Into the Summer Sea

*"And perhaps at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise forever." Herman Melville*

I heard him get up a few minutes ago, and now he's down there typing on his laptop. It isn't really enough to keep me awake - hell; Sandburg seems to be trying to type *quietly*. The fact that he's here to type at all buys him a lot of leeway in the don't-keep-Jim-awake department.

Which is really the problem. Someone who drowned six weeks ago, miraculously revived, then slogged his way through the jungle straight in to pneumonia and his overscheduled life shouldn't be up typing at 2 a.m. Not when he's been up since six and has to be at the station at eight.

No that person should be sleeping, tucked in bed, wrapped in blankets, *healing* for god's sake. He denies it, but I can hear, God, I can almost *feel* the strain it takes to breathe. At least the pneumonia's gone, along with that frightening cough and the heat pouring off his body that I didn't need enhanced senses to feel. He should be better by now, but instead he just sips at the air, shallow breaths that never seem to be enough. I extend my hearing, tune out the tapping keys, and hear brief, ragged inhalations, released too quickly.

It makes me feel claustrophobic and I breathe in deep. I tell myself not to look, but I know I'm going to do it anyway. I finally glance over the railing. Blair is at the island, hunched over his laptop, typing idly. Dark t-shirt, dark hair - the glow from the computer screen makes him look pale. He hasn't gained back the weight he lost in the hospital; he never carried a lot on that small frame of his but now he has an unfinished, young look. Like a teenager. Like if I touch him now the way I want to I should be arrested.

He pulls off his glasses and stares at the screen for a second, and I stare at the bones in his face. He slumps forward suddenly, leaning on his elbows and rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

Enough.

I'm belting my robe and heading down the stairs before I even come up with a reason to give him.

Blair looks up, watching me. "Sorry I woke you," he says softly, stretching his arms out in front of him, but not standing up. "I would have worked in my room but I needed the phone line."

"You didn't wake me, Chief," I say shortly, moving past him into the kitchen, suddenly thinking of an excuse to be there. "I'm hungry." I rinse an apple under the tap and turn to see him looking skeptical.

"You never eat in the middle of the night. And I already washed those apples, by the way."

I shrug and toss him the apple. He catches it easily. "Tonight I'm hungry."

He stands, moving to the other side of the island to face me, while I snag another apple from the fruit bowl and lean against the counter. I take a bite while he studies his like he has never seen fruit before and wants to figure out if it's edible. In an over washed t-shirt and faded flannel pants, he is rumpled, messy, and effortlessly beautiful.

There are certain times when I think I'll lose my mind if I don't touch him, when I practically zone thinking about what I want to do with him. Like when he forgets his umbrella and comes in with spiked eyelashes and dripping hair, and the only thing I can think about is licking the rain off his lips. Like now, when he is all bed-warmed skin and loosely-tied hair, sleepy blue eyes and slender hands playing with that damned apple. I want to kiss him. I want to grab his narrow hips and drag him over here, pull him into me and close the space gaping between us.

I hang on to the counter instead, my knuckles white.

"Can't whatever you're doing wait until tomorrow, Chief?"

He sets the apple down and shrugs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I guess. I just couldn't sleep."

"You feeling okay?" I ask like it's no big deal, like it's not the only fucking thing I care about.

He looks up, a flash of blue before he crosses his arms in front of him, rubs his chin absently. "I'm fine. Just some weird-ass dreams."

"Nightmares?'

"Not exactly. Well, some of them, I guess. Ah, forget it. It's nothing."

Two months ago he would have told me. No matter how crazy, how ridiculous, he would have told me. Just more evidence of how royally I have screwed things up.

"Come on, Sandburg. It's 2 a.m. - you're awake, I'm awake - just tell me."

I get half a grin, like he's embarrassed to talk about it. "It's just people. Doing things. Reading in bed, eating at a diner, driving a car, arguing, whatever. Normal stuff. But I don't know who any of them are, and it's all so vivid - one scene after another, all night, it feels like. I don't get any rest."

Okay. "What are you doing in the dreams?"

He makes sure I'm not making fun of him before he answers. "Just standing there. I can't do anything at all. And the one that woke me up tonight - man. I was at the park. This guy and this woman, they were arguing, and I think - I think he really hurt her. You know the bushes where the path turns toward the lake? It was awful. I couldn't do anything." He shivers a little, looks far too troubled and sad. In Sandburg's world, even dream people rate his compassion.

"Go to bed." My words come out softly, more a plea than an order. I toss my apple core in the trash to cover my embarrassment. Hell, I may as well have said *come* to bed, the way my voice sounded.

"Yeah. Soon," he says, and goes back to his laptop. I move toward the stairs, but the weary slump of his shoulders as he sits there twists something inside me. Though I've practically made a vow not to touch him so often, I can't resist now. I drop my hands on his shoulders and squeeze hard.

"God," Blair's surprised, breathless exclamation becomes a soft sigh of relief, and after a few seconds he drops his forehead down on his crossed arms. Taking this as permission I begin working the taut muscles beneath my hands. I close my palms over the smooth lines of his upper arms, testing the breadth of his shoulders. He may be thinner now but he is still sleek and strong, and my breath hitches wanting to feel that strength pushing back against me. I have never allowed myself to touch Blair like this, at least not for this long, and when he relaxes almost completely beneath my hands I feel a wave of protectiveness that almost chokes me.

I don't let myself think about it, I just slip my hands beneath the loose collar of his shirt and touch smooth, heated skin. He takes the first deep, full breath I've noticed since I pulled him out of that fountain, and I feel absurdly grateful. Blair's skin is firm and velvety beneath my hands, and I can feel it warm up wherever my fingers pass. I run gentle fingertips over his collarbones, and he shudders for me.

Blair raises his head slightly, and says in a shaky voice, "This - this really feels good, but maybe we should call it a night?"

Irrationally irritated and not ready to let him go, I reach up to pull the leather tie from his hair, spilling the soft waves over my wrists.

"Jim, what -" The objection bleeds in to a soft moan that slides over my sensitive hearing like a caress. Running hard palms up Blair's neck, I soothe my fingers over his scalp, rubbing gently.

"Now this should be illegal, man," Blair breathes, turning his head helplessly into my hand. I cradle his head in my palm and run the other hand through the dark silk of his hair. I want to trace my fingers over the line of his jaw, brush across those soft, full lips, but I stop myself in time. His presence back in my life is still too tentative to risk frightening him away.

Blair straightens and touches my wrist.

"Thanks. I'm good," he says in his sentinel-soft voice.

"Okay," I say gently, moving my hands to squeeze his shoulders once more before backing off.

As Blair stands he tilts his head forward, closing his eyes as he stretches his neck. He reaches back to gather his hair into a loose knot at the base of his neck, exposing a thin sweep of flat stomach, the shadowed hollow of his hip. He opens his eyes slowly and looks up at me, his expression somber.

"Thanks. I didn't realize how tired I was. I think I can sleep now."

I nod, not sure I can speak through the sudden dryness of my throat. "Good. Any time."

I head toward the stairs and my empty bed. I don't think I can watch Blair head into his own room while I'm hurting with the need to lead him upstairs, love him unconscious, and make him sleep until he's healthy again.


***


I barely have the energy to turn out the light before I collapse on the bed. I can still feel Jim's hands on my shoulders, on my skin, in my hair - probably on my soul. What the hell was that about anyway? In the sequence of strangeness that started with Gabe at the station and ended with Alex in a rubber room (with a detour through the afterlife, not that I can forget), I guess a mind-numbing backrub really doesn't make it very high on the bizarreness chart, but come on.

Jim's a touchy guy. He communicates affection and support with his hands when he doesn't have the words, and it made me crazy at first. I didn't get it - I thought maybe it was some alpha-male, show of dominance thing, or a cop thing, or even a Sentinel thing, but eventually I realized it was just a *Jim* thing. I got used to it. Started to like it, count on it. Crave it...

But tonight, that was - well, *intimate*, somehow.

I cover my eyes with my forearm and try not to groan. I have to face it - that was amazing. Tender and erotic and God, if I don't stop thinking about it I'll never get to sleep. There doesn't seem to be enough oxygen in the air to walk across the room lately, let alone get all worked up over something Jim has probably already forgotten.

But the really weird thing? I didn't get all worked up and short of breath while it was going on. That steel band around my chest, the one that my doctor says isn't there, just disappeared. They told me at the hospital that my lungs are mostly recovered, but even if there were damage it wouldn't give me symptoms like I have now. No one can tell me why I can't concentrate or take a full breath unless I think about it; or why I feel so disconnected from everything that sometimes I find myself in a blue, still place where all I can hear is my heartbeat. I didn't even bring up my freak-out dreams.

No one's said *post-traumatic stress disorder* yet, but they're getting there. I just hope they don't start saying things like *brain damage*.

Still, I felt better with Jim's hands on me. I wonder what he would do if I wandered upstairs and crawled in bed with him. I could say, "Hey, buddy, I know this is a little weird, but can I sleep next to you so I can breathe?" I probably wouldn't have to worry about breathing if I did that - he'd just kill me.


***


"Hey, Jim, do you mind if I go on ahead?"

We're outside of forensics, and we need the Collins case results. Jim looks at me with that tolerant smile that is meant to irritate me, like he knows I don't want to go in there and deal with Sam.

"A coward dies a thousand deaths, Sandburg...," he mutters at me, but he's waving me ahead, and opens the door.

I attempt to look offended, hoping it doesn't come off relieved. I really just want to get to the office at my own pace, without Jim looming over me if I have to stop and rest. I haven't spent too much time at the station, lately. I know that a ride-along who gets winded climbing in to the truck isn't going to be able to keep up if anything major goes down, and I'm afraid Simon will pull my credentials if he sees how useless I am right now.

Megan is in the elevator when I reluctantly step in. More than two years have passed since that Galileo mess, and I still think of elevators as the enemy.

"Hey, Sandy. It's good to see you back." A pause. "Feeling okay?"

Lately, this is the inevitable question I get from everyone, usually followed by the swift, assessing glance. I tell her yes, just great, thanks, but her answering smile is a little weak. So far no one has actually come out to say how terrible I look, but I've seen a mirror. Luckily I was able to dig up some clothes from my undergrad days that fit; otherwise I would look like I was raiding Jim's laundry.

We talk about her apartment search on the way up. At last the doors open and we get to the hallway just outside the door to the bullpen when the first pain hits. The constant weight on my chest suddenly feels like a boulder, a freaking planet. I want to breathe, but there's nowhere for the air to go, no room in my lungs for anything but the pain.

Megan breaks off telling me about neighborhoods and grabs my arm. "Sandy? What is it?"

Panic really is contagious. She looks exactly like I feel.

"What can I do? Can I help?" Of course I can't answer her. I just hang on to her shoulders hard enough to bruise, and listen to the roar in my ears.

I've noticed something about passing out. It's only happened to me a couple of times, but in that split second when you realize you really are going to black out you think, "Okay, I'll just wait until I get out of traffic," or step back on the curb or get off the stairs or whatever; but your brain, man, it does not negotiate. It just takes you down to the lowest point of gravity, where maybe you can get some blood back up there before everything shuts down. I remember this when I open my eyes and see tile.

Megan is kneeling next to me, shouting for help, so I can't have been out for more than a minute. I grab her hand and sit up. I want to tell her I'm okay, but gulping in air is taking all my attention right now. I sit against the wall and put my head on my knees. She has her hand on my shoulder, and I can feel it shaking.

"God, Sandy, are you okay? What happened?"

"I couldn't get to the air." I'm whispering like it's a secret. "It was like drowning all over again."

I look up at her, then past her, to where Jim is staring down at me with an expression I never want to see on anyone's face again. We just look at each other for a minute while I wonder how anyone can hold that much despair inside them without breaking apart, but he pulls it together.

"What the hell happened?" Good. Angry Jim I can handle.

Megan stands and starts telling him how I ended up on the floor, making it sound really dramatic, too. I am about to interrupt when the guy sitting next to me puts his hand on my arm.

Which is strange, really, because I hadn't realized anyone was down here with me. I turn to look. Oh. Gabe. Suddenly I remember a night not so long ago when we sat on the floor just like this - in this exact spot, in fact, only that time he was a witness to a murder. And alive.

He smiles at me, that goofy, beatific grin that I haven't forgotten yet. I have to smile back, even though none of this should really be happening. It's actually good to see him. His hand on my arm is warm, and he leans in to talk to me, so no one else can hear. I lean over to listen.

"You didn't close the door," he whispers.

That makes as much sense as anything he ever said, so I'm really not surprised. Before I can ask him what he means Jim and Megan crouch down to talk to me.

"Can you stand?" Megan asks. I look at them a little blankly, then over at Gabe, already knowing he isn't there anymore. I nod, because I'm really not ready to talk yet.

Jim has his game face on now, but the grip he uses to help me up practically levitates me off the floor. Joel and Simon are here now, too. Everyone is talking about ambulances and hospitals, except Jim who is just looking *through* me and cutting off the circulation to my arm. I like the support, but I better do something, so I pull out of his grasp and say, "No ambulance. No hospital. I'm okay now. Gonna go sit down for a few, and I'll be fine."

Jim is starting to scare me - he hasn't said a word. I think he might be looking *at* me now, but he has his jaw clenched so tight he's going to start cracking molars.

"We'll get some water," Megan says. She tries to drag Jim off, but he doesn't budge.

"We have him, Jim. The kid could probably use some water. Go ahead." I can tell Simon can't decide who to be more concerned about, but he and Joel are pushing me though the door.

Jim finally goes with Megan. I hope she can take care of him. I'm beginning to think she may have to.


***


The break room is empty. It seems as good a place as any for a nervous breakdown. I stand next to Megan while she gets water from the cooler, but all I can see are blue eyes too big for his face and his expression when he looked at me. No fear, no confusion, just - compassion. This scares me more than anything.

I heard it all happen, but I was still in the elevator and couldn't do anything but pound uselessly on the door. He was already sitting up when I finally arrived, but I didn't reach for him. If I had grabbed him then I would probably still be hanging on.

Megan hands me a cup of water, and I am glad to see my hands aren't shaking as much as I thought. I turn to take it to Sandburg but Megan stops me.

"That's yours. Drink it."

She gets a cup for herself and we drink like we're downing tequila shots at happy hour.

"That was horrible." Her voice cracks.

"I know." I can't talk about this; I won't talk about this.

"Since he got out of the hospital he's just - fading, or something. And now this - "

"I know."

"You didn't see it, Jim. He couldn't breathe. The look in his eyes before he collapsed - he was so frightened - "

"Damn it, Conner, I know!" I rub my hand over my face. "You think I don't see it? His doctors can't find anything. They don't know crap because every day he's just a little farther away. You think this isn't taking me apart? Every day I keep waiting for him to turn some corner, come back to me -" The words just hang there between us while we look at each other, and the sudden understanding and compassion on her face almost push me over the edge.

I sit at the table because standing is suddenly impossible. She draws up a chair next to me, carefully, like I'm some skittish animal she's trying not to frighten.

"Does he know?"

I shake my head.

Megan clears her throat. "I didn't realize you were-"

"I'm not! Or, I wasn't." I close my eyes, rubbing my temples. God, my head hurts. "Only Blair. Ever."

"Well. Maybe you should tell him."

I look over at her.

"Thanks, Conner. That's a great idea." I try to make my sarcasm scathing, but she doesn't back off.

"Why not? Maybe it would help."

I can't believe I'm having this conversation. "Exactly how?"

"It might. Maybe it would give him - "

"What, a fucking reason to live?" She doesn't deserve my anger, or my scorn.

Really, though, this is all directed at myself, so I just keep going. "I can't even explain it to myself. How do I explain it to him?"

I run out of steam. "Besides, I don't have the right to tell him. Not any more."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe if I'd said something when it started - though, hell, I don't even know when it started." I laugh a little, but it sounds harsh. "Probably when we met. I didn't want to look at any of it too closely."

"And you didn't realize any of this until Alex tried to kill him?"

"No. It was before all that. A few months ago, around the time his friend Roy was killed."

I don't tell her how one afternoon I tried to talk him down from the rage he felt over that senseless death, and how he decided he was going to punch the wall. I think I saw what he was going to do before he knew it himself. Though I try like hell not to patronize him, the combination of fragile bone and brick was just not going to happen.

I caught his fist and grabbed at his shoulder; the sheer strength behind his punch threw me. I felt hard muscle and warm skin, and the leashed power in that lean body. In one surreal instant I pictured all that passion turned against me, focused on *me*, and my entire body reacted.

Blair had turned to me then, angry, saying something about not messing around when he felt so out of control. The words didn't matter, all I could think about was the shape of Blair's mouth, and what it would taste like, and would I be able to take what I wanted without bruising him. Somehow I stepped back before I gave in and shoved him against the wall to show him exactly what out of control really felt like.

I look up at Megan, clearing my throat. "It was sort of a shock to me."

"I can understand that." She waits. "So what did you do?"

I think about hellish weeks spent just *aware* of him - noticing his hands, watching his mouth. I think about how bitter I felt when Blair acted the same as ever - teasingly affectionate, maddeningly gorgeous, and completely oblivious.

Megan is still waiting.

"I was so angry; at myself, some, but mostly with him. Like it was his fault for being so - so -"

"Easy to love?" Her smile is kind, but the words hurt because that was the farthest thing from my mind at that time.

"I didn't look at it that way." The words just come pouring out now, low and harsh. "I thought it was a phase, a mid-life crisis, some temporary blip on my radar. If he wasn't in my face all the freaking time, I could get past it. I kept thinking he needed to leave, just for a while, but I really didn't care if it was forever. I just wanted him *gone*."

I take a deep breath. "And then Alex came along, and I had the perfect excuse to make him go."

"Jim, I saw how you were, you weren't in your right mind -"

"I did exactly what I wanted to do. It doesn't matter what prompted it. But when I realized she'd gone after him, and I saw him there in the water, not breathing."

Megan grabs my hand and I know I don't have to say anything else. She was there; she saw it all. Suddenly I can't keep the words inside anymore.

"Sometimes I think the only reason he came back is so this time I have to *watch* him die."

"What, like some kind of punishment? That's crazy. It doesn't work like that. Regardless of how you're feeling, you aren't responsible for what happened at the fountain."

I don't have the energy to argue. I close my eyes, listen to her breathe beside me.

"I don't know how you stand it," she says softly. "Going day after day without telling him what he means to you."

I stand up and fill another cup with water, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm going to go see how he's doing."

"Okay." I appreciate the fact that she tries to smile.


***


When I get to my desk, Blair is sitting back in his chair, arguing with Simon about calling his doctor. I have to admit he looks a lot better. When I set the water down in front of him, he looks up at me in exasperation.

"Don't start, Jim. I'm cool."

"I didn't say anything, Chief."

"In case you were planning on it."

"I won't. If you say you're cool, you're cool."

"Thank you."

I press my fingertips to the edge of his left shoulder blade, and feel his heart beat against my hand. I could listen just as easily without touching him, but I need this brief connection. The beat is steady and strong, and I begin to calm down.

"Personally, I think you should at least go home. Rest up." Simon sounds irritated, but I know that only means he is worried.

"Okay, look. I am not going to the hospital; I am not going home. I am going to stay here and work on about 2 weeks worth of overdue paperwork. And I think you guys should just let me do that."

"When you put it that way..." Simon mutters, then looks at me. I shrug. He sighs and holds out a file folder. "I think you dropped this, Jim."

He hands me the Collins forensics results. Right. I probably left them scattered all over the hallway.

Blair takes the file from me and starts to read as Simon heads back into his office. "Sam finished these pretty quickly," he comments.

"She asked about you." I mention his sometimes-girlfriend in hopes of seeing a response, anything to show me he's still interested in this plane of existence.

He doesn't react. Doesn't ask, doesn't nod, doesn't blink. This is not the Blair I know. He should be making me repeat the entire conversation word for word, describe her fucking tone of voice -

"I think that it's over for good this time." He glances at me sideways.

"Really. And why is that?"

"I'm really tired of the whole love-you-mostly-hate-you thing. Besides, I don't think she's really too interested in dating me right now anyway." He gestures at himself dismissively.

I can't help but be irritated on his behalf, even though I've stopped resenting Sam for the way she treats him. I realized a while ago that she acts so hostile towards him because he will probably never give her what she wants out of the relationship. It's a form of self-defense. I find it hard to hate someone I can empathize with completely.

"Why doesn't she want to go out with you?"

"It never seemed to matter to her that she's taller than I am, but the fact that she might actually *weigh* more than I do now - I think that bothers her on a genetic level I can't even begin to counter."

I can't help it, I'm grinning. "Sandburg, you're an idiot. You're not *that* scrawny."

He smiles, too, looking back at the file. "I know. I just wanted to make you laugh."

Endearing little shit.

We work for a while. I begin to think that maybe everything is going to be okay. Suddenly I realize that Blair has stopped shuffling papers around and is staring at Rafe's desk, or more accurately at the two people sitting in front of it. I try to see what he finds so interesting, and look at the dark-haired woman in her mid-fifties or so, twisting the strap of her purse in her hands, then at the sullen man, just out of his teens, sitting next to her.

"Why are they here?" Blair asks, in a voice only I can hear.

I tune in to the woman's words. She is very upset, voice tense, heartbeat pounding, but putting on a calm front. "- and I know it hasn't been 24 hours, but this isn't like Alita at all."

Rafe's answer is calming, kind. "I understand, Mrs. Murdoch. Has she ever gone out after work, and not come home before? Friends, a boyfriend, maybe?"

"She works until one. If they go out after work, she always calls me. Daniel is her boyfriend - she didn't meet him to walk home."

I look at the guy; note the slouched posture, the downcast eyes, hiding a pulse racing like a freight train and rapid, shallow breathing.

"It's a missing-persons report," I tell Blair. I hear his sudden inhalation, and watch him stand. When he starts to walk over to Rafe's desk, I follow.

"Did you and Alita have a disagreement?" Rafe is asking, looking at the kid, whose heartbeat spikes at the question.

"No. Nothing like that," Daniel mumbles.

By this point Blair has reached the desk and is standing next to Rafe, who says, "Unfortunately, we can't file a missing-persons report until she's been gone 24 hours. Most of these cases do turn up in that time, so - " Rafe breaks off and looks up to say, "Blair? Do you need something?"

Blair reaches down and picks up the photo on Rafe's desk. He stares at the picture of a dark-haired girl sitting on concrete steps next to the boy, Daniel.

"You left her in the park," he says softly.

"I'm sorry, what?" Rafe doesn't know what to do, and frankly, neither do I.

Blair looks over at the boy. "You left her in the park. She didn't want to walk that way, but you were so mad. She wasn't listening to you. Then you - you hurt her, maybe more than you meant to."

The kid stands, practically knocking over his chair. "What? What is he saying?"

"You could have gone for help, but you just *left* her there." Blair is furious, now, shaking with it. The boy is looking at him like Sandburg is crazy, maybe dangerous.

Blair is closing in on him, now, angry, accusing, and I sense everyone in the bullpen turning toward us.

"She's still there, isn't she? Isn't she?" Blair grabs a handful of the kid's shirt and yanks the kid toward him, eyes wide, wild.

"He's psycho, man, get him away from me!" The kid is really wired now, and I edge a little closer, trying for calm before this gets ugly.

"C'mon, Sandburg."

I don't think he hears me. One second he is looking at the kid like he wants to start hitting him, and the next he suddenly swings toward the woman in the chair. Blair starts whispering, "Oh, God, I'm sorry, I am so sorry." His face has twisted in grief, and whatever the woman sees there makes her howl.

Her shrieking sobs throw the kid into action. He shoves Sandburg away from him, pushing him onto Rafe's desk and yells, "What's wrong with this guy?"

Everyone is talking at once, everyone is moving. I see Rafe trying to calm the woman, apologizing for Blair's behavior. Brown is with the kid. Simon's office door has exploded open, while I haul Sandburg to his feet for the second time in an hour.

"Will someone tell me what the hell is going on here?" When Simon's voice reaches that decibel level there is usually ringing silence that follows. Only the woman's hopeless sobbing breaks it. Everyone is staring at Blair. Blair is staring at the kid.

"He left her in the park."

We all watch the door shut behind him.

Simon turns to me and stabs one finger at my chest. "Get him out of here. I don't care where you take him, home, hospital, whatever, but don't bring him back here until you figure out what the hell is going on."

I nod without even trying to explain. I wouldn't know where to start.


***


I look up when Jim snaps the heat on in the truck. For a few seconds I don't remember getting here, just drifting up from that weird blue silence that comes on me more and more often now. Then I remember images of the hallway, feeling like I was stumbling while someone pulled me along, afraid to look up and see someone I buried. We are driving now, through drizzling rain, and I suddenly realize how cold I am. I cross my arms, trying to generate some warmth from my thin black sweater.

Jim is staring straight ahead, but his hands on the wheel are agitated and restless. He glances over at me, and his jaw sets.

"I didn't think to grab your coat," he says regretfully.

I clear my throat. "That's okay."

"I don't know what to do," he says softly, almost as if he is speaking to himself. "I don't know how I can help you. I don't even understand what's happening."

"I don't understand it, either." I hope my voice doesn't sound as pathetic to him as it does to me. I look out the window and recognize the neighborhood near the hospital. "This isn't the park."

"The park? You really believe we'll find the missing girl there?" He sounds angry, and a little frantic.

"I saw that kid kill her, Jim."

"Please don't tell me you're talking about that dream." He doesn't wait for me to comment, just pushes on, shaking his head in denial. "Blair, if you're having some kind of a breakdown, you need to talk to someone -"

"So you're taking me to the hospital? You think I'm crazy?"

"No, I'm taking you to the hospital because you collapsed, accused a complete stranger of murder based on a dream you had, and spent the last 15 minutes practically catatonic. What do you expect me to do?" Jim hunches his shoulders as if this last outburst has exhausted him.

"Maybe ask me about it? For once?" He doesn't answer. "That's just great. The almighty Ellison has spoken again! I guess it's easier to just dump me off somewhere and get me out of your hair. Well, I'm not going to the hospital. You can let me out here."

I know how stupid it is, but I start to open the door. I never find out if I would actually step out of a moving vehicle, because Jim swerves to the curb and reaches across me to slam the door shut.

"What the hell are you doing?" he yells at the back of my head.

I turn to look at him, desperate to make him understand. "I can't explain it either, but I am telling you I know for a fact he killed her. I saw it. He pushed her, and she hit her head on the brick retaining wall when she fell, in the trees where the path curves toward the lake."

Jim looks away, but I know he is listening. "They were fighting. She's wearing a green coat. The stuff in her purse scattered on the path when she fell. I saw it, Jim."

He rubs his eyes. "The kid was lying."

"What?"

"When Rafe asked him if he and the girl had an argument, he said no, but he was lying. His heart was racing, and his body temp went up."

"So you believe me?"

"Blair -"

"Just drive to the park, and you can see for yourself. If I'm wrong, I promise you I'll go to the hospital. No arguments."

"Fine." With a pointed look he reaches across me to hit the lock on the door, and pulls out into traffic. We drive in silence for a while. I think about seeing Gabe back at the station, and what he said to me. I finally start realizing why the blue silence I keep falling into seems so familiar.

"Jim, how long was I dead?"

His entire body stiffens. He waits so long to respond that I think he isn't going to answer. Other than a brief conversation in the hospital, we have never spoken about this. I can barely hear him when he finally speaks.

"You were cold."

He glances at me briefly, clears his throat, and then continues in a slightly louder tone. "I don't know how long you were in the water before we got there, but you were cold. I tried to breathe for you."

"You did?" The thought pushes me onto shaky ground, and I try to keep my voice even. "You, oh man, you never mentioned it."

He shrugs, and though he has his eyes on the road I don't think he sees the pavement. "It didn't do any good. Then the EMTs worked on you for quite awhile. They finally gave up."

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't." I know we are both thinking about the vision we shared, and I remember that first, painful breath afterward.

"So. To answer your question, Chief, I guess at least 20 minutes or so. Maybe longer."

20 minutes. I can't wrap my mind around the concept. The vision of the jungle, of the panther and the wolf was over almost before it began, in just seconds, really. Before that - I remember a place of stillness, blue light and the rhythm of my heartbeat slowing into silence.

I think that now I know how to get back there, too.

Jim pulls over by the park entrance. It looks completely deserted, the trees dripping rain onto the grass under heavy, gray skies.

"I don't think I'm sick, Jim. I mean, I don't think it's a physical problem. That's why the doctors can't find anything. It's something else - maybe I was gone too long." When he doesn't respond, I grab his arm roughly. "Look at me. I know you can see it - look at me and tell me you know I'm right."

When he turns to me I think I could be knocked flat by the intensity in his blue gaze. I expect him to do the old take-my-pulse-from-across-the-room routine, but instead he sweeps over me, staring at my face and my body, cataloguing every part of me. It's like being touched. It's like being burned. I practically flinch away, but when he finally meets my eyes I see that same anguish on his face that he showed me in the hallway.

"Jim?"

"I did this to you. It's my fault."

"No."

"Are you going to leave again?" The words are hollow and bleak.

In the face of his grief, I can't lie. "I don't know."

He nods once, and looks away. "It's raining. Stay here. I'll go see if she's there."

I watch him walk into the trees, following his slumped form with my eyes until I can't see him anymore. Then I pick up the radio and call it in. I know she's there. I don't want to make her wait any longer.


***


Watching Jim work a crime scene is fascinating. He is all fierce concentration and methodical motions, analyzing and evaluating every last speck of evidence. Usually I am right there with him, keeping a look out for anything that could hurt him when his senses are dialed up so high.

This time I sit back and study him instead. His face is drawn, his even features worn with stress, his shoulders bowed. Worry, I realize. Worry and guilt are eating away at him, gnawing him down to the bone right before my eyes and I never noticed. Why didn't I see it? When did I stop looking at him?

He doesn't let his fatigue distract him from his job, however. The coroner and ambulance are here, the forensic team has taken photos and gathered evidence - everything is wrapping up, yet Jim is still restlessly searching the site.

"What is it, Jim?" Megan asks. He shakes his head, still looking around.

"I don't know. There's something else here." He looks up suddenly. "Sandburg?"

I stare at him for a moment, and then look over to watch the EMT zip the shiny, black body bag.

"I'm sorry, Alita," I whisper. "I should have called someone. Or come here myself. Maybe I could have saved you."

"No." Her voice is soft, and she touches my arm in comfort. "I left almost as soon as I fell."

I turn to her and shrug. "I thought I was dreaming. I didn't know."

She nods, understanding. "It didn't hurt for very long."

"I'm glad."

"Hey, McGovern," Jim says to a uniform standing by the ambulance. "You took Sandburg home, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. Walked him to the door, just like you asked. Here's your house key."

Jim takes the key without looking at the guy and pulls out his cell phone.

"Is something wrong?" Megan asks him while he stabs at the buttons.

Jim doesn't answer her, just listens to the phone ring.

There is light shimmering through the gray rain, light the color of sunlight seen through deep water. Alita turns her face toward the luminous blue and smiles. "I have to go now."

"Okay."

She takes my hand. "Are you coming?"

I look past her at the soft glow, and remember silence and peace.

"For God's sake Sandburg, pick up." Jim's quietly panicked voice seizes my attention. I can only watch while he tells Megan that he has to leave, that something is very wrong, because someone is gently shaking my arm, repeating my name -

The first rush of air into my lungs is overwhelming, a dizzying, gasping breath that slowly brings the world back into focus.

The loft. The couch. Fading daylight outside the windows. A silhouetted figure, a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Roy?"


***


The rush-hour traffic is heavy, and I weave the truck between the other cars heedlessly. If these damned senses are worth anything at all, at the very least I can trust myself to maneuver through traffic at forty miles an hour. It takes some concentration, but not enough to keep my mind from racing ahead of me.

What was I thinking? How could I just send him home like that?

By the time I'd found the girl and made a preliminary scan of the scene, Blair had already called it in. I got back to the truck just as the ambulance and crime scene team were arriving, with Megan along for good measure. I didn't really get a chance to talk to Blair; I was directing everyone back to where I'd found the body.

Blair was standing next to the truck, a slash of black against the white and blue paint. He looked at me, closing his arms more tightly around himself, and I suddenly realized he couldn't stay at the scene. Simon wasn't kidding when he told me to keep Blair away from the station until this was solved, and I knew that meant crime scenes, too.

More than that, although I knew he'd been with me last night, I didn't want to take any chance that there would be evidence linking him to this place, to this horror. Announcing the location of the body to a room full of detectives and the victim's family was going to cause enough problems.

I grabbed a uniform as he was getting out of his squad car, and said, "Hey. You're McGovern, right?"

"Yes, sir. That's right."

God, he was young. "Look, you don't have to call me sir. I need you to take my partner home."

I indicated Blair, and ignored the disappointment on McGovern's face. Chauffeuring a police observer home wasn't as career building an activity as working a crime scene, but I didn't care.

He didn't move, and I was about to get irritated, but realized he was looking askance at Blair. I couldn't blame him. There was something eerie about that dark, quiet figure, standing alone in the cold in a too-light sweater with the rain beading in his hair.

I pulled the house key off my key chain and handed it to him. "Go. And make sure he actually goes inside. Walk him to the door. Do you understand?'

McGovern nodded and I headed off toward the crime scene in a loping run, looking back only once to see Blair getting in the squad car without complaint.

The entire time I worked the scene I kept the fact that Blair had seen all this in a dream at bay. I refused to think about it, to process what the fact that he had described it down to the fucking lipstick that rolled from her purse really meant.

I was professional, I was thorough, and I was quietly losing my mind. I did great, too, until the very end, when the nagging foreboding I'd felt all along resolved itself into a heavy, permeating dread.

Blair was at the scene. Somehow, in some way, he was there. I could feel his presence, as if at any moment he would touch my shoulder and speak to me. Admittedly, that was weird, but worse, oh so much worse, was the pervasive fear that speared through me. It was an icy, unreal terror that I'd felt before.

I knew this feeling. It was burned into my mind and I would remember it until the day I died. The first time I felt this unreasoning terror was in the exact moment when I realized that Alex had gone after him. That same sense of impending loss and looming, utter aloneness swept over me again and I could barely see to dial the phone.

In my mind's eye I could see the phone ringing endlessly in the silent loft, with no one there to answer. I ran for the truck.

Now, as I drive I hear our last conversation over and over again in my head. Are you going to leave again? His quiet answer rings in my ears. I don't know.

"You don't know?" I ask aloud, speaking to him as if he were beside me, although the sense of his presence is completely gone. I slam my hand against the steering wheel. "What the hell kind of answer is that?"

I promise myself that when I get to him - and I will get to him, I refuse to consider any other possibility - I am going to make damned sure he understands that he isn't allowed to leave me. I will never let him go.


***


The rush of joy I feel at seeing Roy rivals the heady flow of oxygen back into my body. I grip his arm and feel tears streak my face. He is warm and whole and looks exactly as I make myself remember him. His hand on my shoulder is heavy, and he leans forward, his face intent.

"Stop doing this."

His words confuse me.

"What am I doing?" I whisper so my voice doesn't break. "Please help me. I don't understand."

"Trying to be two places at once. You keep leaving this body," he closes his hand around my wrist, and I feel the heat through to my bones, "and eventually you won't remember how to come back."

When I don't say anything, he continues. "You have to stop letting us through."

Gabe's words at the station hit me. "I didn't close the door?"

Roy nods.

I laugh a little, teetering on the edge. "Is that so terrible? If it means I get to see you again -"

He tightens his hand on my arm, pressing bruises into my skin.

"You don't know who will come through," he whispers to me, his voice low and urgent. "You don't get to choose."

A chill crawls up my spine in the suddenly frigid air, and I hear echoes of voices that live only in my nightmares.

I am hanging onto his arm as tightly as he holds onto me. "Then tell me how to do it. Tell me how I close it."

The sudden crack of the deadbolt slamming open sounds like a pistol shot, and immediately I am alone, half-lying on the couch in the early-evening gloom. I sit up as Jim enters the loft, stopping in the doorway to look at me. I can barely see him in the near-darkness, but I know he can see me with perfect clarity so I try to pull myself together.

"Are you okay?" I hate the worry in his voice almost as much as I want to wrap myself up in the warmth of his concern.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He walks a little farther into the room, closing the door behind him. "You didn't answer the phone."

"I'm sorry," I say, and to me it sounds like my voice is very far away. "Took a shower, fell asleep. I must have been really out of it."

With deliberate motions Jim hangs up his jacket, removes his gun holster and walks into the kitchen, turning on a small lamp in the corner. He doesn't seem to want bright light any more than I do, and I'm glad he doesn't turn on the overhead lights. He starts to get out a glass, but stops abruptly as he leans forward on the counter, bracing himself with his arms, his head bent.

I can see the grief etched into his perfect profile, in the curve of his broad shoulders. The silence stretches, painfully, and I search for anything that might take away his hurt. "You must be starving," I say softly. "There's lentil soup in the fridge somewhere."

"I hope you ate some of it," he says, looking up at me.

Then it hits me. The sum total of our entire relationship lies in the details of this moment. Jim thinks I might be crazy and I'm visiting with dead people, so, of course, we talk about soup and try to take care of each other in the only way we know how. We've spent three years trying to figure it all out; three years screwing up and trying to make it right, hurting each other and healing each other in equal parts until we came to this minute.

So maybe I don't know how to close this mystical, whatever-the-hell door, but I do know which side I want to be on when I finally figure it out - with this man standing 15 feet away from me practically drowning in guilt and regret. I think it's my turn to save him.


***


I watch him come toward me, my own personal shade in an ancient Cascade PD t-shirt and loose, faded jeans. Ragged cuffs fall over his bare feet and his damp hair is scraped back from his face. I see tracks of salt on his cheeks and I trace them with one finger.

"You didn't ask," I say softly, "but it was all there, just like you described. Green coat and everything. You were right."

He isn't surprised. He simply looks at me, studying my face.

"You were there today, too, weren't you? I felt you there." I whisper the words, wanting him to deny them. I know before he answers that he won't.

"Yeah, I was there." He seems apologetic, and before I can ask him how any of this is possible he says, "I'm worried about you."

I am at a loss.

"Jim, you think what's happening to me is your fault, man, and it isn't. You have to stop blaming yourself, because otherwise," he stops for a second, then says gently, "otherwise, I'm afraid you'll end up hating me."

"Hating you? Sandburg, I could never -"

"You can barely look at me." His hands are heavy on my shoulders. "When you do, all you see is how you failed me. I'm telling you right now that you didn't. You saved me. Like always."

He gives me a sad grin, and then grips my shoulders hard, suddenly intense. "And I think I really need you now, if I'm going to figure this out. So you better just get over it and forgive yourself."

"Just like that, huh?"

Blair thinks for a minute, then shrugs. "Just say you're sorry."

I must look completely horrified, because he cups his palm around the back of my neck, comfortingly, and says quickly, "I know! I know you are. But just say it. Then I'll say it's okay, and we'll put it behind us." He smiles at me, a real smile that feels like dawn breaking, and says softly, "It's gonna work. Trust me."

Because I do trust him, and because I just can't hold back anymore, I pull him gently into my arms, closing the space between us. I whisper the words into his hair, over and over until I feel a tremor go through him. He leans into me, a welcome weight, and chokes out, "It's okay. I'm sorry, too."

"It's okay, Blair," I say. Whether I'm forgiving him or comforting him I don't know. This would be the time to pull back, let him go, and step back from the edge, but I can't. I pull him up hard against me, and whisper fiercely, "I won't let you leave me. I can't do this without you; don't you know that? I won't let you go."

He doesn't answer, but the deep, shaking breath he takes makes him shudder. Then simply, easily, he turns his head to kiss my neck. I feel the silky brush of his lips; the soft scrape of his teeth, and my entire world becomes that place where his mouth rests against my skin.

I rub my cheek across his, rest my mouth against his ear, and whisper, "Sandburg, you better not be kissing me goodbye."

I feel him smile against my neck. "Not goodbye. Definitely not goodbye." I feel the soft, drugging touch of his mouth against my jaw, beneath my ear.

I have wanted him for so long, imagined this for so long, and still I am completely unprepared for the devastating reality of holding him in my arms. Feeling dazed, I drop my head to mouth his shoulder, nuzzling aside his t-shirt to get to skin. He tastes as good as he feels, warm and sweet against my tongue. Blair curls toward me, wanting more contact, easing his hips closer to mine. When our bodies brush the soft moan he makes somehow penetrates the red haze over my mind.

I push my hands into his hair, pulling his face back so I can look at him. I note his flushed mouth and the slightly out-of-focus gaze as he steadies himself with his hands on my shoulders.

"Blair, what are you doing?"

He leans forward, sliding one lean thigh between my legs, his eyes focusing in on my mouth. "Right now? Trying to kiss you."

The low growl of his voice almost tears away the last rags of my rationality, but I grind out, "Why?"

He meets my eyes, blankly. "Why?" he repeats. "We both need this, Jim. I know I need this. Need you. So much."

His hands slip down over my chest, stroking heated patterns over my ribs. I can hardly breathe as he leans closer, but I keep my eyes on the dark blue of his.

"You're straight," I inform him, and it sounds completely ludicrous.

Blair seems to agree, because he laughs up at me, sounding a little ragged. "Yeah, you should probably apologize for that, too. Later."

He reaches up to draw my head down to his. At the first touch of his lips my thoughts fragment away. For all his joking and intent, he is still hesitant. He brushes his mouth against mine, the barest whisper of a kiss. I'm afraid to move, afraid this will dissolve like a dream, so I let him do the exploring while my brain begins to melt.

"Jim, is this okay?" he breathes against my lips.

I manage to nod.

"Then kiss me back."

God. I open my mouth over his. I think I could absorb him, drink him down like water in the desert. Our kiss is heat and hunger, strength and passion - I take everything he gives me and come back for more.

He tears his mouth away to breathe harshly, a full breath that expands his chest against mine. I can't reach his mouth, but that's fine, that's okay because now I can learn the shape of his cheekbone, his ear, the soft texture of his hair against his temple, the hard column of his neck. I test my teeth against the join of his neck and shoulder. The startled sound he makes, pleasure and pain combined, shoots straight through my body, and I am suddenly aching and hard.

I need to move against him - right now. The angle of his body is wrong and I seize his hips in my hands. I lean back against the counter, dragging him onto me, over me, holding him still so I can grind hard against the taut muscles of his stomach. He thrusts back against me, pinning me with his body so he can move against my thigh, my hip, growling when I try to maneuver him back to where I need him. This isn't just passion; suddenly this is combat, this is almost war and neither of us is willing to give in.

Just when I am sure we will kill each other before this is over we collide and mesh, mouths and hips fitting seamlessly so that the hard, jutting ridge of him slides smooth against my aching erection. The sensation is blinding, heart-stopping, spiking through me in waves. I crush him against me.

Faintly, in the back of my mind I start to register the sounds he is making, half-sobs wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. He is as desperate as I am, but that lost sound tears at me. I lift my lips from his, raising shaking hands to stroke over his shoulders. I press my mouth to his ear, beyond sentences now, and whisper, "We can - We don't have to - go slower, if you want-"

He grabs my face and presses his forehead to mine. His eyes are dry, but I've never seen him look so lost. I feel a moment of panic before he hisses against my mouth, "I just didn't know I would want you so much."

No doubts now. I want him horizontal - bed, couch, floor, I don't care as long as this ends with him naked and shuddering in my arms. His room is close, just a few feet away, so with my hands on the soft skin at the small of his back I start pulling him toward the door. I can't let go of him, but we're making stumbling progress when my hands slip easily beneath the loose waist of his jeans. I realize with a jolt that he isn't wearing anything beneath the soft denim.

I drag my hands along his sides to grasp his hips and feel one sharp hipbone brand itself into my palm. He tilts his head back, eyes shut - yes, Blair likes my hand there, resting against his skin, and I am fascinated by how sensitive that smooth hollow is. Teasingly I trace the waistband of his jeans. I stop in shock when my fingertips brush across shiny, curving flesh, slick with silky liquid. Blair seizes against me as if shot.

"Jesus, Jim," he chokes out, grasping my shoulders.

We stand there, breathing hard, and for half a second I wonder, can I touch him like that? Let him touch me? It's all so new, but I need to know.

"I want to touch you," I whisper.

No answer, just a wordless murmur, but he presses heavily into my chest as I slip my hand lower. Strange to touch another man this way, but this is Blair surging against my hand, Blair pressing into me, Blair whispering my name like a prayer. Watching him surrender to this feeling is the most erotic thing I've ever experienced, and my sole focus in life becomes making him come all over my hands.

I work the buttons loose, and then drop to my knees to pull his jeans off his narrow hips and down his thighs. I run my palms up his legs, staring at his body. On impulse I lean forward to taste. Salty slick tip, hard ridge and velvet shaft, he is drugging, addicting. I hear Blair's strangled moan and with shocking strength he pulls me to my feet, pushes me into his room and onto his bed.

His hands are at my belt, my zipper, tearing them open, shoving the cloth down to my thighs. I try to help but he pushes my hands away. He doesn't bother with more before lowering himself on top of me, his mouth finding mine. Again we seem to fuse, only this time we are skin-to-skin, hot and hard and weeping.

I won't be able to take much more of this, but Blair is suddenly leaning past me to snare something from the nightstand. Cool, slippery oil slides between us, rapidly warming with the friction of our bodies. Our hands tangle as we touch each other, stroking, caressing, until my world is only this heat, this rhythm, and this unbearable pleasure.

It can't last, nothing this intense can last, and he comes hard in my arms, pushing me over the edge to join him in shaking, shattering release.

The journey back is slow. I open my eyes to find I am still holding him, breathing hard, trying to make sense of what just happened. I should ask him. I should clean us up. I should drag the remnants of his t-shirt off, finish getting out of my clothes, and pull him into the shower to touch every inch of him.

Or else I could just lay here.

Blair stirs against me. "God, your mouth, Jim -" he mutters against my cheek. "I think I could come just from kissing you. Just from imagining your mouth on me again."

"You didn't let me finish," I tell him. "You didn't let me taste you."

He pulls back to look at me, serious and beautiful, and I catch my breath.

"It was our first time. I wanted it - I wanted us to be together."

I won't survive this. I tighten my arms around him, almost painfully, but he doesn't object. Instead he lays his head against my chest and lets me hold him. I decide to pretend confidence. Maybe saying it out loud will make it real.

"We're going to figure this out," I tell him. "The dreams, your illness, all of it. We'll make it right again."

He doesn't answer, and I think he might be sleeping, but then he says, "Just stay with me."

I know I can do that. I get undressed, use my shirt to mop us up, and lay down to pull the blankets close around us. Blair moves into my arms like we were made to fit each other this way, and I wrap myself in the solid warmth of his body.

I still don't understand how he knew about the murder. I still don't know if I can offer him enough to make him stay, or if it's even possible to keep him here. Everything ahead of us is in shadow, but for this minute I feel him breathing easily, finally. For this minute, I have him, and he has me. Maybe that will be enough.