're…" he whispered, "you're too important to me."

~~~~~~~~~~~ I can feel you, Blair…

~~~~~~~~~~~

He finally slumped into the chair beside the bed. "I wish there was something I could do, Brian. I wish… I just feel so damned helpless. It's not like with Jim, man, where I can usually figure out what's wrong and help him fix it. No dialing down a subdural hematoma." He shrugged one shoulder. "Some fucking shaman I am, huh? Jim doesn't want to take any sort of… spiritual journey with me, and I can't think of a damned thing to do to help you."

He rested his cheek on Brian's knuckles. "I… Brian… I want to promise you something. I don't know what Jim did to save my life when that blonde bitch killed me, but if… if… Shit, I just want you to know that I'll do my damnedest to do the same for you." He raised his head, and looked at the still face of the man he loved. "I mean that. Believe me, man."

A long and painful silence followed while he wept and tried to think of what to say. Through his tears, he focussed on the rise and fall of Brian's chest as the machine beside him hissed and sighed in time with the breaths it took for Brian. He noticed that his own breathing was starting to synchronize with it, and gave a shudder.

~~~~~~~~~~~ But I can't… reach you...

~~~~~~~~~~~

Enough depression, Sandburg. Change the subject. Snorting back the tears, he tried out a smile. It didn't feel right, but, he reasoned, nothing did.

"Your sister's pretty cool, you know? Of course, you do. Duh!" He smacked himself on the forehead with his free hand. "Don't mind me; I'm an idiot. God, I wish you were awake!"

"Um… I hope… I hope Lizzie's not wrong about you minding this, um, charade, because I do love you, Brian." He brushed the captive hand with a feather-light kiss. "I love you, but I've been too chickenshit to tell you. I was going to… Well, I should be honest. I was trying to talk myself out of telling you when I was on the elevator at work today."

"And, Brian, this is hardly how I wanted to get you in bed, man…" He forced the lightness into his voice. "Now that I'm your lover and all… I'd really rather be acting out some of the fantasies I've been having about you since we met. There's one with you wearing those shredded cut-offs you wore when we were helping you move…" He lightly massaged Brian's hand with his thumb, memorizing the texture of his skin. "And, I had one hell of a dream last night…" He chuckled quietly. "Remind me to tell you about it sometime." Smile not fading, he leaned in a little closer. "I think it proved conclusively what I said yesterday. There's no way that Conner could make me beg, but you…"

He glanced around before continuing, then planted a kiss in Brian's palm. "I think I'd do anything for you. Well, almost anything. And, not to sound immodest," he laughed, "I'd like to think I could make you beg, too."

~~~~~~~~~~~ Please…

~~~~~~~~~~~

"I owe you a scarf, by the way." He snaked the mangled silk out of his pocket. "What do you think, man? Should we go shopping together when you're out of here? I mean, there's no way you're going to want this back."

He released Brian's hand for a moment, and draped the scarf around his neck. "It just doesn't have the same class it did when you loaned it to me, does it?" He chuckled warmly. "That was one hell of a surprise, you know. 'Hey, Sandburg, you're supposed to be an artist. You need color for that.' And then there's this scarf around my neck."

His mood grew more solemn, and he reached for Brian's hand again. "I wish it was yesterday, and we were back in that car talking. I enjoyed it, you know. Just spending solo time with you, man, it was so cool. You were so calm about me going undercover, so sure I could pull off what I was supposed to without giving me shit about it. I was kind of afraid you'd notice that I wasn't just… rehearsing." He shrugged. "I was kind of hoping you'd call me on it, too."

"Not that I'd leave Megan hanging. No way. Uh-uh. And if your being here like this doesn't convince that fucking bitch from IA that you didn't leave us hanging," he sighed gustily, "I don't know what will."

~~~~~~~~~~~ Please…

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Simon and Jim are doing all they can, though; I'm sure of it. No one who knows you could believe that you'd sell us out." He frowned deeply. "I wanted to strangle that woman for suggesting it, and, you know, I still do. I'm so fucking angry at her… and at Shannon and Bentley. I mean, come on, what kind of idiot do they think you are, man? Sell us out and then let them kill you?"

"No, no, lover, you're not going to die! No…" He pressed Brian's palm against his cheek. "The doctors say you'll be alright, and I – I want to believe them. I have to believe them."

"You're going to go into surgery and you're going to come out of it and then you're going to come out of that coma…" A hard, painful swallow. "And though I won't be with you, I'll be with you, you know?"

He stood up, still holding Brian's far too passive hand. "And you're going to be absolutely, perfectly, back to normal and your career will be safe, too."

"And then," he allowed himself another shaky smile, "we're going to talk for hours, hopefully followed by a marathon lovemaking session."

His smile vanished. "But… oh, man, how are we going to keep it from Jim? Shit. Nothing's ever easy, is it?"

Lost in his new train of thought, he didn't notice he was crying again; tears dripped from his cheeks to fall on their linked hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~ Why am I in a jungle…?

~~~~~~~~~~~

Blair started at a gentle touch on his shoulder. Turning to face the kindly-faced, middle-aged Black nurse as she spoke to him, he squeezed Brian's hand more tightly. "Mr. Sandburg, it's time. You can see him again when he's back from surgery."

"Just give me a second, please?"

"Sure, honey, but just one."

He leaned down and whispered fiercely beside Brian's ear. "I'm not going to say goodbye, man, because you're not going to die on me. We've got way too much to talk about. Just… just live and be okay, Brian. I love you." He brushed his lips against his beloved's earlobe, and his voice cracked as he repeated, "I love you."

One last look, and he turned away to make his way back to Lizzie.

Approaching the waiting room, he stopped, listened, and decided on a quick detour to the men's room. No way was he going to let Megan, Joel, and H see how fucked up he felt. After what felt like gallons of cold water splashed on his face, he met his eyes in the mirror.

"Time to lock it all down again, Blair. Damn, I could almost wish Jim had never taught me that trick."

Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath, and went to face his friends with a heart considerably lighter on the surface and sent his soul with his beloved.

~~~~~~~~~~~ Good wolf…

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sandburg." Jim's voice held a hint of humor, and he shook Blair's shoulder gently. "Chief, wake up."

Blair rolled over with some difficulty, and half-opened his eyes to meet Jim's concerned yet smiling ones. "Oh, shit, I didn't mean to fall asleep!" His mind was foggy; remnants of dreams chasing their tails cast blue and shifting shadows, and he felt sluggish and stupid, unable to focus. The last thing he remembered was meditating again. "Sorry, man, what time 's it?"

"I would have let you sleep longer, but the last time you fell asleep on the couch you were miserable for days." Jim shrugged apologetically, but ignored his question. "I hope you're feeling better after your nap."

"I feel worse. Can't think for shit." He tried to sit up, and groaned deeply. "Fuck! What did I do to my neck?"

"Slept on a couch." Jim helped him up, and sat beside him. "Getting old."

"Funny, Oh Ancient One. Ow." Wincing, he tried roll the tension out, and raised his hand to rub his left shoulder.

Jim gently pushed the hand away, replacing it with his own. "Here, let me help."

Jim's hands unerringly found the muscle knots preventing Blair's neck from moving freely. "Oh, God, that feels good! Right there." He groaned again as Jim dug in with his fingertips. "Ow, ow, ow, man! Ease up a bit, would you?"

"Better?" Jim asked, stroking soothingly with the pads of his thumbs. "You didn't sleep well the night before last, did you?"

"Uh-uh." He let his head loll forward, giving Jim even better access to his neck.

"I figured, since you fell asleep here. Want to talk about it?"

He shrugged as best he could with Jim massaging his shoulders. "Not really," he muttered drowsily.

Not surprisingly, Jim didn't push, just kept up the massage. Blair had trouble keeping his eyes open; the blue haze of his dreams was tugging at him, and the nagging feeling he was forgetting something important in his exhausted state confused him.

"You still with me, Chief?"

He jolted into more conscious awareness at Jim's hand, not massaging anymore, clapping onto his shoulder and shaking him a bit. "Yeah, yeah…" He shook his head. "Thanks." Rolling his shoulders, he heard something pop. "What time is it?"

"Time to go home."

He was suddenly, violently, completely awake.

"No."

~~~~~~~~~~~

There's nothing here, in this jungle, except for the wolf and me.

It's a gorgeous animal, and I don't know how to explain it, but it feels like Blair.

It just sort of… appeared… here right after the light did and I discovered I was in the jungle.

He felt nearby before… in the darkness.

Nearby, but infinitely out of reach.

We've been walking together, going nowhere, for what seems like days.

Neither of us leads; neither follows.

Here we're equals.

I feel disconnected and weak, but still there's no pain.

When I stumble, falter, or stop moving altogether, he waits and guards me.

I don't know what he's guarding against, but I try to keep moving as soon as I recover.

Maybe he knows more about this place than I do; he seems comfortable here.

The wolf-Blair doesn't speak, but it seems sometimes that he's about to.

I wait, at those times, listening, but if he does speak, I don't understand him.

I can't find a reason to be here, but I can't find a reason not to be.

There doesn't seem to a way out, anyway.

I think I'm dreaming.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"You and Elizabeth have been camped out in this waiting room for almost twenty-four hours."

"But, Jim…"

Jim held up his free hand, cutting off Blair's protest abruptly. "No, Sandburg. You're both coming to the loft, having a real meal, and getting some real sleep. You're a wreck, and so is Rafe's sister."

"Where is Lizzie?"

"Lizzie?"

"That's what Brian calls her. She told me to, too. Where is she?" He glanced around the room, starting to panic when he didn't see her; other people keeping vigil for their loved ones met his eyes in empathy and understanding. He'd had conversations with many of them over the hours of his own wait, learned their hopes and fears and traumas. "Don't tell me something happened, man."

"Calm down, Chief. Rafe's fine. There's been no change in his condition since he came out of surgery last night. Elizabeth is in with him."

"You're not?" Blair tapped his ear.

"No. She wanted to tell him where she'd be. The hospital has our home number, her cell phone number, your cell – "

"Okay, I get the point. If something happens, they can get a hold of her anywhere."

Jim nodded. "And I can get her here in minutes."

Blair was silent for several heartbeats, and then he sighed. "Okay, but I'm only going under protest. I'd rather stay until he wakes up."

~~~~~~~~~~~

If it is a dream, will I wake up alone?

Will the pain come back?

Here, in this painless jungle, we're together.

We're different, but we're together.

Wonder what I look like, because I don't feel like I look the same.

I mean, the wolf-Blair is bigger than I am.

I'm nearer to the ground.

I can't see myself unless I look in his eyes, but when I look there I only see something that looks incredibly and improbably like love.

I remember a kiss.

An impossible kiss.

The taste of coffee, the feel of his slightly chapped lips, his clean yet musky scent, and then his tongue was in my mouth…

God, the smell of him!

Was that a dream, too?

And if this is a dream, will I remember it?

~~~~~~~~~~~

"That could be weeks, Chief. You're already going beyond the call here."

The anger that simmered below the surface of his skin almost boiled over again, but he managed to vent it with a deep breath. "Why? I mean, Rafe's not my best friend, but I care about him. He got hurt backing me up, Jim. Me. Not just Megan. IA's trying to rip his career apart, and he can't even defend himself. If I can give Lizzie some support while she's here for him, I'm going to."

Jim's expressive face reflected a variety of emotions. Blair was too tired to try to read all of them. "You're not blaming yourself, too, are you?"

"What do you mean? Too?"

"Chief, the atmosphere at the station yesterday and so far today was bad. Mostly it's just anger that an officer was down and no one knew it. Everyone in Maj – "

He couldn't hold the anger anymore. "None of them paid enough fucking attention to care!"

"Hold it! That's not true, and you know that." Jim's own anger sparked, and his hand convulsed on Blair's shoulder. "You saw how Conner, Joel, and H felt last night. Simon's – "

"Then where are they now, huh? Megan stayed for fifteen minutes, Jim. Fifteen minutes. That was a courtesy call. H, H is Brian's fucking best friend –" His volume increased with every sentence until he was nearly shouting.

Jim winced, obviously unable to modulate the input quickly enough. "They're working, Chief!" he snapped. "I guess you're not blaming yourself; you're blaming everyone else."

Blair rubbed his face with both hands, breathing deeply and fighting the irrational rage he was feeling. "I'm… I'm sorry. I'm just so – so – so pissed!"

"You're not the only one." The hand on Blair's shoulder started massaging again. "But you're exhausted, and you're not thinking clearly. You said so yourself."

"I'm not thinking angry." He shrugged off Jim's hand, and stood. "I just can't turn it off, man! It's like it's the only thing I've got left in me, emotionally anyway. I mean, I know I should apologize to Joel, but I can't."

Jim stood, too. "We'll go home, you and Elizabeth will get some sleep, and you'll feel better. Trust me."

"God, I hope so!"

~~~~~~~~~~~

It could be limbo, I suppose.

I haven't noticed time passing; the light doesn't change.

There's a sensation of waiting, though, and I don't know why or what for.

Maybe I'm dead.

I've never been a religious man, but this doesn't seem like any afterlife I've ever heard about.

If I'm dead, and Blair's here…

Please, let this be a dream.

Please.

Because if I'm dead, and he's here, that means he's dead, too.

But I remember that he's alive.

The wolf and I walk together, and we're the only things that feel real.

I'm no longer afraid.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Blair sat up, pounded his pillow into what he hoped would be a more comfortable shape, and lay back down with a sigh. Sleep, which he desperately needed, was eluding him. How was it that he could sleep at the hospital, in a room full of misery and pain, and his own comfortable, familiar bedroom was keeping him awake? He ached to get back to the dreams he was having at the hospital. He couldn't remember them, but suspected they were important.

Ten fruitless minutes later, he stumbled out of his room and into the kitchen. Meditating wasn't working; time for desperate measures. He pulled the milk out of the refrigerator, squinting at the expiration date. Today. Opening it gingerly, he took a sniff. "Well, Jim might smell something, but it seems okay," he thought, and found a mug. He wished he could take a couple Valerian capsules, but he didn't want to risk sleeping that deeply.

While he waited for the microwave to finish warming his soporific beverage, he looked up to Jim's room with a smile. Elizabeth was soundly asleep in Jim's bed. She'd only accepted the use of it after Jim had nearly exhausted his considerable charm on her and started getting impatient. She'd refused vehemently to kick Blair out of his own bed. He thought ruefully now that she should have slept in it; the couch might have been a better option for him.

Jim went back to the station after making sure the two of them had eaten. He'd even cooked, insisting they didn't have to do anything. Blair had watched, amused, when Lizzie basically chased Jim out of his own kitchen after the meal with the sheer force of her personality. The nonplussed detective tried to take over the dishwashing, but she persisted and won out.

The beeping of the microwave startled him, and he frantically hit the stop button so it wouldn't wake Lizzie. Sucking on slightly burned fingertips, he carried the hot milk into his room, hoping it would work.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Things are starting to seem somehow fuzzy.

We're definitely headed somewhere, now, but I don't know where.

As we travel, darkness spreads behind us, but the light before us doesn't dim.

My body feels strange, heavier and larger.

I can see myself.

I'm naked.

Human.

The wolf-Blair's fur brushes against my legs at each step.

I trip, landing hard, and he presses against me, licking my face.

I wrap my arms around him, hold him close, clinging to his comfort.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment the dream began, he recognized it. The setting was so familiar, so comfortable. He was in a jungle, as he'd been in many dreams since Incacha passed the way of the shaman to him, a wolf again.

Jim might not want to take a spiritual journey with him, but he didn't let that stop him; he'd tried to reach this place repeatedly in meditation, but it seemed that his sleeping mind could reach it far more easily. He didn't feel angry anymore, and on an instinctual level he knew he'd left the rage behind in his sleeping, human body. It had no purpose here, but, he knew, he did.

The blue tinged light strengthened behind him, and the need to move consumed him. A sound called him forwards, a whimper of pain, of fear. There was something up ahead, he realized, lost and alone in the darkness. Scent didn't carry well in this windless place, and he waited for the quiet, pleading bark again before setting out.

The wolf's body made for easy travel over terrain that he remembered being less convoluted and jagged in past visits. The other presence he felt must be changing the landscape. The light increased as he journeyed into the darkness, and it wasn't long before it outpaced him.

He slowed, feeling surrounded by a familiar presence, but still nearly missed seeing the smaller animal shivering against the trunk of a tree. Its camouflage was good enough to trick his lupine eyes. Its russet fur and light brown eyes, the entire feel of the animal, reminded him of Brian. He approached the fox carefully; its trembling fear abated when it noticed him, and it rose to stand at his side.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm crying.

I don’t know if it's pain, fear, or happiness.

I don't care.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The fox had more difficulty traveling than Blair did. He seemed weak, tired, defeated. Blair moved slowly, an easy lope. Brian, in his fox form, kept up most of the time. He faltered sometimes, and in those moments Blair was hit with fear of his own. The jungle took on a menace then, and Blair could tell Brian didn't notice while Blair, hackles raised, guarded him.

Knowledge blossomed in his mind, and subtly he nudged the fox along a path that was ingrained in his heart. He knew what the darkness was now, and he'd keep Brian from it no matter what it took. Looking over his shoulder, he watched the darkness approaching them. Barking encouragement, he looked back at the fox, trying to let it see the love he bore Brian.

It seemed only seconds later when Brian was suddenly human. Blair's heart pounded in his chest. The moment of choice was coming, and sooner than he expected. He wished, prayed, for some way to communicate what he knew.

Brian stumbled, falling to his knees, and Blair got as close to his beloved as he could, licking his face. Arms embraced him, and Brian, weeping, pressed his face into Blair's fur.

He had to get Brian moving again, somehow, get him to understand that there was only one way home. Out of the darkness that, if he chose it, would result in his death.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He changes.

A nude, human Blair is in my arms.

He's hugging me as strongly as I'm hugging him.

No speech between us, nothing vocal anyway.

The darkness is getting closer.

We're clinging to each other, and I'm… I'm feeling like I'm being pulled toward the dark.

There's moisture on my shoulder.

He raises his head; his eyes meet mine, and tears are streaking his cheeks, too.

*Brian, you have to choose. Life or death.*

~~~~~~~~~~~

Blair woke with a start, yanked on a pair of jeans, and practically flew up the stairs. "Lizzie! Lizzie, wake up! We've got to get to the hospital right now!"

She woke, looking disoriented and afraid. "Did they call? What's happened, Blair?"

He shook his head, grinning. "They didn't call. Not yet, but they will."

"Blair?" She was looking at him like he had completely lost his mind. "What the hell – " Her cell phone rang shrilly, and she glanced from him to it then back.

He picked it up off the nightstand and tossed it to her, laughing, unable to restrain his happiness. "He's awake, Lizzie! He's awake!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

If I ever end up in a coma again, I hope my awakening's a lot like it was this time. With Lizzie standing at my bedside, smiling down at me, and Blair listening to the doctor telling him that his lover – lover – is nearly out of the woods.

Not that I ever want to end up in a coma again.

Lizzie told me that, a week ago today, Blair scared her half to death by waking her out of a nightmare and telling her they needed to be at the hospital immediately. Somehow, she said, he knew that the hospital was about to call. He was crowing, a bit prematurely, that I was awake.

At that point, apparently, I had just started breathing on my own.

I forgave her for not wanting to be there when they turned off the respirator. It was a tough call for her, making that decision. The doctor interpreted signs he'd seen – muscle twitches and the like – and told her what he was going to do. She made the choice to leave with Jim and Blair, knowing full well that if I didn't breathe on my own… Well, that I might not be coming out of it. They would have just hooked me right back up to the damned machine, but… she was risking my life, risking the possibility I'd have considerable brain damage.

I understand.

I pray I never have to make the same choice about her. I wouldn't want to be there when she might die at the flick of a switch.

She also made the choice not to tell Blair what was going to happen. From what she's told me about the shape he was in at the time, I guess I can forgive her for that, too. I haven't had to, not aloud, but I know she knows me far too well. Sometimes better than I know myself. I never told her directly, in so many words, that I was – I am – in love with Blair. Not until the day I ended up in the hospital anyway.

Someday I'll tell her about the difficult choice I had to make in the jungle and the help I had.

Blair and I have to work through that first. On some levels, I think it bothers him. I know that it bothers me. Discovering that what I thought was a dream was more than that, was incredibly real, that my soul walks on four legs or two in that place… It's been strange. It's shaken me almost more than finding out how I ended up in the hospital.

He explained that the fox is my spirit guide, but I argued that the fox didn't lead me anywhere. The fox was me; the wolf was him. Wouldn't that make him my spirit guide? He says no. I don't know.

I do know that our souls, our spirits, whatever, touched there. Touched, and in a blinding moment, a sharp and painful flash of light, fused somehow. Nothing sexual about it, but it felt somehow better than any orgasm I've ever had.

I can't be flippant about it. It feels like something's changed somewhere inside me, and I owe it to Blair. Stupid, romantic, and corny as it sounds, I feel like… like I've been reborn and found my soulmate.

Fuck, I've never believed in soulmates or destiny, and now I'm convinced I've got one. Brian, you're a piece of work, aren't you?

So, Blair's a shaman. He told me that Jim's Chopec friend, the one who'd died in his apartment, had passed the way to him… but that he didn't know how to be one. I'd say he did a wonderful job. In fact, that's what I did say when we finally got around to talking about it.

We need to talk about a lot more than just that. I can't wait until we have more time alone. Outside of dreams and dream-like jungles.

There've been too many people around since I woke up. We haven't had enough time, just the two of us. Maybe when they let me go home? Blair's already been back to work, isn't camped out at the hospital with Lizzie. She convinced him to go and get back into his routine. I understand that, too. Damn, she's a smart one; glad she's on my side. Our side. I don't know how she managed to out both of us without outing either one of us.

I haven't really had enough time alone with Lizzie, either. It's been so long since we've seen each other in person… She can't stay in town much longer, what with her job and all. Simon says that I can take some time off to go visit her in a few months. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when he told me that. I still don't know how to feel about it. Oh, I'm going to go. Definitely. Take her out and treat her like the queen she is.

Thank her repeatedly for combining my closet with Blair's.

I finally did wake four days ago. Stupid me, I thought I was dreaming again. No wonder, though. Suddenly Blair and I were long-term lovers, Lizzie was in Cascade, and I was in the hospital and being investigated by IA. Honestly, it was hard to believe I was awake; my entire world had been rearranged without my being consulted.

I've been exonerated. Completely.

It's the weirdest thing. I didn't even know until a few days ago that I was being investigated for being dirty. I assumed it was because, well, because I fucked up, and I never even read that memo from IA completely. I wrote what Blair assumed was my suicide note on the back of it.

Was it a suicide note?

It scares the hell out of me that it may have been. I don't know. I might have consciously chosen to take that overdose. I was more than a little out of my mind. I knew – it was all I knew for sure – that Blair was dead, and I didn't care about myself anymore. All I wanted to do was get away. Maybe farther away than Minneapolis. Maybe farther away than that jungle… Let the darkness take me.

God, that makes me sound so fucked up and needy! I'm not. I know I'm not.

Everyone seems content to believe it was an accidental overdose. Even the shrink they've been having me talk to here. She says she'll clear me for duty soon, although I've shared my fear of taking on surveillance assignments with her. She's convinced that once I'm back to work that fear will fade. I'm not, but I'm willing, now, to have faith in her opinion.

Possibly H said it the best, what everyone believes or wants to believe, when he hugged me. "If you'd really wanted to die, Rafe, you'd have eaten your gun." Then he stepped back, grinned hugely, and sassed, "Would have really messed up your hair, so I know you'd never do it!" The tears in his eyes kind of gave it away, though.

Everyone's been apologizing for not noticing that I was more badly hurt than they'd heard, for thinking I was drunk or stoned or just plain old fucked up. It's uncomfortable as hell. Their guilt is almost worse than my own.

Almost.

I just nod and smile, really, to most of them. Some of the people who've been coming to visit barely know me. Vince Deal's even stopped by to apologize. That was weird.

Blair forgave me without even blinking; IA, well, they were a bit harder to convince, but it all worked out. I didn't even have to deal with a hearing, thank God.

A new lead investigator was assigned after Lt. McCauley was determined to be related to Bentley via her second husband. Lucky me. From what I've heard about her, I'm glad I didn't have to meet her. I don't know who dug up that tidbit, and no one's admitting it, but I suspect… well, I suspect everyone in Major Crimes.

The new investigator – Lt. Kolb or Colb, something like that anyway – cleared me today.

Two days ago, Blair sat beside me while Lt. Kolb grilled me. It was during my first hours out of the ICU, and I was so very tired. I couldn't help but think of the way the wolf shielded me in the jungle and of the way it encouraged and protected my fox form. More than once he visibly – at least to me – restrained himself from snapping at the big, bald, glasses-wearing man when he asked something particularly distasteful.

I think seeing that side of Blair makes me love him even more. The only person who's ever protected me from anything is Lizzie.

Ironically, Simon got a minor reprimand for leaving me out there alone.

Very minor because of Bentley's recorded statement that if there had been two of us in the car he would have just shot us. One officer wasn't worth killing loudly – because he couldn't tell if I was a cop and I could have just been an innocent person sitting in that ghastly car.

It helped my case, I think, that the doctor explained away my memory loss. (It helped my guilt a little.) The actual blow that cracked my skull and started filling it with blood stole the memory of the actual blow. Common, he said, in traumatic brain injuries.

It's hard to write that. Traumatic. Brain. Injury.

I suffered a traumatic brain injury.

I'm recovering from brain surgery.

For a subacute subdural hematoma in the left frontal lobe of my brain.

They're running constant tests, checking me physically and mentally for brain damage. There's a very good chance that I've got more than a little, but they're waiting for the swelling to go down. I can still write, though, obviously. I'm rambling, I know, but I'm really tired. I should be resting, or so I've been told.

It's hard to, though. So hard to let myself fall asleep.

I really don't like to think of myself as damaged.

I'm hoping for another miracle. I don't know if I deserve one. How could I escape something like this unscathed without one?

I don't feel any different than I did before I got hurt. Then again, I didn't feel any different afterward, either. Aside from the blinding pain. That's also common.

Common.

I don't think what happened during my coma was at all common.

Not often that the person you love the most gives you the choice of living or dying in the middle of a jungle – metaphorical or real.

You'd think it would be an easy choice, life or death, but it was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. If he had to, he told me, he would not only let me go but ease my passage. He would have helped me die.

Neither one of us knew what I'd be coming back to, regardless of what the doctors told him.

It was his eyes, the second we were left alone in my room. That's what made me know it was real. That we had shared that… experience, I guess. Until that moment, I did believe it was a dream, really.

His eyes, when they met mine, were shuttered and emotionless. The first words out of his mouth were an apology for masquerading as my lover to see me in the ICU.

Then he reached for my hand, and when I took it, those eyes filled suddenly with so much love I couldn't breathe, and I saw, overlaying our hands so very faintly, the echo of the motion we'd made in the jungle.

When I clasped his hand, and chose life.

I raised his hand to my lips, kissed it quickly, and said, "Thank you."

Blair's here! Maybe now I can sleep; he'll watch over me.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been an amazing couple of weeks since I last updated this journal. Yeah, the last entry ended kind of abruptly, too. I can't write about Blair when he's in the same room with me. He's far, far too distracting to my mind and far, far too inspiring to my lizard brain.

Damn, he's got a talented tongue.

Okay, there's stuff I have to write about before I get to that.

Before I wax poetic about how Blair looked this morning with a towel wrapped low around his hips, stepping out of my bathroom, slinking toward my bed to fuck me insensible. Oh, God. A sarong. Something richly colored, richly patterned. With a white cotton, or maybe linen, shirt so sheer it's virtually transparent, open to the waist.

See how distracting he is? I can't get that image out of my mind now. I'm going to have to see it.

I've been home for a week. Lizzie stayed here the first night, and then she headed home to Minneapolis. We talked most of the night, about everything and nothing. Work's going well for her; she just got another raise. My niece has learned to mimic the modem.

God, I never thought I'd think of a parrot as family! Let alone one named 'Boo-butt'. Probably for the best, though, considering our upbringing that she's not interested in having kids – although I still think she'd be a wonderful mom – and I'm not either.

She's convinced that Blair is going to be the best thing that's ever happened to me, and she absolutely adores him. Not that I couldn't tell, or anything. The second he called her Lizzie in my hearing, I knew. He's different around everyone else. Around the two of us, he's more open. I'm seeing parts of him that I don't think anyone has in a long, long time. Lizzie thinks so, too. She doesn't even think that Jim knows, even has a clue, how deeply Blair feels for me, feels about a lot of things, and Jim's his best friend.

Considering how long it took me to find out… and how much soul-searching I did… He hid it well. Guess both of our camouflage is too good, huh?

He loves me.

He loves me he loves me he loves me he loves me he loves me!

Damn, Brian, giddy much? How old are you?

He sees through my veneer, too. Ever since the jungle I think we know each other better than I would have thought possible. Oh, details, sure, there's a lot of details we don't know, and deep secrets we may never share, but we understand each other and accept each other.

Not that I expect our relationship to stay this simple. We're in another timeless place right now, and we're not dealing with the outside world at all, not dealing with anything outside the closet door when we're together. Simplicity will shatter, I'm sure, when I'm back at work and my real life resumes. I'd like us to be able to maintain this… this state of grace. History's told me that's impossible, but there's this hope I haven't had for a long, long time. Hope that the first flush of discovery and joy and shared sexual desire won't fade in the face of the reality of a closeted relationship.

It hasn't faded through our friendship; we've admitted just how long these feelings have existed. Now that we're acting on it, it just seems to be getting stronger – our friendship, that is.

Friendship before love. Some of the best advice Lizzie ever gave me as a teenager… that I've never followed until now.

I guess I got my second miracle. Maybe the third. I've lost count.

The doctors all say that I've got less brain damage than they expected. There is some, but I can still work, still be a detective, thank God. It's just that complicated tasks are a lot more difficult and there are a few I have to remaster, but I am learning them quickly. Guess I'm never going to be on the bomb squad. Considering that was never one of my goals, I'd say I escaped pretty easily.

Every afternoon Simon, Joel, or H stops by, and we go over the steps for taking apart, cleaning, and reassembling my gun. I've almost got it down again, and that really sad look's leaving Joel's eyes.

Spontaneous, verbal, emotional expression is also more challenging. But I can tell Blair that I love him. That's all that matters to me. I can say the words aloud, either in the heat of passion or when we're just cuddling quietly. They say I can relearn 'appropriate verbalizing of emotion', too.

Whatever.

I'm always going to be exhibiting symptoms of depression, too. Well, until I can learn to route around them somehow. The therapists I'm seeing are hopeful about that, but they're also going to be keeping a serious eye on me for a long time. I guess they doubt it when I tell them that in many ways I've never been happier.

Lastly, and perhaps most ironically, they say I'm liable to discover an increase in my sexual drive and fewer inhibitions. I almost choked to death laughing. That's never been a problem.

Thank God, I've finally got a partner – a lover – who can appreciate it. And appreciate it, and appreciate it…

It's going to be a few weeks before I'm back on anything other than part-time duty. And it's desk duty until the headaches go away.

Blair's been here every night since Lizzie left. I know that can't last, that he has to go home soon. Sunday, in fact. Tomorrow. He's taking care of me. I haven't eaten so well at home in years. We've spent what feels like years talking; spent countless hours just curled up on the couch or in bed; fallen asleep in mid-conversation in each other's arms.

What the hell did I do to deserve such happiness? Oh, God, please don't let me fuck it up!

We made love for the first time last night.

I don't know how I'm going to capture it in words, but damn it, I'm going to try – because it's never going to happen again just like that.

It was everything and nothing like my fantasies. It was amazing, and it was tremendously scary, really. It seemed so… so important that everything be perfect. It wasn't, naturally. We collapsed in what can only be called giggles about five minutes into our ever so solemn ritual first time. It was so fucking cliched! I've haven't been that nervous in… decades.

I think we were both expecting some sort of mystical experience, one more sacred than profane.

He blew out the candles; I turned off the music. We spent about ten minutes consumed by the hilarity of the situation, and made out for half an hour. Then his mother called just when I got him half naked on the couch, straddling my lap. His mother! Jim gave her my number, and I'm not sure whether I'm going to kill him for it or not.

"Um, ma, this isn't exactly the best time," he said, rolling his eyes, "I'm kind of busy here." He stifled a snort of laughter, leaned closer to me, and whispered in my ear. "She told me to just keep doing what I'm doing… so…"

While he talked to her about inconsequential things that I can't remember, his hands were busy working their way under my shirt. I had to bite my tongue when, phone held between his shoulder and ear, he grinned at me and attacked my nipples with his fingers, trying to get me to moan aloud.

Of course I had to get revenge. His back is profoundly sensitive to my fingernails, we've discovered. I trailed my forefinger down his spine, tracing around his vertebrae, digging in a little. I got a yelp out of him and a breathtaking pinch to my nipples – just the right pressure.

Naomi obviously asked about me, because he pinched again, and said, "Oh, he's doing much better. I'm just giving him a hand…" One hand slid down my chest to the top button of my jeans. "…with a few things." He tore the button fly open almost fiercely.

Before he could do anything else, I buried my face in the mat of hair on his chest, wetting it with my tongue, trying to avoid hitting the phone with my head. He had to disguise a moan as a cough, fumbling and trying not to drop the phone, when I started to flick his left nipple with just the tip of my tongue.

"Rafe," he hissed, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

"What?" I mouthed, grinning at him. I traced the seam on the back of his jeans, down, down, feeling him start to tremble as I approached the point where all the seams met.

"Just a second, mom; Brian needs me." He hit the hold button, dropped the phone beside us on the couch, grabbed my face with both hands, and ravaged my mouth with a hard, possessive kiss that left us both breathless.

I managed to get his jeans unzipped while he picked up the phone again.

"Sorry about that, mom… Yeah, yeah, everything's just fine, but I probably shouldn’t stay on the phone much longer. I don't know what time it is there, but –" He almost dropped the phone again, as both of us, meeting one another's eyes, touched the other's bare cock for the first time.

I had to close my eyes when he sucked his lower lip half into his mouth, his teeth sinking into it, his eyes slamming shut, and his breath expelling in a rush. His hand tightened around my cock for a second, then relaxed.

I opened my eyes, and with the fingers my other hand I lightly brushed the tip of his cock. He made a choked sort of whimpering sound, and opened his eyes in time to watch me lick the precum I'd gathered on them off.

"M-m-mom. Uh." He cleared his throat, and I kept sucking on my fingers. "Mom –"

He turned the phone slightly, and I could hear Naomi rattling on obviously oblivious to Blair's condition. I chuckled a bit, pulled my fingers out of my mouth, and brushed them lightly over the head of my own cock.

His lips parted, and his tongue swiped between them. I held up my hand, and he engulfed my fingertips with a sigh. Dear God, I love his tongue. He probably could make me come just by sucking my fingers.

A few seconds later, he pulled away. "Huh? Sorry, I'm a little… distracted, mom."

I slid my now free hand into the back of his jeans, lightly scratching his tailbone. He writhed on my lap, arching his back.

"Yeah, yeah, that would be great… call me tomorrow. Tell Constance I said 'hi', and have fun!" He thumbed the phone off, dropped it on the couch, detached my hand from his cock, and slid to the floor between my legs. "I sure as hell am!" He reached behind him for his glass, took a swallow, looking up at me through his lashes. "You'd better be the one guy who doesn't fall in love with my mother," he said sternly.

Then he spilled non-alcoholic wine on my crotch, and swallowed my cock to the root.

Nothing shy about Blair.

He sprang the news of his anal virginity on me about ten seconds after I came in his throat, one of his fingers deep in my own ass, my jeans hanging around my left calf. While I was recovering from that shock, he proposed I take it as soon as I was up to it.

Strike that. He flat out demanded that I fuck him blind.

No pressure.

"Bedroom," I managed to gasp, yanking my jeans off the rest of the way. "Now. Please."

I held out my hand, stood, and helped him to his feet. I needed to lie down. It was a bit – fuck, a lot – more than I expected.

That's when he got, well, shy, I guess. I'll admit it: so did I. I've never had the… honor, I guess, of taking someone's virginity. Any virginity. Particularly the virginity of someone who seemed so experienced in so many other sexual possibilities.

Suddenly the moment was solemn again, and I desperately wanted the laughter back, the ease.

"So, how is your mother?" I asked as we walked the twenty-odd feet to the bedroom.

"Clueless, but I love her," he replied after a long, long moment. His expression was one I'd never seen before. He was smiling, but his eyes were filled with hurt and confusion, and he looked a bit shell-shocked.

I was feeling that more than a little myself. "What's she up to?"

"She's sailing out to someone's private island on Sunday to get her spirit cleansed for… You know, I really wasn't paying attention." He laughed abruptly, stopping in the doorway. "What's with the small talk? If you don't want to – to fuck me, just say so. Okay?"

"Blair," I whispered, reaching for his shoulders, smiling, "you just – you just dropped this – this – this bombshell on me after giving me some of the most spectacular head I've ever gotten. Wanting doesn't even enter the equation. Of course I want to. God, yes! You've got to give me a little time to recover." I managed to maneuver him into the room, backing him toward the bed. "All of me."

He looked down, then back at my face. "I can see that," he chuckled with affectionate cruelty.

"But we need to talk, okay?"

He accepted that with equanimity, and deftly turned us so my back was to the bed. "Lie down," he gently ordered, not meeting my eyes. "I'll be right back."

Something told me that Blair's heard 'but we need to talk' just a few too many times in his life. "Blair, it's nothing bad. I promise. Just… important."

It was a nervous fifteen minutes for me while he was in the bathroom. On one hand, he wasn't leaving; on the other hand, I had no idea what he was thinking. I spent about ten of those minutes staring at the ceiling, wondering. Not having a positive virginity loss had fucked me up for a long time. God, had he read my reaction that wrongly? Didn't he believe me? Was it just my need to talk about it first?

In the next five minutes, I turned down the comforter and sheet, dismissed my paranoia, and thought about how to make his first time as good as I could make it. I just wanted… clarification of a few things first. Images from my fantasies flashed through my mind, twisting with my questions, and I tore my T-shirt taking it off.

The bathroom was quiet, and I started getting worried again. I listened for a few seconds outside the door, and heard him muttering to himself and the quiet slap of his bare feet on the tile – muffled for the few steps on the rug – as he paced. It felt strange to press my ear to the door; I'd never eavesdropped on my own bathroom before. Particularly to hear my lover chanting about how stupid he is and how he'd fucked everything up already.

I knocked quietly, and he yanked the door open. He looked incredible: hair everywhere, still unzipped jeans, face flushed and eyes wild. I snagged two of his belt-loops, pulling him against me. "Blair, you haven't fucked anything up. Not a thing. Have I?"

He reassured me by backing me into the bedroom, pushing me onto the bed, quickly stripping off his jeans, straddling my thighs, and kissing me. "No, no, no. I just – uhhhhh fuck!" Our cocks touched and twitched against each other as they started getting hard again. I wrapped my arms around him, grabbing the ass I'd been watching for years, scooting him a little higher, and testing the waters – so to speak. He writhed on me, his chest hair rubbing on my chest with heavenly friction. "Oh, do that again!"

"What? This?" I traced a line with my finger from his tailbone to his balls, pressing a bit harder on his anus this time.

He groaned again. "I didn't want you to have to deal with a stupid panic attack, Brian…" He started covering my throat with kisses. "It was stupid, too, man. Totally fucked up. It's not because I'm nervous or anything, either. Just me being me. I've been wanting this since I met you, wanting you to be the first."

All my questions distilled themselves into one. "Why?"

"Why?" He leaned up a bit, and met my eyes. "Why you? Why have I waited? Why tonight?"

"All of the above, and a couple more."

"Because it's right; we're right."

I nodded, and he started doing amazing things with his tongue to my ear. "But you didn't tell me why you waited…"

He answered with a few simple whispered words I'll never forget. I'm still overwhelmed by them. I mean, we'd already worked out over the past few weeks that we both want our relationship to be monogamous and committed, that the feelings we both have are love. From anyone else I'd have taken those words as flippant, and his tone was light – almost laughing, but his expression was deadly serious when he lifted his head so he could meet my eyes.

"Saving myself for my honeymoon."

My memory's a bit hazy about the precise details of the conversation after that. We made it through the rest of what I wanted – needed – to talk about (choosing a lube from the assortment I'm not allergic to, finding out exactly how much experience he did have (all solo), and my hope that he didn't think I expected him to bottom all the time) pretty coherently for a couple of guys who were that turned on.

Eventually, all the ease and laughter we'd had earlier had returned in full force. I had him pinned to the bed – from the waist down – on his stomach, and was having serious fun with my nails on his back when he grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand. "Anyone you want to call?" he managed to ask between moans. I gave up on the back, and attacked his extremely ticklish feet instead. He convulsed in helpless laughter, arching up onto his knees. "Rafe, quit it!"

He pleaded with me, and I refused to relent. "Drop the phone, and I'll think about it."

"Quit it, or I'll –"

"Or you'll what? You'll kick my ass?" I paused for a moment, contemplating my next attack.

"Yes! Or spank it!"

Time froze for a heartbeat or two. Seemed to anyway, until I grinned at him. "Anytime. Just not tonight, and turnabout's fair play." I lifted one squirmy ankle, and sucked his big toe into my mouth.

He dropped the phone with a yelp, and dropped his head onto his folded arms. "Oh, God, Brian… that's… oh, man…"

I made slow love to each of his toes, then worked my way up his legs. I kissed his balls, and sat up to look at the stunning picture he made. "God, Blair, I want to fuck you so bad!"

"Hurry," he whispered. "I'm so ready. Oh, God, Brian, make me yours."

"Not like this, lover; not for the first time. I want to see your face while you ride my cock, want you to see me, what you do to me." His entire body shuddered, and I stroked his ass to soothe him, shuddering myself. "Like that?"

"Fuck… yeah!"

He moved to roll over, and I stilled him. "Stay just like that." I reached over and grabbed the lube off the nightstand. I spread his cheeks with one hand, and planted a wet kiss between them.

He was surprised when I didn't use my fingers to get it inside him, just squeezed some (okay, a lot) directly into his anus, and spread the excess around the outside. I explained that I didn't want his inner sphincter to spasm, didn't want to risk a tear from my nails, either. He grabbed my hand, inspecting my nails with a laugh and a comment about how he'd rather feel them on the outside until I got a manicure. I scooted up beside him, lying on my side, and stole a kiss.

Without breaking the kiss, he grabbed my forearm, and flipped me on my back. I was glad I'd come once already, because the next thing I felt was his hand rolling a condom onto my cock and coating it with lube. We broke the kiss for air, and he straddled me, hand stroking and teasing me. My hand met his, and we met each other's eyes for a long moment, both of us, I think, letting the other know that it was real, was really happening.

"Make me yours, Blair," I whispered.

My cock slid into him easily for the first couple inches; then he winced in obvious discomfort. "Don't force it, lover, don't force it…" It was difficult to not thrust upward. "Just wait… It will relax." I felt the second his inner sphincter relaxed, and the look of concentration on his face converted to a smile. It wasn't long until I was completely inside him.

We started slow and gentle, almost languidly, but soon our pace was frantic, sweat-soaked, scratching and biting, resonant with curses, pleas, and expressions of love. "Fuck, oh, fuck, Brian… I'm gonna… gonna…" He came seconds before I did, my hand working his cock, his cum spattering my stomach and chest.

The profane and the sacred merged.

I swear I heard a wolf howling…

There. I may not have gotten all the details precisely, but there's a lot that blurs together. But on my bad days, when I can't deal with the depression, when I can't deal with knowing I'm damaged, when Blair and I can't be together like we are now, I can reread it and remember.

He's going to be here – Shit, I almost wrote home – soon.

I should rest.

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end