"Hey,
Wilcox, grab line six. It's the doc."
Dean Wilcox looked up from his
computer and nodded to his partner, Sheila Ramsdale. "Got it, and
thanks." He picked up the receiver and turned away from the room.
"Hey," he said softly,
with a grin on his face.
//Hey yourself.//
"How do I rate a call in the
middle of the day?"
//I need you to come by. I have a
patient, a victim.//
There was a pause and Dean
frowned.
"Charlie?"
"I can be there in
fifteen."
//Thanks.//
Dean put down the phone and
stared at it for a few seconds. A friend.
And he hadn't liked Charlie's
voice.
"Sheila, get your stuff, we
have another one." He stood
up, grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and headed out, Sheila
hot on his heels.
______________
"Is it
one of the Rumbler's?"
Dean slowed for a traffic light
and shook his head. "I don't think so. The
victim is at Charlie's clinic, so it sounds doubtful that he was thrown from a
moving car."
Sheila Ramsdale gave out with a
little whistle. "I don't know if I'm glad or not. Captain Lomax is getting
pressure to kick the Rumbler upstairs to Major Crime."
"I know. But maybe, well, I
wouldn't be adverse to that, Sheila. They've got the reputation and the chance
to work with Ellison, well, maybe it would be a good thing. We have four victims
and the last one is still in ICU and we've got bupkis."
"I know. Believe me, I
know." She gazed back out the window and said, "So do you know
anything about the guy at the clinic?"
"Only that—he's a friend
of Charlie's."
"Oh shit."
"Hey, Karen."
The young nurse glanced up and
grinned, then her expression went serious as she indicated the back rooms with
her thumb. "He's in treatment room 2, Detective Wilcox."
"Thanks." With a hand
on Sheila's back, Dean led her behind the counter and down the hall toward room
2. As they approached, the door opened and Charles stepped out.
"Hey."
Dean smiled warmly. "Hey,
yourself."
"Sheila," Charles
acknowledged.
"Doc. How's our
patient?"
"He's going to be
fine—eventually. But I need to warn you, he doesn't remember anything."
"Positive. All the symptoms.
And he's still feeling the effects. But of course, I'll know more when we get
the results."
"Charlie, you know about the
combo our Rumbler is using, right?" Sheila asked.
"Yeah. But come on, you
don't think Blair—I mean, the other four victims were thrown from a moving
car."
"Anything's possible,
Charlie," Sheila posited. "But no, I don't think we're dealing with
the Rumbler. That cocktail of his, well, from everything we've seen, your friend
would probably still be in that motel room, unconscious."
"I will, Charlie," Dean
said quietly.
Charles nodded, then said,
"Sheila, you'll want to see Karen for the rape kit. We've maintained the
chain of custody. Let me introduce Dean to Blair, then we'll go see Karen."
"Sounds good to me. I'll
wait here in the hall."
Charles nodded and opened the
door, allowing Dean to precede him inside. Once
the door was shut, he walked over to Blair, who was dozing, and said gently,
"Blair? My friend is here to talk to you about what happened."
"Yeah, Blair. And
this," he said, indicating Dean, "is Detective Dean Wilcox. I'm going
to leave you two alone, but I'll be back, all right?"
Blair nodded and as Charles
started to leave, the doctor said, "Blair, Dean's a good guy. You can trust
him."
___________
Dean wasn't prepared to recognize
the man lying on his side, a pale green blanket pulled up to his shoulder, but
know him, he did. As he put out his hand and the young man on the table extended
his cautiously, Dean said with a warm, encouraging smile, "I think we've
seen each other at the station."
Blair nodded and winced as he
pulled his hand back. But not before Dean spotted the badly bruised wrist.
"You ride with Ellison,
right?"
"Yeah. And thanks—for
this."
Dean shrugged. "Hey, it's
what we do."
Dean pulled the stool towards him
and promptly sat down. He could tell from the shocky gaze of the man on the
table that he'd need to go slow, as much for the shock of what happened to him,
, as for the shame Blair was experiencing when thinking of his work with the PD.
As Dean rolled closer to the
table, he asked easily, "So how long have you known Charles?"
"Over ten years. We took a
few classes together."
"Ah."
"You two?"
"A few months. Met him at
Cascade General while on a case."
"Ah," Blair mimicked.
Both men smiled, although Blair's was weak.
"So, what can you tell me,
Blair?"
"Nothing. I woke up in a
motel room, don't know how I got there, and then I came here."
The brevity told Dean more than
Blair realized.
"Have you tried to
remember?"
Blair closed his eyes.
"Yes," he whispered.
"So tell me what you've come
up with, Blair."
"I told you—nothing."
Accepting that, Dean asked
softly, "What was the last thing you ate?"
Blair's eyes opened and he
frowned. "Ate?"
"Yeah, what's the last thing
you ate?"
Blair thought about it for a
minute, then said, "Pretzels—I think."
"At home or out?"
Blair's eyes widened in shock,
then his expression changed to admiration. "Man, you *are* good. We don't
have pretzels at home."
Dean smiled. "And where's
home?"
"852 Prospect Avenue. Number
307."
"Who's *we*?"
"I room with Jim. It's his
place."
Dean let that go as a memory
kicked in regarding a conversation he'd overhead about Ellison *letting some
hippie move in with him*.
"Okay, so you had the
pretzels out. Were you sitting at a table in a
restaurant, or—"
"Bar," Blair said, as
if just remembering. Then in amazement, "I was in this bar, not far from
home."
"It had to be—Kelbo's.
I—walked. Yeah, I walked. But—I didn't stay."
"I wouldn't either, Kelbo's
is a dive." He waited for the grin and when he got it, said, "All
right, so you walked to Kelbo's. Got the exact address?" At Blair's
expression, he shook his head. "Never mind, I can look it up. So you left
Kelbo's. What next?"
"I—I remember—it was—I
didn't like it there—"
Dean nodded reassuringly as he
said, "Kelbo's. Dive."
No smile this time. "Yeah. I
left."
Dean could tell he was losing
Blair so he reached out carefully and placed a hand on the younger man's arm.
"You left. And you—what—walked some more?"
Blair frowned in concentration.
"I—yeah. I walked. I remembered a new
place—a new club—"
A spark of memory surfaced for
Dean and he hazarded, "Could it have been a place called The Drumroll?"
Blair's expression cleared.
"Yeah," he said excitedly, "Yeah, The Drumroll." Then he
smiled brilliantly, "I had a Martini. Never had one before."
"Charles loves the chocolate
Martinis at the Crow's Nest."
"I had a plain one. I almost
asked for it to be shaken not stirred, but I chickened out. I'm not the James
Bond type."
"I'd a done it anyway,"
Dean confided with a grin.
"You're the type—like
Jim."
"Charles says I'm more like
Inspector Clouseau."
Blair chuckled at that, then went
serious again. "I think I had two drinks. But—but—I'm pretty sure I
only paid—for one."
"That's good, Blair. Very
good. So you think the second drink might have been given to you?"
Blair's brow wrinkled again as he
fought to remember--
"I think so. A
waitress—yeah, a waitress said it came from someone at—the bar."
"Do you remember where you
sat, Blair?"
"Upstairs. Near—the
staircase."
"Excellent. Did you speak
with anyone?"
Blair shook his head, then asked
out of the blue, "You don't take notes."
Dean tapped his head.
"Photographic memory."
"That's cool—for reading,
but I'm talking."
Dean laughed out loud.
"Yeah, well," he finally said, "it works for listening too. Want
me to *read* back everything you've said so far?"
Blair smiled. "Nah. I can do
that too. Drives Jim nu—" his voice faded and his eyes darkened.
"So where were we?"
"You didn't talk to
anyone."
"Right. Except the waitress,
of course."
"Of course. Did anyone
approach you while you were there?"
Again Blair shook his head.
"You sure?"
"Pretty sure. I just sat,
listened to the music and watched the dancers."
"Blair, do you know what
time you may have arrived at the Drumroll?"
"Um—late. I think.
I—didn't go out—'til—after eleven—I think."
"All right. And you didn't
stay long at Kelbo's, correct?"
Blair nodded.
"Okay, what next?"
Blair's eyes glazed over as he
shook his head. "I don't—I mean, after
the second drink—I—"
Blair shook his head
again—miserably. "Sorry."
"No, don't be. I'd bet the
second drink held the drug. You've already remembered more than I would have
thought possible. You've given us a great deal to go on, Blair. Now you rest
while I go talk a bit with Charlie. And thanks."
He got up and patted Blair gently
on the shoulder before walking out.
___________
Blair closed his eyes. He'd just
been interrogated and very well. Jim would have handled it just as well—not
necessarily with Blair, but with anyone else.
God, he was exhausted. He could
hear the murmur of voices next door, probably Charlie's partner with another
patient, and in the background, the sound of some kind of motor. All together,
the noise worked as drug and lulled Blair to sleep. Strange, he thought, just
before drifting off, that only here, only now could he sleep. He wondered why in
a hospital or clinic, a person could drift off when they wouldn't be able to at
home--
Dean walked down the hall to
Charlie's office and knocked, then stepped in. Sheila was seated on the small
couch.
"Got everything?" he
asked as took the chair opposite Charlie's desk.
Sheila pointed to a box at her
feet. "Got it. Signed, sealed and delivered.
"Where's Charlie?"
"He'll be right back. Went
to get me a cup of coffee."
"Mmm."
"Well? How did it go?"
Dean picked up one of Charlie's
pens and stated to click it open—then closed. "Not bad. He remembers a
great deal more than I expected. Did you get a team over to the Vineyard?"
"Yeah. Mulcahey and Simmons.
The cleaning crew hadn't finished their rounds. I think we might be in
luck."
"Good, good."
Sheila cocked her head at her
partner. "You seem—a bit preoccupied.
What's wrong?"
Hazel eyes met dark brown.
"This doesn't bother you? I mean, okay, Blair
isn't a cop, but you've heard
what I have. He and Ellison—shit, just
thinking about it—"
Sheila shook her head. "No,
not at all. He's an anthropologist, not a cop. And does it really matter? He's a
victim, Deano."
Dean stood up, anger in every
line of his body. "You haven't been at this long enough to sound that cold,
Sheila."
"And you've been at this
long enough *not* to take a case personally," she shot back. "Blair
Sandburg is damn lucky, Dean. Lucky that he *wasn't* a victim of the Rumbler.
Lucky he wasn't thrown from a car going thirty miles an hour."
"And that makes this case
less? Is that what you're saying, Sheila?
Because Blair wasn't—"
Now Sheila stood. "You know
damn well that's not what I'm saying. And what's with you? Why is this one
bothering you more than usual?"
Dean, face suffused with color,
stepped into his partner's space. "Whether
you think of that man in there," he pointed to the wall behind them,
"as a cop or not, the fact is that *we're* here taking this report--*not*
Major Crime. Now why do you suppose that is, huh?"
Both Sheila and Dean turned to
find Charles standing in the doorway. He quickly shut the door and repeated his
question. "Well? What the hell is going on?"
Sheila blushed, then said,
"Basically, your life partner has been educating me, but I'm stubborn and
it took a few minutes."
Dean shoved his hands in his
pocket and grinned. "Sorry if we got a bit too loud, Charlie."
Green eyes zipped between the
two, then Charles walked to his desk and sat down. "Everything go all right
with Blair?"
Dean returned to his seat and
said, "Fine. I just need you to fill us in on his injuries and any
conclusions you made."
"He's badly bruised—all
over. Several bite marks, some deep. If you get the guy, you'll have dental
evidence. I'd say that at some point, Blair fought him."
Sheila sat forward from her place
back on the couch. "You mean there was some awareness?"
Charlie nodded, his face
darkening. "That's exactly what I'm saying. There
are defense wounds and bruising. Blair fought whatever drug was used and he
fought his assailant. I took samples of skin from under Blair's fingernails.
"There was no semen present
so I'm pretty sure a condom was used. But I took scrapings from around a couple
of the bite marks. We can hope there's enough saliva to provide a DNA
match."
Charles shook his head. "No,
I don't think that would benefit Blair.
He'll do better at home."
Both detectives rose, Sheila
picking up the evidence box. "I'll just head out to the car, okay,
Dean?"
"Yeah, be right there."
She smiled, then walked out,
shutting the door behind her.
"You okay, Charlie?"
"Yeah. But there's something
really wrong with all of this, Dean."
"Besides the obvious?"
"I'm going to ignore that.
Look, I just don't get what circumstances would put Blair in harm's way like
this. I mean, where was Ellison? Where
the hell was Blair's partner?"
Dean walked behind Charles and
started to massage his neck and
shoulders. "Are Blair and
Ellison—"
"No. But if you want my
opinion, it's not because Blair wouldn't want it. He's been in love with Ellison
for a while."
"Which provides us with
another clue as to why I'm here instead of Major Crime."
"And why Blair didn't want
to report it to begin with."
Dean leaned down and kissed
Charles' temple. "Sorry, babe. I know it's hard."
"You don't know the half of
it. Blair is—different, Dean.
He's—special."
"Smart, too. And strong,
Charlie. He's *very* strong. Don't sell him short. He'll survive this."
"I wonder."
The man in question looked up and
immediately waved Joel in. "Sit, take a load off."
Joel shook his head and said,
"Only have a few minutes. Conner and I have to interview Wilson."
Joel fidgeted a bit, then said,
"Heard any rumors about the Commissioner kicking the Rumbler upstairs to
us?"
"Well, in a way. Word in the
halls is that the minute they have a fifth
victim, it's ours. And the rumor
is—Detective Wilcox went out on number
five about two hours ago. I know
you and Captain Lomax go way back—"
Simon rose and reached for his
jacket. "I get it, Joel. Thanks for the head's up. I think I'll just stroll
down there now, sound him out."
_____________
"Aw, God," he groaned,
remembering.
There was no way he could go back
to the loft.
No. Way.
He had to stay somewhere else for
a while. Make up some excuse—maybe a sick friend? Oh, that's ripe. A sick
friend. Ha-ha.
Okay, house-sitting. Ooh, that's
good. Perfect. Now all he had to do was find the house to sit.
Man, he so needed another pain
pill. He really did.
He idly wondered how long he
could stay in this treatment room. All day?
The night? He chuckled dryly.
"Man, you are losing
it," Blair whispered to the empty room.
Yes, he was. Funny how you didn't
have to remember something for it to—alter you.
Although, in his case, every time
he moved, he knew.
Like, who needs to remember? And
wasn't this a coincidence? He was being punished at Rainier because of the
pulled endowments and the endowments had been pulled because of a snot-nosed
rich kid who'd date-raped one of Blair's students. How was that for—karma?
All right, that was the
simplified version, but still--
Had Blair been date—raped?
Didn't you have to *be* on a date? *Had* he been on a date? No, he knew he
hadn't, but had he met someone at Drumroll? Maybe just had too much to drink,
went back to this mysterious stranger's place, then--
Then what, Sandburg? Then you
*let* him do this to you? Let implies memory and free will. You don't remember,
which means you probably didn't have free will, and guess what? That's rape.
Even if you went back to his place willingly.
But maybe—you didn't say no.
Maybe you did.
Yeah? Well, maybe you're going
crazy. Like, when was the last time you were with a *guy*, eh, big shot? Okay,
so it's been awhile. A long while. But still—
Oh shut up.
Right. He could do that.
Think of something—good. And
tall. And built.
Jim.
Safe Jim. Who was probably
sitting at his desk right now, on the phone with Lily--
Jim wasn't so safe. Jim kept not
choosing Blair.
Jim stupid.
Blair smiled sleepily. Jim
stupid. Yeah.
Except—now it was a very good
thing that Jim had never chosen Blair. But
damn, why did he have to choose an Alex clone? Couldn't he have just punched
Blair in the face instead?
Blair decided to get up and get
on with things. Enough lying around a clinic doing nothing. And he had to find a
place to stay--
__________
Charles walked down the hall
toward room 2 and heard the thud. He ran. A moment later he burst in and found
Blair on the floor. Rushing to his side, he said, "Jesus, Blair, what the
hell were you trying to do?"
"Get up, just get—up. Go.
Get dressed."
Charles put his arm around
Blair's waist and helped him stand. "You have no clothes to get dressed
in*to*, Blair. Dean has them. Evidence, remember?"
They were standing and as Charles
moved Blair back to the table and helped him up, he said, "I have some
clothes here, I was going to loan them to you 'til you got home."
"Not going home," Blair
said stubbornly. "Can't go home. *Won't* go home."
"Okay, okay, no problem,
kind of anticipated that. You can stay with me and Dean, okay?"
"No, no, I'll go somewhere.
A motel—" Blair's voice died away, then with a hitch of breath, he said,
"Hotel. I'll stay at a hotel."
"No, you'll stay with us.
You know damn well I have a spare room."
Blair dropped back onto his side,
wincing and biting back a groan. "No, I really can't, Charlie. But
thanks."
Charles pulled the blanket back
up and said, "Blair, you need someone to watch over you. Now, either I call
Jim or you come home with me. Which one?"
"Blair, I don't pretend to
know what you're going though, but you can't be alone right now."
Blair sighed, knowing that
Charlie was right, damn it. "I'm sorry, Charlie."
"Don't say that anymore,
okay? I feel like a rejected myopic tuna."
Blair smiled. "Sorry,
*Doctor* Kobyoshi."
"Look, it'll be awhile
before I can leave, so why don't you get some more rest? I'll bring in a pair of
my sweats later, all right?"
"Thanks. I—" Blair
closed his eyes again. "I—"
"Go to sleep, Blair."
Dean picked up his completed
preliminary report and walked back to his desk. He hated the fact that the
printer was around the corner. And not because he was lazy—exactly. He smiled
to himself and sat down. He signed the original, then the copies. He was just
putting the original into a file when he heard his captain's voice.
Dean turned and found himself
facing Captain Lomax and—Captain Simon Banks. He rose quickly and
unobtrusively closed the file. "Good to see you again, Captain Banks."
"You too, Detective. Captain
Lomax and I were just playing catch up with each other."
Lomax smiled and said,
"That's a bold-faced lie, Dean. Simon came down here to beat the
Commissioner to the punch."
"Before the Commissioner can
pull the Rumbler from us, Simon is offering a joint collaboration between our
two departments."
Dean looked from one man to the
other, but before he could respond, Lomax asked, "I'm correct that this new
victim isn't number five, right?"
"Um, well, we don't know for
sure, and won't, until we get the results back from the blood test, but no, I
don't believe so."
"Good. Let's hope this
bastard gives us a break. What can you tell me about the new case?"
"Isn't that your report
there?" Lomax indicated the green folder and before Dean could do anything,
his captain was lifting it and opening it.
Dean watched helplessly as
Captain Banks looked at the report as offered by Lomax. And he watched as the
big man's face paled dramatically.
"This report says your
victim was Blair Sandburg. Is this correct?"
Banks demanded.
"Yes, sir."
Jim gazed over at the phone and
for the fifth time in as many minutes, he reached—and dropped his hand. Then
he reached again, and this time, he picked it up and dialed the university.
//Rainer University, Anthropology
Department, This is Gail, may I help
you?//
"Yes, I'd like to speak with
Blair Sandburg, please."
//I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg called
in ill today. Would you care to speak
to anyone--//
"No, no," Jim
interrupted. "I'll try—I'll call him
later. Thank you."
He put the phone down. Ill? Blair
had called in sick? Jim dialed home.
//This is the Ellison residence.
We're refusing to answer simply because
we can. Leave a message at the
you-know-what.//
Jim closed his eyes. Guess that
was one way to hear Sandburg's voice. At the beep, he said, "Blair? Pick
up. I know you're sick, now pick up."
"I'm sorry, Captain Banks,
but Blair specifically asked that—you—not be informed." When there was
no response, he rushed on.
"Doctor Charles Kobyoshi is
a friend of Blair's and when Blair refused to allow—anyone—at Major Crime to
be called, well, he called me."
Simon was reading the words that
told him that Blair Sandburg had been raped. His heart was stuck in his throat
and he was having difficulty breathing.
"This—isn't
possible." Simon looked up and with greater conviction, repeated,
"This isn't possible. Blair was home last night, with his partner. He went
to bed around eleven. This," Simon waved the report in the air angrily,
"simply is not possible."
The three men had moved into
Lomax's office the minute Simon had read Blair's name on the report and now
Lomax leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
Simon tossed the report
haphazardly onto the desk. "I mean, there is no way my man could be your
victim. At ten thirty last night, he was at home, with Detective Jim Ellison,
and Ellison's date. At around eleven, Blair excused himself and went to bed.
Could I make it any clearer?
"There's no way Blair was at
some bar called Kelbo's, let alone this club, the Drumroll."
Dean thought back to his
interview with Blair, to the way the younger man had answered his
questions—and to the way his face had darkened at the mention of Jim Ellison--
A suspicion began to form and he
didn't like it.
"Dean, you've seen Mr.
Sandburg around the station, haven't you?"
Dean nodded slightly.
"And the man you interviewed
earlier, at the Crestview Clinic?"
"It was him, Captain."
The sudden coldness of the
detective's voice brought Simon's head up.
"And I'm saying that he
couldn't have been—"
"Maybe it didn't happen
quite the way Blair—Mr. Sandburg—stated. Maybe he was protecting someone,
Captain Banks," Dean said, his new suspicions causing him to speak more
harshly then intended.
"Simon, take it easy,"
Lomax said quietly.
Taking two deep breaths, Simon
turned his attention to Wilcox. "Are you suggesting that Sandburg is
protecting—his—partner?"
"Look, Captain Banks, you
say Mr. Sandburg couldn't have been at the Drumroll. Okay then. Why would he say
that he was? And he *did* refuse to allow Doctor Kobyoshi to report it, until he
was assured that it wouldn't be reported to—Major Crime."
"I think we're all getting a
bit ahead of the facts," Lomax stated in an effort to calm the situation.
"Dean, have you heard from Simmons yet?"
"No sir. They're still
checking out the Vineyard."
"When were you and Ramsdale
planning on checking out Kelbo's and this club, the Drumroll?"
"Later this afternoon.
Drumroll opens at five and the bartender who was on duty at Kelbo's last night
won't be in until seven. We've tried to reach him at home, but so far, no
luck."
"All right then. Until we
have more, let's take this at face value. We're
investigating a possible attack that began at Drumroll. Got it, Dean?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. You're excused."
___________
Lomax held up one hand. "I
know, Simon. I know. Go upstairs, talk with Ellison. I'm sure there's a logical
explanation. But I think, for now, this case had better stay down here, don't
you?"
Simon stared at his old friend,
his face registering shock. "Bill, how
did this happen? I came down here
to—"
"I know. Go upstairs, talk
to your man, then get over to the clinic."
"You're a good friend,
Bill."
"Okay,
you feeling up to this?"
Blair was standing by the
examining table wearing a pair of grey sweat pants and a green Cascade Memorial
Hospital scrub top. He blinked at his friend, then nodded. "Sure, sure. And
Charlie? Thanks."
"Stuff it, Blair,"
Charles said with a grin. "I've got a pocketful of prescriptions for you,
and my chariot awaits."
The walk out to the car was
arduous for Blair and by the time they got to Charlie's car, he was sweating
profusely. Charlie got the door unlocked, then said, "I'm thinking the
backseat? You can stretch out on your side?"
"I'm thinking—you're
right." With Charlie's help, Blair managed to get in with minimum
discomfort.
"All right, we're off."
The drive took fifteen minutes
and Blair felt every bump and pothole. By the time Charles pulled into his
driveway, Blair was beginning to realize that he'd made a mistake. That letting
Charlie and Dean take him in was a very bad thing. Unfortunately, his mind was
too fuzzy to tell him why.
"All right, let's get you
inside."
Charlie's voice brought home the
fact that Blair would now have to—move.
Charles kicked the door shut
behind him and said, "You want to go directly to the spare room, or would
you prefer lying out here? Maybe you're hungry?"
"No, no, not hungry.
I—just wherever, Charlie. Wherever."
"Okay, let's get you to
bed."
With his arm around Blair's
waist, Charles guided Blair down a long hall and into a bedroom. Blair gazed
blearily around him.
"Nice."
"Second best view in the
house. The backyard curves around so both bedrooms overlook it. Dean re-did the
landscaping when he moved in with me. He's brilliant."
Blair looked up at his friend and
said quietly, "I'm sorry, Charles."
Charles slid the sliding glass
door open and at Blair's words, turned around. "Tell me we're not going
over the whole *staying here* thing?"
"No, not that—yet. Save
that for later. I mean—us."
"Ah. Us. You mean the fact
that both of us have been too busy to do much in the communications department?
Or did it skip your notice that I haven't been any more communicative than
you?"
"Oh, yeah. You haven't been,
have you?"
"Nope. Thought about it, but
never got around to it. Mea culpa."
Blair yawned, then said with a
small smile, "Double mea culpa."
"Funny me ending up with a
cop though."
"Yeah, considering all the
smart-assed remarks about me ending up *working* with one."
They smiled at each other.
"Lie down, Blair. Go to
sleep. I'll wake you later—"
"Have to—do
something—about—Jim. Gotta call him."
"I'll handle that for you.
Tell him what he needs to know—"
The yell was so piercing that
Charles nearly leapt to Blair's side. He dropped an easy arm over his shoulders.
"Can't know, Charlie. Need
to tell him—just—I'll tell him I'm staying—with friends. Not a lie. He
won't—care."
"All right, however you want
to play it. But Blair, the case *is* being
investigated. Dean will be
discreet, but come on, you can't seriously
think—"
Blair's body slumped and it was
almost as if all the air had been let out of him. "Just—for—as
long—please?"
"Okay, Blair. The phone is
over there, on the nightstand."
"Thank you."
"Blair?"
As he looked up, dull blue eyes
trying to focus, Charles asked, "Are we good friends?"
"Yes."
"Do we go back several
years?"
"Yes."
"Did you help me out of a
real mess?"
"No."
Charles gave Blair a small
playful punch in the arm. "Did so and you know it. What I'm getting at, is
that you don't have to say 'thank you' or 'I'm sorry' anymore. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Good." Charles started
for the door. As he was about to walk out into the hall, Blair said,
"Charlie?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry—and thank
you."
"You stinker."
"Yep."
Blair was getting mighty tired of
being on his side. Of course, the alternative was—not good, but hey, at least
he had a nice view. Lush greenery, a riot of color in the form of roses, and
small hummingbirds that zipped in and around the bushes and trees.
Funny, here he was on a
comfortable bed in a bright, cheery room, surrounded by silence, and yet—he
couldn't close his eyes. His body was screaming its need for sleep, something
he'd been able to do easily at the clinic, but now, no dice. Weird. He should be
able to do this because it wasn't as if he had a memory that could invade his
sleep. There would be no face to
take over his dreams, there'd be—nothing.
Except—every time he did close
his eyes, he was hit with an unbelievable sense of claustrophobia. Not to
mention the feeling of being suffocated. And
should he mention the—darkness? The fucking darkness?
Well, duh, Sandburg. You close
your eyes and it's like, dark. Yeah, but usually that's a good thing and now
when he tried, he felt trapped and without any control.
Like—Jim.
At that sudden—comparison,
Blair sat up and immediately regretted it, but he didn't slide back down. Oh,
man, no wonder Jim fought the whole sentinel thing every step of the way. No
wonder surrendering so much to Blair had been so fucking difficult. God, if Jim
felt even half of the control loss that Blair was currently experiencing, no
wonder he hated being a sentinel.
God, what had he been doing to
Jim all these years? But he knew. He'd been pushing Jim, forcing--
Forcing.
Blair's world split apart, green,
blue and brown pieces scattering to the four winds, and it took every ounce of
will-power that Blair possessed not to scream to the heavens in anguish. His
chest was heaving as he tried to breathe, tears coursing down his cheeks. His
body shook with silent wracking sobs as he realized that he was no better than
the mother-fucking bastard who'd--
Blair couldn't breathe—he tried
to bring air into his tortured lungs but he couldn't do it. He struggled off the
bed and the room spun wildly--
"Jim—" he managed to
gasp out as he dropped to his knees.
"Jim—forgive—me. Dear
God—forgive—"
Light faded--