The Choices We Make

********************

Not exactly the restful weekend I had planned, Ellison thought, with the whimsy of a relaxed and contented man, as the lights of Cascade came into view over the horizon, but at least I finally got some quiet time to myself. After Simon and Blair had left Clayton Falls, he'd headed to his favourite fishing spot and let the peace of it soothe his frazzled soul…caught some fish, communed with nature, admired the mountains and didn't zone once. Well, alright, the senses had acted up a bit, going a little fuzzy, like a television with bad reception or lights blinking off in a thunderstorm but, basically, they'd been fine. He'd been fine. It had been just what he'd needed, had been longing for - solitude. Blissful isolation, without another soul anywhere in the vicinity, no riotous city noises, just the call of the wild - a hunting owl, the distant howl of a wolf and a big cat prowling somewhere up on the cliffs.

But, as he got closer to home, he couldn't help frowning as he wondered if there'd be any hassle with Sandburg or Simon. They hadn't appreciated being told they weren't welcome, and he figured he'd have to make nice to soothe their ruffled feathers. Not that he wanted to, or thought it should be necessary. What was so wrong about wanting a little peace and quiet? Sure they were all friends, but they weren't joined at the hip - though it seemed for the last three years that he'd had a Siamese twin dogging his footsteps, closer than a shadow, always there. Ellison grimaced as he recalled Sandburg's expression when he told his partner that he just needed some space because the kid was always in his face. Big eyes had gone wide with startled hurt, like he'd just been kicked. Sighing, Ellison figured the kid would have gotten over it by now; Blair wasn't the sort to hold a grudge. And it wasn't like there hadn't been other things to think about during their brief sojourn in the small town. The memory of Sandburg being carried into the isolation tent was one he wouldn't soon forget. Nobody had said anything; he'd been too sick and appalled by the thought that Blair had contracted some deadly disease, and that he would likely die in that damned tent. It sent a shiver down his spine to even think about Blair dying…but it had turned out okay. Thank God. A day or two of 'peace and quiet' was one thing, but Jim had gotten used to his little guppy and, though he'd probably never admit it, would miss the kid when the time came for him to move on.

That thought made Ellison uncomfortable, because it reminded him of their rarely mentioned agreement and Sandburg's dissertation. Sniffing, Jim rubbed his mouth absently as he admitted to himself that he wished he'd never made that agreement. He'd just been so damned desperate at the time and 'someday' had seemed a long way away. But he knew Blair had all the material he needed and it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later, Sandburg would get tired of the 'roller-coaster' and move on with his own life. Down deep, Jim hoped that Blair would decide to never write that paper, not about him, specifically, anyway. Snorting to himself, he figured that scenario was a bad case of wishful thinking. But it would be so much easier if the kid would settle down and choose the roller-coaster, become a cop and his permanent partner, do something worthwhile with his life rather than fritter it away in the surreal world of academia. "Get real," he muttered to himself. Sandburg a cop? Maybe when pigs learned to fly.

As he pulled into his parking spot beside Sandburg's beat-up old 'classic', Jim reflected that, in the confusion of events, he hadn't told the kid how glad he was that Sandburg was all right. Well, as part of 'making nice' to soothe any lingering hurt, he'd make damned sure the kid knew that he was very glad it hadn't been as serious as they'd feared, and that Blair was okay. He hauled his gear out of the back and headed into the building, smiling as he thought of the fish he'd brought home as a peace offering of sorts. Too late tonight to cook up a fish fry, but they'd feast tomorrow.

As he strode down the hall, juggling his gear while he sorted through his keys, Ellison thought vaguely that the loft was quieter than usual when Sandburg was around. Normally, especially when he was home alone, Blair had some jungle beat thumping in the background like an atavistic echo of the sound of him pounding out some paper or other on his laptop. Mildly concerned, he recalled how wasted the kid had been when Blair and Simon had left Clayton Falls; maybe Sandburg had turned in early, still a little worn out from the misadventures in the mountains.

But as he neared his doorway, his nose twitched at a sickly sweet odour and he frowned, confused - and then, pushing open the door, his heart froze in sudden fear. Blood. The stench of it permeated the air, and his gut clenched as nausea roiled in response.

"Sandburg!" he called out sharply, dumping his bag and tackle box, his senses raking the loft and quickly zeroing in on Blair, lying curled on the floor in a crimson pool on the far side of the kitchen island; streaks of dried blood from a spot near the foot of the stairs were mute testimony of his vain struggle to reach the phone. "Chief?" Jim gasped as he lurched across the room and dropped to his knees; he carefully turned the kid and saw Sandburg's badly battered face before searching for the source of all that blood. He could hear the slow, thready heartbeat, the rasping, shallow, too-fast breaths, so he knew the kid was alive, but only barely.

Blair moaned as he was moved, flinching even though only semiconscious. "Don' know…where he is…" he mumbled doggedly, his voice so faint that the words were scarcely audible. "Don' know…"

"Easy, Chief," Jim soothed as he pushed aside layers of cloth thick and stiff with blood to find what looked like a knife wound in Sandburg's left side, and saw that Blair's whole torso was covered with bruises to match those on his face - he'd been beaten so brutally it amounted to torture. Blood was still leaking from the ugly gash in a weak pulse, and Ellison wondered anxiously as he lightly probed Sandburg's ribs and abdomen, feeling heat and swelling, and eliciting small groans of unconscious protest, if there was internal bleeding as well.

Trembling with the effort of controlling his rioting emotions, Ellison pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911, identifying himself and demanding an ambulance as well as police backup, snapping, "Officer down," before he rattled off the address and a very brief description of the severity of the injuries. He hated leaving Blair lying on the hard floor, but he didn't dare move the kid in case he aggravated his injuries. Focusing himself on what had to be done rather than on the chilling realization that Blair was more dead than alive, he hurried to get a blanket and towels. Sandburg was gray with shock, his skin cold and clammy; from the look of things, he'd been bleeding to death for hours, maybe since the night before. Swiftly, if gently, Jim padded the wound and bundled the blanket around the younger man before easing Sandburg's head and shoulders up with one arm, to cradle Blair against his body - to ease his breathing, to lend warmth, to let the younger man know he wasn't alone any longer - and just because he needed to hold the kid.

"Chief? Can you hear me?" he called softly, as he gently brushed Blair's sweat-matted hair back from his battered face. One eye was swollen shut and black with bruising, his upper lip was cut and puffy, and one cheek was swollen and reddened from the abuse he'd taken. Lightly touching his best friend's throat, Jim noted the layered marks of fingers and thumbs, as if the kid had been repeatedly nearly choked to death. God, if his larynx had been crushed, he'd be long dead by now…

"Don' know…where he…is…" Sandburg muttered again, and Jim frowned. The tone and the weary repetition reminded him of a soldier giving his rank and serial number, over and over.

"Where who is, Chief?" he asked to keep Sandburg talking, as if he didn't know, hadn't figured out with a sick, sinking sensation in his belly that Blair was suffering, maybe dying, because of him.

"J-jim. Don' know where…" Blair murmured brokenly in the monotonous tone, his voice thick and slurred.

"Who did this, Blair?" Ellison demanded then, his voice cold and brittle with the grim realization of what must have happened. Someone had come looking for him and had tried to get information from Sandburg, had tried to beat it out of him, and then had left him to die. "Who hurt you?"

Blair's lashes flickered and he tensed as he looked up, confused, uncertain, the fear he felt and the agony he was enduring starkly etched on his face. His eyes widened when his gaze shifted to Jim's face, but then another spasm of pain took him, making him gasp and shudder weakly, stealing away his brief moment of awareness as he slumped against Jim, his head falling against Ellison's chest.

"Where the hell is that ambulance?" Jim cursed, scared. The kid couldn't last much longer…

Swallowing hard, Ellison fought the rising panic that swirled in his gut. His jaw tight, he looked around the loft, seeking any sign, any trace of evidence that might give him a lead on who had done this. The stench of blood assaulted him, sending his senses into overload and he furiously fought for control; he couldn't lose it now. But the pervasive smell blocked out other scents that might be lingering in the air. There was nothing that he could see or smell that gave him a clue as to who had been here and had left Blair for dead.

Blair's rasping breath and sluggish heartbeat thundered in his ears, drawing his attention back to the sorely injured man in his arms. It seemed an eternity before he finally heard the sirens in the distance. Tightening his embrace, he grated, "Hang on, Chief. Just a little longer, okay? Help's almost here…"

********************

"Jim! What the hell happened?" Simon growled as he entered the waiting room and saw his best detective standing rigidly in the corner, staring fixedly down the hall toward the treatment rooms. At Ellison's request, the uniforms that had arrived with the ambulance had alerted Banks that Sandburg had been assaulted, but dispatch hadn't given Simon any details other than that the call had come from Ellison's residence. "Jim!" he repeated when he got close enough to grasp Ellison's arm and give the detective a little shake to get his attention.

Startled, distracted from his concentration upon what was happening down the hall, Ellison blinked and looked dazedly at Simon. "I don't know," he muttered, his mouth and throat dry. "I found him when I got home. Beaten within an inch of his life and stabbed…"

Shocked and appalled by the news, Banks looked from Jim to the corridor beyond. Lifting a hand to Ellison's shoulder, he asked hollowly, "He'll be all right, won't he?"

With a half-shrug and a tight shake of his head, Jim replied hoarsely, "He's hurt bad, Simon - real bad - I don't know how long he'd been lying there, bleeding to death, before I got back. Since last night, I think."

They both tensed as a woman in a white coat over scrubs came out of the treatment room and pulled bloodstained gloves from her hands, tossing them in a container in the hall as she came toward the waiting area. Jim stepped toward her, catching her attention, and she nodded in acknowledgement. "I'm Dr. Meadows. Are you here with Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yes. I'm Detective Jim Ellison, and this is Captain Simon Banks, Cascade PD. Blair's my partner and roommate," Jim explained in a rush, his voice tight with fear. "How is he?"

"Roommate?" she echoed, surprised. Frowning thoughtfully, she mused softly, "I'd thought, from the state of his injuries, that he must live alone to have gone so long without help."

Defensively, Ellison muttered, "I was away for the weekend, fishing…"

"Ah," she murmured, shaking her head. "Too bad he didn't go with you." Returning to the business at hand, she told him bluntly, if not unkindly, "I'm afraid that your friend's condition is very grave and I'd suggest you contact his family…"

"There's only his mother, and I don't know where she is," Jim cut in. "He's going to live, right?"

"We're prepping him for the OR and he'll be taken there in a few minutes," she replied briskly, avoiding a direct answer, so they'd understand when she got to the bottom line. "He has numerous critical internal injuries, as well as a severe concussion. Right now, he's comatose and bordering on terminal shock from massive blood loss, but we have him on life support. We need to know if he has a living will, as extraordinary measures may well be required to continue to sustain his life." Pausing briefly to look from one very worried man to the other, she continued more gently, "I'm sorry, but I can't make you any promises. He's not likely to survive the surgery."

Jim paled, his chest suddenly too tight, as he gaped at her. "You can't be serious," he gasped, scarcely aware of Simon's firm supportive grip on his shoulder.

Sighing, she replied, "Frankly, it's a miracle he's still alive. Even if he makes it through the surgery, there's no guarantee he'll live through the night. I wish I didn't have to be so blunt, but I really think you should try to find his mother." And then, because they needed to know the patient's wishes if at all possible, she asked again, "Do you know if he has a living will?"

Jim shook his head. He knew damned well what Sandburg thought about the artificial prolongation of life where there was no real hope, but no way in hell was he prepared to accept that all hope was gone. "You do everything you have to do to keep him alive, is that clear?" he told her sharply. An order. No discussion.

Taking no offense from the tone, understanding the pain and fear of those whose loved ones were at risk, she nodded. "Very clear, thank you," she replied gently, and then continued, "There's little you can do here, but if you wish to wait, there's a lounge outside the Operating Theatres on the second floor. I am sorry - I wish I could give you better news, but you should prepare yourself for the worst." Turning aside when a nurse called for her attention, she gave them a last quick look as she said, "If you'll excuse me…"

Mutely, the two men nodded, too overwhelmed by her apparent conviction that Sandburg was at death's door, to speak. A stricken look of deep sorrow on his face, Simon lifted his arm to encircle Jim's shoulders and could feel the slight tremble of shock rippling through Ellison's body. Sighing heavily as he studied the other man's stunned expression, Banks could pretty much guess what Jim was thinking. "This wasn't your fault," he murmured, as he gently tried to maneuver Ellison toward a chair.

Swallowing, Jim wiped a hand across his mouth as he grated, "Yeah. It was. If I hadn't told the both of you to leave…"

"Jim, stop," Simon counseled compassionately. "You couldn't know -"

"They were looking for me," Jim cut in, his voice tight with his effort at control.

"You can't know that - "

"Yeah, I can," he argued, turning to Simon. "When I found him, he was muttering, over and over, 'Don't know where he is'. They were after me and Sandburg wouldn't tell them anything, no matter how much they beat him. Jesus, Simon…" he grated, his voice breaking. "He suffered this, might well die, to protect me."

Banks' eyes narrowed as he absorbed the new information. He'd assumed it had been a random home invasion but evidently it was a lot more personal than that. And whoever had done this was still out there, looking for Ellison. His expression hardened as he thought with a measure of grim satisfaction that that would make it a lot more probable that they'd eventually be able to catch the vicious scum who had done this. His gut twisted as he thought again about Sandburg…and that the charge, when and if they caught the bastards, looked as if it would be murder. But, unless the kid held on long enough to identify or at least describe his assailants, they couldn't do much more - other than wait for the next attack - than hope the officers canvassing Jim's building for information came up with something.

"I'm sorry, Jim," he rumbled, his throat suddenly tight. "The kid didn't deserve this, but you still can't blame yourself. You know he wouldn't want that." Pausing, he then suggested, "Maybe we should try to find Naomi. She'll need to know, need to be here for…the funeral…"

"He's not going to die," Ellison rasped, shrugging off Simon's arm, not wanting comfort.

"Jim, you heard the doctor. Blair's chances of living through this aren't good," Banks cajoled softly, understanding the reaction of denial but believing they needed to face the facts.

"NO!" Jim snapped back, furiously - desperately. "He won't die. He's hung on this long…he won't give up."

His lips thinning as he looked away, Simon shook his head. But then he sighed heavily as he turned back to face Ellison. "I hope you're right. I really do." Feeling infinitely weary, he looked vaguely around and then muttered dispiritedly, "Come on, let's get some coffee. It's going to be a long night."

********************

Time passed torturously, seconds dragging into minutes that ticked into one hour, and then two…and three, without word. They paced the confines of the small waiting room and drank endless cups of bitter coffee, lost in their own thoughts and emotions, each trying to find some measure of hope in the fact that the surgery was still going on - that Sandburg was still alive and might, by some miracle, survive.

Jim was a seething caldron of emotion, barely able to think straight. He wanted to find the men who had done this and tear them apart with his bare hands, make them suffer as they'd made Blair suffer. But he knew the best he'd ever be able to do, and only if they got lucky, was arrest the bastards and hope Blair lived to testify against them. He wanted to hold onto his fury because it was a shield against the guilt and the profound regret that rose up to crush his lungs and clog his throat. Blair had been no more than an innocent bystander, caught in some act of revenge against him. It shouldn't have happened. If Jim hadn't taken it into his head to run away from home for a couple of days, he'd've been there and Blair wouldn't be …wouldn't be struggling to hold onto life. Wouldn't have suffered the pain and the fear. Wouldn't have laid there for hours and hours, wondering if anyone would come, if Jim would get home in time to find him still alive, wondering if he was going to die alone. If he'd been grateful that his friends wanted to spend time with him and had tracked him down, had welcomed them rather than spurned them, Blair would have been safe, with him, fishing - it tore at Jim that he'd been so proud of himself, had enjoyed the peace and tranquility of the mountains while Blair had been bleeding his life out in the loft. Bile burned in the back of his throat as nausea twisted in his belly. God…what the kid had endured…

For him.

To protect him.

Ellison's eyes burned and he scraped at them, desperate to hold onto his control and not weep like some baby. It was Sandburg who was hurt, not him.

But under the fury, the guilt and regret, there was such fear. Fear that the kid would die. Oh, God - he was so damned young. He should have a whole life to live, and he would have, if he'd never met one James Ellison. And he was so…special. Loss, a hollow empty gaping hole inside, threatened to swamp all the other feelings and thoughts. Blind loss. Of someone essential, someone who'd become part of the tapestry of Jim's life, a vital part, and Ellison couldn't bear to think past the emptiness, to even try to imagine what life would be like without Sandburg's persistent cheerful curiousity and energy, without his help and support and…friendship.

So he paced, and drank coffee, and wished he could believe in prayer…so that he could beg someone or something to spare Blair's life and hope it might do some good.

Simon watched Jim, deeply worried about him. He'd never seen Ellison so distraught, and he wasn't at all sure what would happen if that door opened and some doctor came out to tell them that Sandburg had died on the table. Slumping into a chair, Banks wiped a hand over his face and eyes, sniffing a little, as he held onto his own emotions about what had happened to Blair. Much as he scowled and bellowed and pretended Sandburg was more annoyance than help, he loved that kid. He kept thinking about how Blair had jumped out of a plane over the jungles of Peru, following Jim on a mission to find him and Darryl - Sandburg, jumping out of a perfectly good plane when he was terrified of heights, because he cared about them, considered them friends. And about how the kid had been shot after following Jim into the forest, to track him down and rescue him from Quinn. The kid wasn't a cop, didn't have to put himself on the line, but he did. Not just for Jim, but for Simon, too - and he never seemed to think that was anything extraordinary.

It made Banks sick to think that Blair was going to die. Hell, they'd just been through this in Clayton Falls when they'd thought him stricken with Ebola and then had found out, with indescribable relief, that it had all been just an elaborate scam. But, for a while, he and Jim hadn't known that, and had despaired that they might well lose Sandburg. They'd gotten through that only to be here, now, waiting to know if the kid would even last the night. So, yeah, he felt sick and angry - and so damned helpless. When they'd come back from Clayton Falls, he'd been worried that Blair still seemed under the weather, pale and too quiet, either from the poisoned water or from running around when he should have been resting - or because he was thinking hard about what Jim had said when they'd first arrived. Simon had almost invited him over to the house for the night, almost invited him to dinner - almost but didn't. He'd been tired, too, and had just wanted to get home. So he'd dropped Blair off and hadn't even watched while the kid shuffled wearily to the entryway. Damn, if only…

If only. The sorriest, damn phrase he knew. If only. Only thought about once it was too damned late and the harm was already, irreparably, done.

And this sentinel business…what would happen to Jim if the kid died? Could he handle his senses on his own? Or would they spiral out of control again, like they had three years ago? Jim had thought he was going crazy or had a brain tumour or something; would he be able to manage on his own now? Had Blair taught him enough about what he was, about how to use his senses and not be overwhelmed by them? Or would he be adrift without the support and insights Sandburg came up with, with disconcerting and apparently effortless ease?

Even if he could manage the senses, would Ellison ever forgive himself, ever be able to get past it, if Sandburg died? This wasn't some unfortunate accident, some illness that struck out of nowhere but was impersonal, if deadly. If Jim was right and had interpreted Sandburg's words and the situation correctly, then Blair was dying because he was Jim's friend, pure and simple. Because they shared a home. Because Blair was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had refused to betray his friend.

Regardless, even if the attack hadn't been ultimately aimed at Ellison, if it was just random violence, Blair was the best friend who had been willfully left behind - who had been virtually chased away when he'd followed. No, Jim would never forgive himself for that…not if the kid died.

God, Simon prayed as he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, please don't take the kid now…

Every damned time the doors that led to the Operating Theatres opened, as doctors and nurses, technicians and orderlies came and went, they'd freeze, caught between hope and dread…and still there was no word. As the hours went by, all the staff in the OR came to know that two men were keeping anxious vigil and the staff, too, began to watch to see what the word would be. All they knew was that a young man had been brutally attacked and left for dead - and that his odds weren't good. Both Jim and Simon came to loathe the look of sorry compassion on the faces of the nurses or others - expressions that held little hope.

Until finally, four and half hours after their vigil had begun, the doors swished open and a weary surgeon walked through, but didn't keep going - he turned toward them, and they stood, like deer caught in the headlights, waiting to know if they were going to be struck down or given reprieve.

"I'm Shamus McNally and I've just finished working on your friend, Blair Sandburg," he told them. "First, he's still alive."

Both men visibly slumped at his words, some of the tension easing from their stiff shoulders. "Will he make it?" Jim asked quietly, his gaze searching the surgeon's eyes, seeking reassurance, afraid he wasn't going to get it.

"It's too soon to know, for certain," Dr. McNally replied regretfully. "The prognosis isn't good, I'm afraid. But - I don't like to give up on my patients while they're still breathing. He'll be in Recovery for the next hour and then we'll move him to our Intensive Care Unit. You should go…there's nothing you can do here. The staff will call if…"

"No, I'm not going anywhere," Jim asserted vehemently. "I want to see him as soon as I can."

Shrugging, not interested in arguing about it, the physician nodded. "Fine. You can wait upstairs, on the fifth floor. The staff will come for you when he's settled up there."

"Doctor," Simon interjected solemnly, "we're grateful for what you've done to try to help Blair."

"Just doing my job," McNally replied with a small, weary smile. "I hope he survives, I really do."

********************

It was another hour and a half of waiting and more waiting, but Simon knew precisely the moment that Sandburg was transferred by some back corridor into the closed ward. Ellison stiffened, his head tilted to one side and his expression became one of intense concentration.

"Careful, Jim," Simon warned. "If you zone…"

"I can hear him, Simon," Ellison cut in, his voice taut with emotion. "I can hear his heart beating; I know it's him."

"Okay, well, we knew he was still alive, right? So, it figures his heart is beating," Banks replied ironically. Moving to grip Jim's arm, he directed, "Stop it. You'll spiral into the sound and that won't do him any good."

Reluctantly, Jim eased up on his hearing. Simon was right; it was too risky. But he had this urge, this need, to be connected somehow to Sandburg, so he held a slight contact, the too-slow thudding a distant beat of life. Heaving out a breath, he crossed his arms as he stared at the floor. "He doesn't sound good…"

"Well, we expected that, too," Banks muttered wearily. "Jim, the best we can hope for right now is that he keeps breathing. You can't stay all wired up like this; you'll be a basket case."

"What am I supposed to do, Simon?" Ellison snapped as he looked up with a fierce glare. "Pretend I don't care? That it doesn't really matter, one way or another? He's in there because of me!"

"This isn't about you, Jim," Simon told him bluntly. "Not completely, anyway. I know we may have a problem with your senses if we lose him - "

"This isn't about my senses, dammit!" Ellison cursed.

"What then? Your guilt? Your regret? Your anger, maybe?" Banks challenged. "Because so long as you're so wrapped up that he's maybe dying because of you, you're focused on yourself and not him. And, frankly, Detective, he deserves better than that."

Rearing back at if he'd been slugged, Jim gaped at his boss and then looked away. He took a deep, shuddering breath and swallowed hard. "No," he murmured, shaking his head. "No - I, uh, I just don't want to lose him, Simon. I don't want him to die…"

"Neither do I, Jim," Simon sighed. "A lot of people, probably a lot more than we even know about or could imagine, will mourn that kid if…well, if he doesn't make it."

Ellison bit his lip as he turned away, his hand lifting to cover his eyes as he leaned one shoulder against the wall. He hated this. Hated to feel so helpless. Hated to care so much and hurt so bad. Hated to think Blair might not see another dawn or…or anything else. Sniffing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing back the tears that threatened. He wouldn't weep. That would be…giving up. And he couldn't, wouldn't, give up on Sandburg.

"He has to 'make it', Simon," he finally grated. "He just has to…"

A nurse finally came to lead them into the ICU. Most of the lights were dimmed, and it was only then that the two men realized it must be close to midnight. Several staff members bent over charts in the open square office area in the centre of the large chamber; others were working with patients in the small glass cubicles around the perimeter. When they reached the one where Sandburg had been placed, they paused a moment, staring in through the uncurtained window, anguish written on both their faces.

His skin was mottled with dark bruises, his ribs wrapped tightly to support cracked or broken ribs, and a wide, white bandage was wrapped around his abdomen. A sheet covered his lower body, and he seemed to be ensnared in a web of tubes and wires, with an oxygen mask obscuring part of his face, and his hair tangled around his head. But for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he was perfectly still, void of all animation and life.

Simon winced and looked away. Jim had said Sandburg had been badly beaten, but Banks hadn't expected anything as bad as this. The kid looked like he'd been trampled by a herd of wild horses.

Jim was caught by Blair's absolute stark pallor, his skin translucent, like fine porcelain, under the unhealthy stain of the bruises. Ellison could make out the faint blue patchwork of damaged capillaries and see the erratic pulse beating at the base of his best friend's throat. Sandburg's lungs rattled with each ragged breath…and he looked so vulnerable. So utterly defenceless and broken.

Simon touched his shoulder, and then they moved into the cubicle, walking quietly, almost tentatively, as if on shards of glass. They took up positions on either side of the bed, and Jim reached to stroke Blair's forehead lightly before grasping his partner's hand. He frowned at how cold the kid's skin felt and thought poignantly about how much Blair hated to be cold. Looking around, he spotted a blanket in the lower half of the bedside cabinet and pulled it out to drape it gently over his best friend's body. And then he just stood, his hand on Blair's shoulder, as he murmured brokenly, "Hey, Chief - I gotta say I've seen you look better. But… you're going to be okay, you hear me? You just keep fighting, Blair; just keep holding on. I'll be here. I promise. You aren't alone; you're safe now."

If Sandburg could hear, he gave no sign. Simon bowed his head, looking away from Jim, reluctant to be a witness to the profound emotion on his Detective's face and in Ellison's voice; but he found himself sincerely hoping that Sandburg could hear - and would know that even if his best friend never said it in so many words, Jim clearly loved him…maybe more than words could ever express.

They were an odd pair, Ellison and Sandburg, Simon reflected. Complete opposites in so many, maybe superficial, ways. One was a rigid, authoritarian, conservative cop and the other an irrepressible, open, academic hippie throwback. And yet…they meshed, like finely-crafted, skillfully engineered parts designed to form one, complete being. They bickered and sniped, teased and sulked, laughed at things others didn't always get, and worked together better than any team he'd ever known. And, they had more downright courage, stubborn determination and outright chutzpah than any other men he'd ever known. In their own, odd way, each was quietly devoted to the other, fiercely protective and loyal. Banks found he wasn't at all surprised that Sandburg had taken such a brutal beating to protect Jim, though Ellison, himself, seemed to think it was somehow amazing. That rankled Simon a bit - the fact that Jim really didn't seem to grasp that Sandburg would do just about anything for him. Most of the time, he seemed to take the kid's commitment to him for granted…when he wasn't finding it irritating. Banks wondered if, maybe, Jim was only realizing for the first time that Sandburg would, quite literally, die for him. Looking back up at the detective, he wondered what Ellison would do with that knowledge, if the kid lived.

Jim was staring down at Sandburg as if, by force of will alone, he could keep Blair alive.

Simon wished with all his heart that it could be that easy…

********************

Lost in the netherworld of the unconscious, Blair stumbled down blind alleys and around corners that only led him back to where he'd been. Fragments of memory haunted him, tormented him. Voices and faces, and the slam of painful fists. Being jumped in the corridor outside the loft…Jim saying, "You're always in my face." Being scared of dying from Ebola. Chasing through forests, some of pine, others wild jungles. Voices demanding, "Where is he, runt?" Blows, relentless, snapping his head back, stealing his breath away. Lash laughing at him and chanting, "I can be you." Chapel chasing him from the shadows. Thunder and lightning, violent winds and gunfire. Pulling Jim down, under a truck. His mother astonished, "But he's a pig, Blair." Jim…blind. Jim…doubled over in pain, his senses spiking. Jim laughing at him, swiping at his hair. An elevator endlessly dropping, a bomb ticking down. The searing burn of a knife. Sharp kicks thudding into his body. Jim holding him on a rainswept deck. Standing on the balcony. "It's about friendship."

Round and round, exhausted, scared and lost. Jim was in danger, and he couldn't find him. Had to find him, warn him.

But pain lacerated him with every breath, ached deep in his chest, pounded through his body with each drop of blood and he couldn't find his way out; it was too dark and confusing. And it hurt so bad…

"JIM!" he shouted, with increasing desperation and despair, trying to be heard over the noise in his mind. "JIM! They want to kill you, man! JIM! Oh, God, where are you? I have to find you. I have to…"

********************

McNally found them there half an hour later, when he came to check on Sandburg before heading out for the night. He watched both men for a long moment from outside the cubicle, taking in their postures of exhaustion and despair. Shaking his head, he stepped into the small glass cell and said quietly, "You'll have to leave, at least for a while."

Startled, Jim jerked and lifted his head to turn to the doctor, his body stiffening with resistance. But, before he could say anything, the surgeon continued, "You're both at the end of your tether. Any fool can see that. And you," he nodded at Ellison, "in case you haven't noticed, have dried blood all over your jeans. You need to clean up and get some rest."

Ellison's jaw tightened as he lowered and shook his head, belligerent, unwilling to leave. But Simon could see the sense of the doctor's advice. Still…if Sandburg died while they were gone…

"It's hard to go, not knowing…" he murmured, glancing from Ellison to the physician.

"I know," McNally acknowledged kindly. "But he's a stubborn young cuss, isn't he? He's holding his own, better than anyone would have predicted a few hours ago." Moving forward as Simon stepped back to give him access to his patient, the surgeon fitted his stethoscope to his ears, unaware that the man on the far side of the bed could hear the irregular heartbeat better than he could, even with his fine instrument. Nodding to himself as he checked the monitors, he continued, "His blood pressure is holding steady, as are his other life signs." Lifting his gaze to Jim's, he added, "You won't be much good when and if he does wake up, if you don't take some care of yourself. Besides, you smell like fish and that might well make him nauseous once he's more conscious. Go home. You can see him again in a few hours."

"The doctor's right, Jim," Simon threw in. "C'mon, Detective. I'll give you a lift back to your place."

"But if…what if…" Ellison stammered, uncertain. He couldn't explain it, but he felt so strongly that Sandburg needed him close by.

"If he begins to look like he's going to wake up anytime soon," McNally assured him, understanding the unspoken questions, having heard them innumerable times before, "or if his condition begins to deteriorate, they'll call you immediately."

Swallowing, Jim looked down at Blair and reached to gently stroke the younger man's cheek. "I'll be back soon, Chief," he said quietly in capitulation. "You'd better still be here, you hear me?" He tried to imagine Sandburg grinning at him, teasing that he wasn't in any condition to go anywhere, but the thought of never again seeing that irrepressible impishness, or hearing that laugh, tore through him. It was a long moment before he could move, so hard was it to master his emotions.

But, finally, he looked up at Simon, his eyes dark with anxiety, and he followed his boss out of the room. Every step of the way out of the hospital, he told himself that Sandburg wouldn't quit on him, and that he had to be strong and alert, able to give whatever support was needed, when the kid finally woke up. The soldier in him knew that meant he had to have some rest, however much he only wanted to stay by his best friend's side. So, grudgingly, he let Simon drive him home - but he wondered how he'd ever manage to sleep when every fibre in his being shrieked that he should be standing watch over Sandburg.

So lost was he in his own thoughts, Jim didn't even notice the patrolman on guard in the hall outside the ICU entrance, or the unmarked car parked in front of his building. He was too fraught with worry about Blair's condition to think about the possible threat of another attack to silence a possible witness, and he had completely forgotten the threat to his own security. But Simon hadn't, and had taken the necessary steps to keep both of his men secure. As he watched Jim slowly walk into the building, the Captain of Major Crimes just wished they had something to go on, but he'd learned hours ago that the interviews with Ellison's neighbours had borne no fruit. Nobody had heard or seen anything. Wearily, he shook his head …sometimes it seemed to him, nobody ever did - especially when it mattered most.

********************

As soon as he stepped off the elevator, Jim could smell the blood. Nauseated by the stench of it, he strode through his apartment to throw open the balcony door, and then he grimly washed the floor. He held himself rigidly under control, pushing away unwanted memories, images of Blair looking so hurt up at Clayton Falls, so brutalized, lying in a pool of his own blood - so vulnerable in the hospital. Once he'd finished cleaning up the mess, his actions almost mechanical in their deliberation, he stripped to shower and, under the spray, he scrubbed himself with soap, as if he could wash away the horror and the fear.

But he couldn't…no more than he could fight back the sob that rose in his chest.

His head bowed under the hot shower, salty moisture staining his cheeks. Sagging against the tiled wall, his arms crossed tightly, he choked, "God, Chief…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

********************

After a restless night of very little sleep - and that fitful, broken by nightmares - Jim returned to the hospital. When he buzzed for entry into the ICU, he didn't know whether to be grateful or alarmed when the staff had no objection to him sitting beside Sandburg for as long as he wanted to stay, only stipulating that he'd have to leave whenever they needed to perform some act of care for his friend.

Grateful, that he didn't have to fight about being where he needed to be.

Scared shitless, that they were only giving him unlimited access because they saw his vigil as a deathwatch.

But, mostly, he was relieved beyond words that Sandburg was still breathing, still holding his own - until he got close enough to realize that Blair was running a low fever. The last thing the kid's thin resources needed to deal with was an infection.

"He's hot," he grunted, shooting an accusing look at the nurse who'd escorted him to Sandburg's cubicle.

"Yes, I know," she replied calmly. "The fever started a few hours ago - we've already begun a regime of antibiotics. It's not unexpected, and so far, he's managing to hold his own."

Jim nodded tightly, knowing there wasn't anyone to blame or anything more that could be done, and he turned away to look at Blair. He was still ghastly pale, and his breathing was still ragged. His heartbeat was no stronger, but Jim tried to console himself that it was no worse, either.

He pulled the single chair in the cell closer to the bed and then sat down, his hands clasped between his knees, until he couldn't resist reaching out to grip Blair's wrist. "I'm back," he murmured. "And this time, buddy, I'm not going anywhere until you wake up." Lapsing into silence, he simply sat and gazed at Sandburg's face, watching for any sign of returning consciousness.

One hour drifted past, and then another. The silence, Sandburg's stillness, wore at him, and he wondered if Blair could sense any of what was happening around him. Belatedly remembering that people in comas supposedly could hear what was said to, and around, them, Jim began to speak softly, hoping the sound of his voice might draw Blair back from the abyss.

"You know I didn't mean anything personal about getting away for a couple of days, right?" he murmured anxiously, rambling from one thought to another. "I mean, I just needed to - I don't know - have some down time. I guess I wanted to see if I could manage on my own again, you know? Not that I don't want to have you around. I've gotten used to you. Hell, fine, I'll admit it - I'd miss you if you moved out. But - it's important to me to not get too dependent, you know? Anyway, I'm sorry I said what I did. I know the tests are important, that they help. I was scared, when it looked like you were sick. Hated to see them carry you away into that tent. You know that, right? You know how glad I was that it turned out not to be some damned plague - that you were okay? I should have said something, but so much was going on - happening so fast. I just didn't think - you know I don't ever want anything bad to happen to you, don't you? I…I wish I could change things, Chief. Wish I'd told you and Simon to stay, once you'd arrived. I really do. More than you'll ever know. When I got home…and found you…ah, God, Chief…"

His voice cracked, and he had to stop to force his emotions back before he lost it completely. If Blair could hear him, Jim didn't want his best friend to hear him falling apart. It would sound like he'd given up, that he was sure Sandburg was going to die. And he wouldn't give up…he wouldn't.

Clearing his throat, he sniffed and wiped his eyes, and then began again. "I, uh…I could kill whoever did this, you know? Cheerfully. You never deserved this, Chief. To be hurt so bad. I'm sorry you had to wait so long for me to get home. God, you're one tough sonofabitch, though, you know that? To have held on so long? To not give up. You won't give up, will you, Chief? You'll beat this. I wish you'd wake up. Scares me to see you so…still and…quiet. It's not natural. You're not even quiet when you sleep, did you know that? You mumble and shift around all night long, your mind never resting, I guess. You're always thinking, always trying to figure things out. Even in your dreams. Don't get me wrong - it doesn't bother me or anything. It's sort of reassuring - background noise that lets me know you're there. Like the sound of your heart and your breathing. Like I said, I guess I've gotten used to having you around. Seems strange, too silent, in the loft, when you're not there. But you'll be home soon, right? You hate hospitals, well, except for the nurses…you want to get better and get out of here; I know you do. I haven't tried to find Naomi; I figure you wouldn't want her worried. Wouldn't know where to start looking for her, anyway, I guess…"

His voice drifted off as he gazed at his friend, wishing so badly that Sandburg would regain consciousness. Absently, his hand drifted to clasp Blair's, his thumb drawing idle circles on Sandburg's skin. He frowned, thinking the fever seemed worse to him and wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Fevers were a sign of a body fighting infection, and that was a good thing. But they took a lot of energy, and Blair didn't have any to spare.

"They were after me, weren't they?" he asked then, miserably. "And you wouldn't tell them where I was or when I'd be back. Why'd you do that? Take so much punishment? Risk your life like that? Who did this? Who left you like that? Dammit, kid - I don't want you hurt because of me. I never wanted that. Never expected you to put yourself on the line like that. I'm not worth this, Chief. I want you to live a long life, have a bunch of kids, be loved as you so deserve to be loved, grow old - be a crazy senior citizen bouncing around, talking a mile a minute, with wild gray hair…"

When his voice broke again, Jim drew in a ragged breath and looked around the sterile, impersonal cell and out the glass window at the strangers who monitored his best friend's life signs. It was cold, colourless. Blair didn't belong in a place like this. Should never have had to be there. "I swear," he whispered. "I won't let this happen again. Hanging around with me is just too damned risky; I should know that by now. I'll… I'll find a way to do this on my own, so you can get your own life back…so you'll be safe. So you'll have the time to find someone to settle down with, grow old with. God, Chief…would you just wake up?"

Ellison swiped at the tear that had sneaked down his cheek as he looked back at Sandburg. "Hold on, kid," he murmured. "If you just hold on, you'll be okay…"

********************

He took heart despite his exhaustion; he could hear Jim's voice in the distance. Ellison was somewhere nearby, not far. If he could only find the way out of the confusion, find the right path, the right hallway - where the hell was he, anyway? God, he was so hot…and the pain still tore at him. But he couldn't give up. He had to get to Jim. Had to warn him…

********************

"Hot," he muttered. "'m so hot…"

Jim leapt to his feet to lean over the bed as he reached out to stroke Blair's brow. "You with me, Chief? You back?" he called softly, knowing he was trembling with hope.

"J'm?" Sandburg gasped with what sounded like profound relief, his lashes blinking open briefly as his unfocused gaze floundered around the room. "Foun' you…" But his voice died away into incomprehensible murmuring and his eyes drifted closed again.

"Yeah, you found me," Jim reassured him, his voice shaky with relief that Sandburg seemed to be getting a little stronger; surely, it was a good sign that he was waking up, wasn't it? "I'm right here, Chief. Right here."

"Hot," the younger man fussed, restless, only semiconscious, his voice so soft that no one but Jim could have understood him. "Hurts…"

Ellison hit the buzzer to attract a nurse, so he could ask if Sandburg could be given something to ease his pain. And then he turned to the small sink in the corner to dampen a cloth to cool Blair's forehead. After the nurse had come and gone, he filled the basin he spotted on a shelf by the sink with tepid water, and set about bathing his best friend, doing what he could to make Blair more comfortable.

And all the while, he kept up a steady patter of soft encouragement. "You're going to be okay, Chief. I know it hurts, buddy - but you're going to be fine. You hear me, Blair? You just keep holding on, kid. You're doing great…"

********************

For several hours, Sandburg drifted in and out of his confused, semiconscious state, mumbling incoherently before lapsing for long periods back into the eerie still silence of unconsciousness. Though Jim kept talking to him, Sandburg didn't seem to be connecting; didn't seem to have any awareness of where he was. And while Ellison was glad Blair's condition appeared to be improving, the closer to consciousness he came, the more he seemed to be suffering from his injuries. At least the fever isn't getting any worse, Jim reflected silently, grasping onto even the slightest shreds of hope, the most meager indications that, maybe, the kid was getting better.

McNally had come shortly after Blair had first awakened, and had nodded, pleased, at the improvement in his patient's blood pressure and the steadier, stronger beat of his heart. "He's not all the way home yet, but I think he might just get through this," he murmured, and then looked up at Ellison with a warm smile. "He's a strong man. Determined."

"Yeah, he is," Jim agreed quietly, his throat thick with the surge of hope that filled him at the physician's words. "In some ways, he's the strongest man I've ever known."

Simon and Joel dropped in for a few minutes in the afternoon, visibly relieved to hear that Sandburg seemed to be rousing, if slowly, and that McNally was guardedly optimistic. They hadn't exactly begun to dig the grave, but they'd been steeling themselves to start looking for shovels. Joel's eyes glistened as he bowed his head and blew out a long, slow breath.

Simon surprised both of the other men by reaching out to stroke Blair's brow tenderly as he murmured, "I'm so glad to hear…" But his voice caught and he swiftly lifted a hand to his mouth, as he blinked rapidly. "God," he grated, "I've been so worried about this kid." Jim half-expected Banks to make a joke of his emotion, to say something like, 'If you tell the kid, you'll be writing parking tickets until you're too old to drive.' But Simon offered no caveats, no humour - he just crossed his arms as he fought to regain some degree of emotional control. "Keep us posted, Jim - everyone in MCU is pulling for him," he ordered gruffly as he and Joel took their leave, neither even pretending that they thought Ellison would relax his vigil until Sandburg's recovery was certain.

The fever finally broke about an hour after they'd gone. It was another milestone, another cause for increased hope and wordless rejoicing in Jim's heart. He wished Sandburg wasn't in so much evident pain, but he dearly wanted the kid to wake up and recognize him - and the dark part of his soul wanted Blair to tell him who had done this.

It was early evening, and the ward was quietly busy with people visiting other patients, doctors doing final rounds and the staff changing shift, when Blair again stirred, mumbling and groaning softly as if, even not yet conscious, he was trying to hide the agony that burned through his body.

"Easy," Jim soothed, standing as he had time and again throughout the long day, to stroke his best friend's brow to relax and reassure him. "I know it hurts…but you'll be okay…"

Sandburg grimaced, hissing a little at the pain of his wounds, one hand feebly moving restlessly to his side, where he'd been stabbed. Ellison caught his hand, bringing it back down to the bed and retaining a grip. "You're safe, Chief," he murmured. "You're getting better…."

Blair blinked his eyes open, squinting against the light and he winced at the pain as his gaze darted around the room, coming to rest on Jim's face. "Hey," he muttered, frowning, trying to remember - there was something he had to tell Jim. And then he gasped, his eyes widening as he blurted, "They wanna kill you! God, Jim - they…" he rasped.

"Whoa, slow down," Ellison cut in, fighting hard to not pull Sandburg into a fierce hug. He was awake, really awake and aware this time. Jim reached for the cup of ice chips he'd been feeding to Sandburg all day and slipped a cool pellet into Blair's mouth. "Just take your time," he urged, his hand returning to Blair's brow. When the kid swallowed, he asked, "Can you tell me who did this to you?"

Frowning, trying to remember, Blair shook his head, looking stricken by his failure to be more use. "Don' know, 'xactly," he whispered. "Sorry…didn' rec'nize them…"

"Shh, that's okay, Chief," Jim reassured him, hating the look of abject apology in Sandburg's eyes.

"No. Isn't. They're after you, Jim…need names…" the younger man murmured fretfully, blinking heavily, struggling to stay awake. This was important. He had to tell Jim, had to give him something. "Uh, Arty…big, blond. Nelson…black, 'nother musclem'n." Gasping for breath, fighting the darkness, gritting his teeth against the pain, he held Jim's gaze, drawing strength from his best friend. "Guy who did the talkin'…'n beat me…no name. 'Bout thirty-five, tattoo on…his arm. A fish…shark, I think. Brown hair. Mean bastards, man…dang'rous…"

Exhausted by the effort, Blair twisted as a spasm of pain ripped through him, and he couldn't bite off the moan. He clutched at Ellison's hand, holding on for dear life. Panting through clenched teeth, he hissed, "God…hurts…"

"I know, buddy, I know," Jim ground out, wishing to hell that he could do something more than hold the kid's hand. "Don't talk anymore, now - just rest. Okay?"

Unwanted and unwelcome tears glistened in Sandburg's eyes as he rode out the blinding agony. "Be…be careful, J'm…" he grated, his voice wispy, before he lost his battle with the darkness.

"Ah, God, Chief," Jim groaned softly. "God, I'm so sorry…"

He caressed Sandburg's brow, trembling with so many mixed up feelings that he could barely stand. But he stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders, sniffed and rubbed his eyes, and then turned to use the phone at the nurses' station. He had names and descriptions, a place to begin. Arty and Nelson were likely hired help, and might not be all that hard to find. The bastards had held Sandburg, were party to the abuse - but it was 'shark' who was the real target, the one who had brutalized Sandburg and left him for dead.

Shark. Ellison bit his lip as he punched in the number, trying to remember where and when he'd seen a tattoo like that. Down at the docks? In a holding cell?

"H," he said crisply, when his call was answered. "I've got something…"

********************

It took a night and most of a day, sorting through old records, chasing down snitches, matching names and descriptions, and another day of waiting for the APB to get results. Jim was more than content to let others do the legwork, leaving him the time to stay by Sandburg's side.

But he was determined to help take the bastards down.

They'd figured out the motive once they had 'Shark's' identity nailed. Samuel Robbins AKA 'Sammy the Shark', the enforcer for a union boss down at the docks - a crook who was stealing from the membership dues, using muscle and intimidation to silence any and all opposition, and was mixing it up with drug and arms smugglers. Jim had almost forgotten; it had been nearly a year since they'd finished the investigation and turned everything over to the DA's Office. A year of motions to stay proceedings, delays, lawsuits for harassment - the whole shebang. Not his problem, so he'd shelved the case and turned to others that still needed solving. But it was finally coming to court and, as primary investigator, Jim was on the docket to testify in two weeks. Without his direct evidence, the case was shaky…so he'd been targeted. As simple as that. And an innocent man had been beaten, tortured, within an inch of his life…a life that still wasn't assured…because those vipers had come after him.

Jim looked up expectantly when Simon came in, a sober look on his face. "How's Sandburg doing?" Banks asked, his eyes narrowing in concern as he studied the unconscious young man.

"The same," Jim sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe…maybe a little worse. Yesterday, he was lucid, at least for a few minutes at a time, but today…" He shrugged, looking worn and very worried. "I thought…I thought he'd just keep getting better. But once he gave me what he had - it's like he's slipping away, Simon."

Banks nodded solemnly, his jaw tight. It was his belief, unexpressed to anyone because it scared him to think he might be right, that Sandburg had held on so hard and so long just so he could warn Jim. That kind of will, such strength of determination and commitment, awed him. But…he wondered if Blair had anything left to fight with, and was deeply saddened to think the kid might yet die.

Shifting his gaze to Ellison, he said, "We're taking them into custody tonight. I'll let you know when it's over."

"Let me know?" Jim echoed, confusion on his face. "I'll be there…"

"No, Jim, you won't," Banks replied firmly.

"Now, wait just a minute!" Ellison protested vehemently. "Those bastards did this to him! If you think I'm just going to sit back and let someone else do my job…"

"It's not your job to go out and wage some vendetta," Simon grated, his eyes flashing. "I know you want them so bad, you can taste it…"

"Don't try to tell me you don't feel exactly the same way!" Jim cut in, furious.

Faltering, too honest to deny the charge, Simon looked away as he schooled his patience. He knew all too well how much Ellison wanted those perps. But that wasn't the point. "You're too emotionally involved, Jim, and you know it," he sighed as he turned back to Ellison. "Neither of us wants anything to get in the way of a textbook bust. And, besides," he added, "your 'job' is to be here. He needs you, Jim. Needs you here. Let the rest of us do our jobs."

"But, Simon…" Jim tried to argue, only to be cut off.

"Don't force me to make it an order - because I will, if I have to," Banks growled. Jim stiffened, but then backed down, disgusted, but the fight had gone out of him. "I promise you, we'll get them."

"Yeah," Ellison sighed. Simon was right; he needed to stay here. Sandburg was barely holding on, his heartbeat erratic, his breathing ragged, and his blood pressure kept falling as he teetered on the brink of terminal shock. But it felt wrong to have others do what should be his job. It was his partner, his best friend, who'd been brutalized. Closing his eyes, he weighed out how he'd feel if he did go and, while he was gone, Sandburg slipped away - and he accepted that his boss had made the right decision.

"I'll be back later," Banks promised, as he left to arrest those responsible for what had been done to Sandburg. In all honesty, he couldn't wait to put the cuffs on those bastards.

********************

"J'm?" Blair whispered as he struggled back to consciousness.

Ellison had been dozing in the chair by the bed, as he had for the last four days, but was instantly awake and on his feet at the wispy call.

"I'm here, Chief," he replied softly, gently gripping Blair's shoulder.

"'m so tired…" Sandburg sighed.

A shiver of fear rippled through Jim's body at the defeated, weary tone and the deep sorrow in Sandburg's eyes. Dear God, he was trying to say 'good-bye'! "No…don't you quit on me," Jim choked as he captured Blair's face with one palm along the younger man's cheek. "Don't you let go - not now. Not when you've made it this far."

Sandburg blinked slowly as he struggled to focus on Ellison's face…

…and he swallowed in surprise and dismay at the stark desperation in the older man's eyes.

"Chief?" Jim called, his tone urgent - afraid. "You hear me? You hold on!"

Weakly, wearily, Blair gave a slight nod. Jim wasn't ready to let him go. Still needed him. "'kay," he whispered so softly that even Ellison barely caught the murmured acquiescence. The heavy lashes drooped as Sandburg slipped back into unconsciousness…or seemed unconscious…

…but his heartbeat grew ever stronger, and his blood pressure came up. Slowly. Steadily. Hour after hour.

When McNally came in early the next morning, and pronounced the crisis passed and that, in his considered judgment, Sandburg would recover, Jim had to turn his face away as he sank weakly into the chair, too unsteady to remain standing. He leaned forward and covered his face with his hands as he shuddered with relief.

The surgeon gazed at him compassionately, and then gripped his shoulder. "You're a good friend," he observed quietly.

But Jim shook his head. "Not as good a friend as he is to me," he rasped. "Not even half as good…"

********************

Simon was pleased to see the kid was finally awake when he dropped in a couple of days later. The head of the bed was raised and, though Blair was still very pale and clearly was far from fully recovered, he was grinning and very much alive. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty - did I miss the prince on my way in?" he teased gently as he smiled down at Sandburg.

Blair snorted weakly. "I must've missed him, too," he murmured with a slow smile, his voice still wispy and frail. "Good thing - I'd rather be kissed by a princess."

"It's good to see you on the mend, Blair," Banks told him, warmly. "You had us worried for a while."

The smile widened as Sandburg flicked a look at Ellison. "Figured that," he acknowledged. "Jim's been a real bear since I woke up. Keeps growling at me that 'nothin' like this is ever goin' to happen again!'" he quoted, deepening his voice and scowling to give the proper effect.

Banks chuckled but Ellison couldn't see what was so funny. "I meant it," he growled, lending unwitting credence to the kid's story. "Dammit, Chief, you should have told them what they wanted to know. Why the hell didn't you?"

Hearing real anger lacing his best friend's words, Sandburg sobered. For a moment, he looked genuinely baffled by the suggestion of what he should have done - and the question. "Jim, I couldn't, wouldn't ever, betray you," he asserted ingenuously. Squinting at Ellison, he asked softly, "You do know that, don't you?"

When Jim's eyes flickered away, if only the briefest moment, Sandburg blinked and Simon saw the hurt in his eyes. But the kid recovered quickly, absently rubbing an ache deep in his chest, as he blithely carried on, "Besides, I figured they'd just kill me anyway, and I couldn't see why I should give them any satisfaction." Smirking at Ellison, who now returned his gaze, he added for good measure, "You know how I hate to be bullied."

Ruffling Sandburg's curls, Jim grinned back, as he replied sardonically, "Oh, yeah. I know very well how stubborn you can be."

"Learned from the master," Blair chuckled weakly, still very tired and far from well. He shifted his attention from Jim to Simon, changing the subject at the same time. "So - what have I missed? Any good rumours?"

Simon fell into the game, willfully complicit in aiding and abetting the distraction.

But he had seen the shaft of sorrow, and he wished Ellison wasn't so…what? Afraid to believe in anyone? Afraid to trust that much?

"Well, for a start," he replied, "you missed this guy standing sentry by your bed, day and night, since the morning after your surgery. Talk about stubborn. Good thing they've got showers for the staff and they agreed to let him use them, otherwise it would have been pretty ripe in here by now."

"Really?" Blair asked, light sparkling in his eyes, teasing…shyly pleased.

Ellison huffed and looked away, vastly unamused. There wasn't anything funny about what had happened to Sandburg. He'd never forget those chilling moments just two nights ago when Blair had been on the verge of letting go…had been saying 'good-bye'. No way was he ever going to let the kid be hurt so badly again.

Ignoring Ellison's pout, Banks assured the kid, "Really."

Sandburg relaxed against the pillows, his smile a sight to see.

********************

********************

The offer of a permanent position was truly astonishing, but they couldn't really be serious. Didn't anyone else understand the implications? Surely, Simon must know it was impossible, however well meant.

"I'm still not going to cut my hair!" he said with a feeble grin to buy time, but his heart wasn't really in it. Too much had happened in too short a time. He'd gotten everything he'd ever dreamt of, in more ways than one, but found the achievement was hollow, empty…and in the end, there was nothing left of anything he really valued. Now, he just felt tired, and so very empty, like he had nothing left of himself, certainly nothing left to give.

When Jim grabbed him, though, and pulled him into a playful headlock while Ellison scrubbed his hair, making some crack about a 'Blairskin rug', Sandburg knew he couldn't let the farce go on.

"Jim, stop," he said with deadly quiet, as he stiffened in his friend's grip, and, catching the dangerous tone, Ellison stilled and stood away, uncertain.

Straightening, Blair pushed his hair back behind his ears, his lips thin and his jaw tight as he swallowed against the lump in his throat and tried to decide what to say. There'd been enough hurt to last a lifetime, and he had no interest in adding to it. Clearing his throat, lifting his gaze to Simon, and then the rest of MCU, his back to Jim, he said with as much dignity as he could muster, "I'm grateful, and…well, very surprised. It hadn't occurred to me that any of you would still want me hanging around. But - you all have to know it's impossible. Even though I can explain that paper, a man who proclaims himself a fraud on national television could never be accepted in your community. And, if I'm not a fraud, then, well, people would always wonder…" he cut a quick glance over his shoulder at Jim, but then turned immediately away. Blowing out a breath, he continued into the uneasy silence, "I had a great ride on a ninety-day pass, and I truthfully loved every moment. I owe all of you a lot, for putting up with me, and for teaching me so much. It has been really great to work with each of you, to get to know you, but my ride's over. It's time to move on."

"Sandburg, what are…" Jim tried to cut in but Blair raised a hand, and kept on talking. He'd had time to come up with the story he planned to stick to for the rest of his life, about what had happened a little less than a week before, and that would be given credence by the paper he'd written.

"This latest misadventure with the media just highlights the dangers of having a ride-along with no discernable purpose - things get exaggerated and misunderstood," he said regretfully. "Here, I've been riding with Jim to study your community and subculture, but because I also noticed that a lot of you have enhanced abilities to see and hear, and had drafted an article about that, it all got blown out of proportion. Simon, you and Megan almost died because the media got in the way of Jim capturing Zeller when he could so easily have done so, and it could have been finished, with no one hurt." His voice cracked and he paused a moment to clear his throat before going on, "I know I'm a risk, not being a cop, not carrying a gun - an added complication that you've all been very good to tolerate for so long. But…when you guys got hurt, I knew it was my fault. I've hung around a lot longer than I should have, and I'm sorry that I made such a mess of things." He looked at the black leather wallet in Simon's hand, and thought of the badge it contained as he added very quietly, "Most of all, I honestly think Jim deserves an experienced partner who really does know what he or she is doing - someone he can whole-heartedly trust and rely upon to watch his back, without any doubts or questions."

"Sweetie, I…" his mother tried then, but Sandburg shot her a look that was colder and more distant than any he'd ever given her in his life, and she stumbled to a halt, confused.

"What will you do, son?" Joel asked into the awkward silence.

"Well, for a start, I'm heading over to Rainier to defend my dissertation," Blair replied, causing them all to gape in surprise. "It's been finished for a while," he went on, his expression shamefaced and embarrassed, well aware of their reactions of astonishment, and playing it for all it was worth to lend credence to the lie that the sentinel paper was never intended as his dissertation topic. "I just didn't want to stop having a good time working with all of you, and I knew as soon as it was finished, well, I'd lose my pass to ride with Jim. But I guess it's time for me to grow up. My doctoral dissertation is called 'Lives on the Line: A Study of the Law Enforcement Subculture in Modern Society', and it's dedicated to the men and women of the Major Crimes Unit, Cascade Police Department."

At Simon's look of understandable amazement, he couldn't help but smile a little. But the humour faded as he continued, trying hard to sound assured, as if his next move was what he really wanted. "And, I've already met with a lawyer to sign off on documents to bring lawsuits against Berkshire Publishing and Syd Graham for unlawful publication, and against Rainier, for unlawful dismissal. Since they very clearly violated my rights, my lawyer expects swift settlements, but I won't likely be granted a professorship at Rainier, given all that's happened. So, I plan to leave the country on a field expedition …likely within the next week. That will allow a little time for my national notoriety to cool off, and I'll look for work here in the States after the fieldwork is finished. So, you can see there's absolutely no need to worry about me, though I really appreciate everyone's concern. I'm fine, just fine. And, since my defence is in less than an hour, I really have to be going. Thank you, all of you, for your support and friendship over the years."

"You're moving out?" Jim gasped, shocked, but Sandburg was already pushing through the crowd before anyone else could think of anything to say. He didn't look at either Jim or his mother as he hit the hallway and then took the stairs, so he wouldn't be caught waiting for an elevator.

They all looked at one another, stunned. Megan blinked, and said, "Well, I'm glad things are okay with Sandy."

"Yeah, looks like Hairboy has managed to land on his feet again," Brown observed, though he grimaced as he turned back to his desk. He was going to miss having the kid around. Glancing at his partner, Rafe, and then at Joel, he realized he wasn't the only one who wasn't buying the snowjob on the sentinel paper - but, God, when had Sandburg had time to write a whole other dissertation?

"Did you know he'd written another paper?" Simon hissed at Jim with a glare, and then cocked his head toward his office.

Ellison's jaw was tight, and he looked a little shell-shocked as he shook his head. "No, I…"

"Dammit, don't the two of you talk at all anymore?" Banks snapped, but then glanced back over his shoulder, and noticed Naomi hovering uncertainly near the door to the hall. "Maybe you'd better see to his mother, first. She's staying with you, right?"

"Yeah," Jim muttered as he made his way toward her, leaning heavily on his cane. She looked up at him, her face pale, as he approached and said with tight cordiality, "If you just give me a few minutes to talk to Simon, we can share a cab back to the loft."

"You didn't know anything about all this either, did you?" she asked, her head spinning from the news Blair had given them, and her heart aching from the hard look in his eyes. He'd said he still loved her but that, apparently, didn't preclude him being very angry with her.

"No," Ellison replied shortly, and turned away. He hadn't spoken to Sandburg since the day Zeller had raided the precinct. Once Blair had gotten him settled in the hospital, the younger man had taken off, saying he had some errands to run. After that, whenever Jim had called the loft, he'd either only gotten the machine or Naomi, who had never known where Blair was when she answered.

When Jim hobbled into the inner office, and closed the door, Simon challenged more forcefully, "So whose idea was it for him to move out this time - yours or his?"

Sighing as he sank into a chair, Jim shrugged. "Mine, I guess," he admitted reluctantly. "At first, when it all blew up, I assumed he'd submitted the paper and just didn't have the guts to tell me," he explained uncomfortably. "We had a deal - he got to publish the stuff about my senses, but I got to read it first. I just figured he decided not to bother with that - I didn't react all that well the last time I saw what he'd written..."

"You mean you assumed he screwed you deliberately," Banks mocked repressively, too angry to be subtle, as he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I was just reacting," Jim muttered, defensively. "And later, well, when I knew what had happened, all I wanted was to be left alone - and I told him I wished that I could go back to the way things were before, when I was just a good cop. And, well, I told him it was over, to give it up - that it was time to move on - and then I walked out on him."

"I see," Simon sighed, with a look of harried irritation and no little disgust. "Well, looks like he's taking you at your word."

"I thought, after the press conference, I thought it would be okay," Jim said hollowly. "I mean, he came with me to deal with Zeller - he stayed with me when my leg was being treated at the hospital, to make sure they didn't use meds I shouldn't have - "

"Okay? You and the rest of us watched him destroy himself on national television to protect you, but that was just 'okay'?" Banks challenged as he cut in, feeling a brief surge of frustrated contempt. "Jesus, Jim - did you even thank him?"

"No, I didn't," Ellison flared aggressively. "Why should I? It wasn't my fault the whole damned thing blew up! He didn't discuss it with me - if he had, I'd never have gone along with…"

"Were you even speaking to one another at that point?" Simon cut in again, out of patience with Ellison's attitude. The kid had publicly humiliated himself and had labeled himself a fraud and liar, risked everything, to protect Jim; surely that warranted some measure of appreciation. "Or was that after you walked out on him - after you told him it was over?"

Ellison looked away and shook his head. "What the hell was he doing, even writing that paper," he grated angrily, "when he already had a different dissertation written?"

"I don't know. Maybe you should ask him," Simon replied sarcastically as he sank back against the wheelchair. "How are you going to manage without him?"

"I'll be fine," Jim muttered.

"Yeah, sure you will," Banks replied flatly, having serious doubts but seeing no point in raising them. The damage was done and they'd have to deal with it. "What was all that stuff about you needing a partner you could trust?" he asked then with a frown, recalling Jim's request that Sandburg's pass be revoked just before Zeller's bullet had interrupted their conversation …but also remembering that the kid hadn't been present, so Blair wouldn't have known.

Jim's lips thinned and he looked away. Swallowing, he replied quietly, "I think he was referring to something I said earlier, before I really knew what had happened."

"Uh huh," Simon grunted. His jaw tightened, and he rubbed his mouth with his hand, holding back comments that wouldn't be helpful now. Banks knew Ellison had told Sandburg, on more than one occasion, that Jim didn't trust Blair and didn't want to work with him any longer. Banks didn't really believe Jim had been serious, not in the long-term sense, but had just been reacting to out-of-control situations. However, that didn't mean that Sandburg hadn't believed him, especially if he'd been told repeatedly that he wasn't trusted. That would have hit the kid hard, no matter how well he appeared to understand Ellison's moods and defensive reactions. 'God,' he thought sorrowfully, 'the kid deserves so much better.' Finally, he sighed, "Well, I'm tired. I'm going to head home. I suggest you do the same."

********************

For the past two weeks, Naomi had been doing her best to survive the negative vibes in the loft. First, Blair had been so upset with her, and then Jim had turned to ice, his aura a roiling mélange of black, purple and red - and then Blair had been so sad, seeming almost lost. Naomi felt like crying every time she thought about that terrible press conference, because it was only then that she had realized her well-intentioned efforts had truly destroyed all that was precious in her son's life. Then Jim had been shot and Blair had been running around, away from the loft more than he was home, never saying where he was going and scarcely talking to her. And now, he was off defending a dissertation she hadn't even known he had written and Jim was like a coiled snake, ready to strike in anger and frustration. Blair was still upset with her, that much was clear, and she also believed that her son and his best friend needed to talk without a third party hovering nearby. It was beyond time for her to move on, so she called a friend in town while she was waiting for Jim to finish with Simon and, as soon as they got back to the loft, she disappeared into Blair's bedroom to pack her bag.

"I think you and Blair probably need time to - " she began as she carried her small case out of her son's room, but Jim wasn't in the mood for one of her fast vanishing acts, leaving him to pick up all the pieces.

"I don't think I'm the only one who needs to clear the air with him," Ellison cut in coldly, his eyes sparking with anger.

Though she was aware of his anger, she was still startled by the aggression, and she stiffened a little. Her chin up, she snipped defensively, "Blair says he still loves me, and that's all that matters."

"Really? Well, good for you," Jim shot back furiously. "You blow in here every eighteen months or so, treat him like he's about four years old, exhibit absolutely no respect for him - and you sure managed to screw us both royally this time because you refused to leave well enough alone. Did you even give him a chance to express his anger, or did you just go for the 'do you still love me' punch line?"

"I said I was sorry, to you and to him," she countered, looking away. "I made a mistake, but I was only trying to help…"

"Maybe if you'd respected him, trusted him to make his own decisions…" Jim snapped.

"That's enough," Naomi cut in abruptly, her voice rising sharply, her own emotions making her feel nauseous. "I know you're angry - your aura is very disturbed. But I won't accept that everything is my fault. If the two of you had discussed anything that ever mattered - like the fact that he has a whole other paper, which I could see was a surprise to you - or if you hadn't told him you wanted him to move on, maybe he'd at least still be talking to you!"

"Damn it," Ellison snarled. "I was angry - he knows I didn't mean it."

"Oh, you meant it," she grated. "I was here and I saw the look on his face when you slammed out. You treat him like your own personal punching bag and, frankly, I am very glad that he's decided he's had enough of dancing to your tune! Maybe now he'll get his own life back on track, instead of simply living to accommodate your wants and needs."

"Look, he chose to live here," Jim snarled. "It's not like I kept him chained in the back room! He was the one who came looking for me - he wanted to study my senses - "

"Is that all he did?" Naomi snapped back. "I was under the impression that perhaps he'd helped you with them. Otherwise, why was he riding around with you, getting shot at, kidnapped…"

Jim opened his mouth to yell back, but the door banged open and then slammed shut as Sandburg growled at both of them, "The whole building can hear you fighting! What's the matter with the two of you? Enough already!"

"Blair, sweetie, I'm sorry," his mother demurred, flushing. "How did the defence go?"

"It went fine," Blair replied flatly, though he couldn't keep all the sarcastic disillusionment from his voice as he continued. "It was a straight-forward thesis, well documented, reasonably argued. It won't change the world or make anyone's life better, but it'll give me my PhD, and I guess that's all that matters." Seeing her suitcase at her feet, he quirked a brow as he asked, "You going somewhere?"

"Yes, I thought you and Jim could use a little space, so I'm going to stay with Spring Rain for a few days," she explained.

"That's probably a good idea," Blair replied coolly, though his shoulders slumped and he looked away. He wasn't really up to dealing with his mother but, at the same time, her typically abrupt decision to disappear left him feeling abandoned - and that hurt. It had been a long time since he'd felt so alone in the world.

Once again, caught by his aloofness, Naomi faltered. Her son had never been anything but indulgent with her until this terrible mess had overtaken all of them. He'd said he still loved her, but…he was still so very hurt and angry. "Sweetie, I get the sense that you haven't processed everything that's happened…and, well, it's clear you are still upset with me," she murmured, looking up at him with imploring eyes. "You have forgiven me, though, haven't you?"

Sandburg's gaze narrowed as he studied her impassively. And then he shook his head. "No, not really," he answered candidly, too tired and emotionally wrung out for anything but the truth. "Oh, don't get me wrong - I know you were only trying to help. But if you want me to be honest, I'm really tired of being treated like a child or, more, like a doll that you can play with when you feel like it and cast aside when something more interesting comes along. I love you, Mom, I always will - and I guess, ultimately, things work out the way they should… but this really isn't the way I'd hoped things would work out. The next time we get together, I'd like you to try to remember that I'm almost thirty years old, and all grown up. It would be nice if you'd at least try to respect that."

When Naomi swallowed hard, and tears brimmed in her eyes, his gaze dropped as he said softly, "I'm sorry, Mom. I don't want to upset you - but this time, you really hurt me, and my best friend. You need to accept responsibility for that."

"I see," she whispered, and then sniffed. "Well, Spring will be downstairs by now; she was coming to pick me up. So I'd better be going."

"Take care of yourself," Blair murmured as he hugged her and kissed her temple. "We'll get past this; I just need a little time. I do love you - you know nothing will ever change that."

She nodded, too overwrought to speak, and then was gone.

Jim had wandered away while they talked, and was staring out the balcony window, his back to the room. Sandburg looked at the rigid posture, his expression suddenly very sad. Wordlessly, he carried on to his room, where he continued filling boxes he'd brought earlier from the store down the street.

Jim was surprised that Blair didn't say anything to him - he'd expected some kind of explanation for the bombshells Sandburg had dropped down at the station. Had thought that the kid would want to talk about how he'd sorted out things at Rainier…or about moving out. But he could hear the sounds of packing, and his throat tightened. For the first time, it seemed like Blair had run out of things to say…and it sure seemed as if he planned to leave immediately.

Had Blair given up hoping that any amount of talk might make things better?

Forcing himself to swallow his own pride and sense of hurt at being left in the dark about Sandburg's plans, Jim turned and moved to lean on the door frame in the entrance to Sandburg's room. "You don't have to leave," Jim asserted, his throat tight. "This is your home."

"Only so long as it's convenient for you," Blair cut back, sealing up the box. Standing, he began to take pictures and masks off the wall, to place them in another box on the far side of the bed. "This was the second time in six months that you told me you wanted me out. The third time that you said you don't want to work with me anymore. The second time, or was it third, that you believed I'd betrayed you. It's become very clear that you don't trust me and that I live here on sufferance, so long as it's convenient for you. Well, frankly Jim, I don't need to be thought so little of, you know? For almost four years, I thought we had a deal. More, much more, I thought we had a friendship that counted for something - "

"We did…do," Ellison cut in quickly - not easy when Sandburg was on a roll.

"Did we?" Blair challenged as he looked up from his packing. "Let's see, I thought the original deal was that I'd help you with your senses on the understanding that I'd be able to use what we learned in my diss. Wasn't that the deal? Oh, and that you'd get to read it first. I guess that's why you were upset, right? That you didn't get to read it? Not that it was published - or was it that you'd really never planned to let me publish anything about you? You were just using me all this time, to learn what you could, and then when you'd learned enough that you didn't need me anymore, I'd be on my own. Well, that's where we're at. You haven't wanted my help since Alex. I guess you meant it then, when you said that you couldn't trust me anymore. That you needed a partner you could count on, and I'm not it. It's time to grant you your fondest wish, Jim. You've got it, buddy; you're on your own, man. Your secret is safe and I am out of your life."

"You know damned well I haven't just been using you!" Jim yelled, having had enough of the diatribe.

"Then, what, exactly, did I get out of this deal, Jim?" Sandburg seethed. "I thought I had the best friend I'd ever known. In fact, I thought your secret was so important to you that I wrote a whole other paper, rather than risk your wellbeing. Do you know how many people I might have helped by writing about you? People who are suffering the way you were when I first met you? But, no, for you, I decided to stay silent, at least for as long as you needed me to be silent, or I could figure out a way to hide your identity and maybe even my own, to protect you. So, I didn't get the paper that was my part of the bargain. You wouldn't believe the fancy footwork I had to do to get the second paper accepted as my doctoral dissertation; I'm just lucky I've got an understanding and supportive advisor, a tolerant committee, and that I had a pretty hot reputation for publishing cogent, illuminating papers and for the quality of my teaching. And, yeah, before you remind me, I know I've had a more than decent roof over my head, and you've been easy about the rent when I've been short - but my severance pay from the university is on the kitchen counter. It more than covers what I owe you, monetarily at least."

"If you'd decided to write a different paper, why'd you write that stuff about me in the first place?" Jim demanded then, trying to find something in the flurry of words to contend with. "And why didn't you tell me?"

Turning to his closet to pull out his carryall bag, Blair opened it on the bed and began to haul clothing out of the closet to jam into it.

"Well?" Jim demanded when Sandburg didn't answer.

Taking a breath, Blair stopped moving and looked up at Ellison, his face stark and his eyes dark with emotion as he replied, "First, like I said at the station, if I admitted to having finished the other paper, then my ride would have been over - and I didn't want to stop being your partner. Stupid, huh? Especially since you've been working with me as little as possible for months now, and I know you don't really need me anymore. Second, if you hadn't been able to revive me at the fountain, what would you have done? How would you have begun to explain to Simon how to help you, to help him really understand what kind of support and backup you need?"

"I…the fact is I did revive you - so what's the point?" Jim shot back, not wanting to think about the fountain or anything else having to do with that sorry time.

"The point is, the next time, I might not be so lucky, and you would be on your own," Sandburg said quietly. "I wrote the paper for you, Jim. No one else was ever supposed to see it, unless you chose to show it to them. I put the only copy of it upstairs on your dresser. Read it, burn it, lock it away - whatever. It's yours."

And then he went back to packing up the rest of his clothing.

"Would you stop that!" Ellison exclaimed in frustration. "It's goddamned hard to have a conversation with you when you're busy packing."

"You want to talk, talk," Blair muttered. "I can listen and pack at the same time."

In the sudden silence, Jim wasn't sure what to say. Blair seemed so remote - cold and angry. And, beneath it all, he seemed…hurt. Badly.

"You told your mother that we're still best friends," he hazarded.

"No, I said she'd hurt my best friend," Sandburg replied quietly, turning away as he shoved the last of his clothing into the bag.

Jim's eyes narrowed at that, as he stared at Blair's back. "Isn't that what I just said?" he queried.

"No, what you said implies that I'm also your best friend," Sandburg sighed. "And it's pretty clear I'm not."

"Where did you get that idea?" Jim challenged.

Sandburg stilled. "I don't know," he grated as he stared at the far wall. "Lots of things, I guess. Like you believing I'd screw you for profit, or betray you for personal glory. Maybe it was being treated like I had the plague and you wished I'd fall off the edge of the earth. Or maybe it was telling me to get out, or the fact that you really haven't had much time for me since…Mexico…even before that. Take your pick. None of those behaviours is the way someone treats anyone they trust and value, let alone their best friend." Turning to face Ellison, he added, "I don't know who I am in your life - an irritation, maybe? An embarrassment, evidently. Friend? No, I don't think so."

"Dammit, Sandburg," Ellison growled, embarrassed. "You're the first one to remind me about my so-called 'fear-based responses'. I was angry and upset…"

"And you had every right to be, but even in anger, I don't know why your first instinct is to believe I would deliberately do you harm," Blair replied as he zipped up his suitcase. "And even when you knew your first assumptions were wrong, you still wanted me gone - still didn't want me anywhere near you while you tried to deal with Zeller. You only suggested we work together again after I publicly crucified myself. Everything was fine then, so long as you felt safe. Well, good. I really am truly glad you feel safe. To make sure you continue to feel safe, I'm out of here."

"I, uh, my assumptions were clearly wrong," Jim muttered, uncomfortable and not a little ashamed about his hair-trigger reactions to all that had happened.

"Yep, you've got that right," Sandburg grunted as he shoved his spare shoes into the outside pocket of his bag. Turning to the desk, he began loading his backpack and briefcase.

"I don't want you to go like this - I mean, you don't even have a place…"

"Not your problem, man," Blair snapped. "I'm a big boy now, and responsible for myself."

"Chief, I'm getting the impression that whatever I say, it's going to be wrong," Jim said then, feeling as if he were banging his head against a wall.

"You say that like it matters," Sandburg muttered as he closed the briefcase.

"What? It doesn't matter to you that I don't want you to go, not like this?" Ellison countered.

"How would you rather I leave?" Blair demanded, his voice tight with emotion. "With a smile?" he continued, looking up with a parody of a grin. "Happier now? Like Naomi, you don't want me to be angry? You don't want to think that maybe, just maybe, you really hurt me? It's all supposed to be about her good intentions and your sense of betrayal and fear? Okay, fine. It's because of your fear, and your need for continued secrecy that I'm going. Not because I'm mad or hurt, which I am, but I'm not leaving for those reasons. Jim, think about it for two seconds! After all that's happened, if I stay, don't you think people would start wondering why you haven't booted my ass into the street? The storyline is that I wrote fraudulent material that caused you tremendous embarrassment and inconvenience. Why the hell would you tolerate having me around? Most people likely wonder how you can even stand to look at me without wanting to beat the crap out of me. Even if I wanted to stay, I couldn't."

"Where will you go?" Ellison asked, feeling as if it were all happening too fast.

"Don't worry about it," Blair sighed as he finished stuffing his notebooks into the backpack. Slinging the pack over his shoulder, he grabbed the carryall and picked up the briefcase. "I'll have the boxes picked up in the morning and the linens on the bed are clean," he said as he moved toward the doorway.

But Jim blocked it, and didn't seem inclined to move out of the way.

"Jim, don't make this any harder than it already is," Blair said quietly. "It's done. You said it yourself. It's time for me to move on."

"Do you really want to go?" Ellison asked then, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"What I want hasn't mattered a damn for quite some time, so why should it matter now?" Blair retorted.

"Answer me," Jim pressed.

"I don't want to stay where I'm neither wanted nor respected," Blair replied, his voice flat. "You've gotten what you needed from me, Jim; I guess you got a whole lot more than you ever wanted."

"You said, once, that it's about friendship," Ellison remembered quietly. When Blair didn't say anything, he looked up as he asked, "Why did you hold that press conference? There had to have been another option that didn't require you to…"

"…commit professional suicide?" Sandburg filled in, when Ellison's voice died away. "Yeah, lots of things. Things I'm doing, like suing the publishers, putting a restraining order on the media, suing Rainier - but all that takes weeks, even months, maybe years, to sort out. Zeller was shooting people, and you couldn't stop him with the press in your face. Ethically, it was my responsibility to bring the circus to an end, and quickly. So I did. My reputation isn't worth the cost of someone's life."

"So, you didn't do it just to protect me?" Jim clarified, a little surprised.

"No, I didn't," Blair replied bitterly. "Feel better now? Less guilty?" When Jim winced, he carried on, "I won't deny that it was, in part, to take the heat off you personally. You were a hapless victim of my mother's good deed of the day. And since I'd written the damned thing for you, I didn't bother obscuring your identity, so I had a professional responsibility to give you back your dignity and privacy." Suddenly weary, he slumped as he said, his voice cracking, "I'm sorry, man, really, really sorry that it has to end like this. You're the best friend I ever had, and…and I had to find out that you don't trust me as far as you can throw me. I would rather have never known that, you know? Please, Jim…get out of my way and let me leave with some dignity."

"How do we fix this?" Ellison asked then, still standing foursquare in the doorway.

Blair bowed his head, his hair obscuring his face. "It's not fixable, Jim. Once the media had the information and a public denial was required, that was it." Looking up, he added, "It might have been different if you could ever envision letting the world know your secret, but that's never going to happen. All you really want, have ever wanted, is to go back to being a pretty damned good cop, like you were before your senses came back online. Maybe if you try hard enough, you can turn them off." When Jim frowned and looked away, but still didn't move away from the door, Blair rolled his eyes. What the hell did Ellison want from him? Exasperated, he continued, "Regardless, you've made it plain for months now that my presence is superfluous, and frankly, I have to agree with you. I don't understand why you're fighting me now. If you feel guilty, don't. They are your senses and nobody has the right to tell you how to handle them or what to do with them. If you're worried about me, stop; I'll work things out with the university and the lawsuits should clear my debt load. I might not be able to get an academic job in this country for a while, but there are lots of field projects and there are still some people who believe I have something to offer. I'll be okay."

"What about…" Jim began, but his throat closed up.

"About what?" Blair asked, wishing Ellison would move so he could go and be done with it - before it all crashed in. When he mourned the death of this friendship, he wanted to be alone.

"Are we still friends?" Ellison managed to ask.

Searching Jim's eyes, Blair replied tightly, "I honest to God don't know. You tell me, Jim. Were we ever friends? And if we were, how could you ever think such despicable things about me?"

"I…I didn't know what else to think," Jim admitted.

"I guess that pretty much says it all," Blair sighed. "I've got to go…"

"No, not like this," Jim insisted. "We need to talk…"

Snorting mirthlessly, Blair shook his head. "Now you want to talk?" For a moment, he gazed at Jim, and then his eyes lost focus as he thought about it. Finally, he shook his head. "I honestly can't see any point, Jim. We're done, man. Every time push comes to shove, you make it perfectly plain that you don't trust me and have no interest in figuring things out together, or talking about them rationally. Once things calm down, you decide it wasn't such a big deal or that maybe you over-reacted, or maybe we can learn something and move on. Not this time. I'm tired of being someone you have little inherent respect or trust for. I can't be any other way. This is me, and I guess I'm just not good enough for you. I can't keep doing this dance. I can't keep absorbing your diatribes and the emotional and verbal abuse. Hell, you don't even pretend that anything will ever be any different. And like I said, for your sake as much as my own, I can't stay anyway, and I have to head out on a field trip. It's been an amazing ride, but it's time for me to get off the roller-coaster and give you your life back. So - move your ass and let me out of here."

"I said, 'no, not like this,' Jim insisted, pretty sure that if he stepped aside at that moment, he'd probably never see Sandburg again - and that left him feeling oddly hollow inside. "What's the big rush? You act like you wish you'd gotten away before I even got out of the hospital!"

"Truthfully? That's exactly what I had planned," Blair told him bluntly. "I didn't think you were getting out until tomorrow."

"You were just going to…what? Disappear?" Jim demanded, not sure whether to be appalled, furious or scared. Sandburg wasn't the type to just cut and run - God, how badly was he hurting? Was there any hope of mending these fences?

Or, maybe he shouldn't be thinking so much of mending fences and reestablishing comfortable boundaries, but about tearing down a mighty high and thick wall that had apparently been growing, brick by brick, for some long time now.

"I thought you'd prefer it that way," Sandburg replied quietly, looking away. Very softly, he murmured, "Why are you surprised? You were the one who told me that it's time for me to move on, that you wanted your life back." Cutting a quick look up at Jim, he added, "I'll even bet you asked Simon to revoke my pass."

When Ellison flushed and looked away, Blair nodded sadly. It wasn't a huge surprise. Jim had made it very clear that they were finished as partners before the press conference. God, it hurt to remember how much Jim had despised him, the disgust and hate that had radiated from him. Sandburg's shoulders slumped and he dumped the bags on the floor as he turned to sit down on the edge of his bed, his hands clasped between his knees as he leaned forward, his hair again obscuring his face. He didn't have the energy to fight any more. If Jim wanted to talk so damned bad, then he could talk. It wasn't like he really had to be anywhere specific or had anyone expecting him.

The silence stretched out as Jim tried to figure out what to say. It didn't help that his leg was aching so bad he could hardly keep standing. It all felt awkward, forced; they needed more time than just a few minutes while Blair listened grudgingly, if he listened at all.

"You need to be anywhere over the next couple of days?" Jim finally asked.

"Why? You thinking of locking me in this room or something?" Blair challenged. He really didn't want to admit that he had nowhere to go other than a cheap motel somewhere.

"No, I was thinking maybe we could go camping for a couple of days - you know, head to neutral territory, give ourselves time to sort all this out," Ellison explained. "I don't know - it just seems to me that everything spun out of control, and it's still spinning. I…I think we need to slow it down a little. We've been friends, good friends, for almost four years. If this is the end, well, I just don't want it to be like this. So - can you spare me a couple or three days?"

"If I say no, will you let me leave?" Blair asked wearily. Jim seemed to so easily accept that he was really going to go and would never be back; it tore Sandburg up inside but also convinced him he was right to be leaving. Jim just wanted to have a gentler closure - which Blair could well understand - but it all just hurt so badly. He didn't know if he had the energy to make it all 'all right' for Jim, to keep pretending that this was what he wanted.

"No," Jim replied, but he dared a slight smile.

"Then I guess I can spare you two or three more days from my life," Sandburg sighed. Standing, he absently rubbed at the hollow ache in his chest and then grabbed his carryall and backpack. "I'll load up the truck with our tent and the gear in the basement, while you pack. Meet you downstairs in half an hour."

"You won't just take off?" Jim demanded, wary of letting Sandburg out of his sight.

Giving him a straight look, Blair replied coldly, "You really don't think much of me, do you?" Jerking his head toward the briefcase, his voice was brittle as he added, "That's my laptop, the only thing I own besides my car that has any worth…and I'm leaving it here. So, no, I'm not just going to 'take off'." With that, he pushed past Jim and headed for the door.

********************

In deference to Jim's injured leg, Blair drove. He headed out of town and up into the mountains, to a campground that he knew wouldn't require any hiking. They could park the truck right near the river, pitch the tent and fish - and talk, if that's what Jim wanted. He stopped at the outskirts of town to pick up some basic food supplies, and was in and out of the truck before Jim could manage, with his stiff leg, to get out to help. And Sandburg just ignored him when he offered to split the cost of the supplies.

During the whole of the drive, the silence in the cab of the vehicle was deafening. Usually, Sandburg chattered on about something at Rainier, or some article he'd just read, or something he'd heard on the news, or the case they'd just finished, or he was making up new tests, or listening to some tape or radio station - but now, he just drove. Casting a sideways glance at him, Jim noted the younger man's pallor, and the rigid set of his jaw. Blair looked exhausted, as if he'd been the one who had been shot and had only just gotten out of the hospital.

Turning his gaze back to the narrow, winding highway, Jim used the silence between them to sort his thoughts into some kind of useful order. First - he'd hurt the kid by doubting him, and not for the first time. They had to deal with that; he had to figure out why he reacted like that so reflexively, without thinking. It had more to do with him, and he knew it, than it did with Sandburg. Second - they had to figure out what to do about his senses and the press conference; at least, they did if he had any hope of persuading Blair to stay and be his partner. Third, he had to decide why it mattered so much to him that Blair not just disappear from his life. God, you'd think he'd be used to it; just about everyone else had either left or died, so why should it matter if Sandburg disappeared over the horizon? Why did it leave him feeling so - empty and more than a little sick?

Sandburg had called his behaviour 'abuse' - emotional and verbal. Jim hadn't intended to be abusive, but he could see how his words and actions could be interpreted as being deliberately and maliciously callous. Did abuse have to be deliberate or could it be casual, unconscious but still hurtful? He swallowed hard - he'd been a cop long enough to know the answer to that question. Hell, he'd lived in such a situation when he'd been growing up, and it chilled him to think he'd re-created some of that nightmare - sickened him to realize he'd been playing his father's role in the 'you'll never be good enough' game of rejection.

Stealing another glance at Blair, his face shadowed now as dusk set in, but no less visible to Jim's eyes, Ellison asked himself just who Sandburg was in his life. Roommate, but evidently not for much longer. Partner, but that seemed to be over. Best friend - the best he'd ever had. But, why? Because he trusted the kid? Because for all of the past four years, Blair had done his best to help him and back him up? Because he didn't have to pretend around the younger man? Because Blair was closer than his brother had ever been? Because the kid made him laugh? Because he'd miss the sound of his heartbeat? Even more, the sound of his voice? The laughter in his eyes? The intelligence? The compassion? The energy?

Sighing, Jim grimaced as he stared out into the gathering darkness. Would he be able to say the words that might make the difference in changing Sandburg's plans and clear intention to disappear from his life? The ones that said, 'I love you' and 'I don't want you to go'? Or, if he couldn't bear to be that honest, 'I think I still need you, please stay?'

What could he offer Blair to encourage him to stay? The job at Rainier was gone. So far as anyone in town, hell the country, knew - at least those who watched the news - the kid was a liar and a fraud. Why would he ever want to hang around Cascade knowing that people thought that about him? What about his own career? He said he had a dig lined up. Where? For how long?

And, did he need Sandburg? As a guide in handling his senses? As a human being? What would it be like to know Blair would never again back him up on the job? To never see Sandburg again? He had told Blair, his mother and Simon that he just wanted his life to go back to the way it had been - but was that the truth? It had been pretty lonely. Hadn't been all that satisfying…

Did he just want to go on chasing and catching bad guys until he was too old to keep doing it, or dead?

Was that really all that mattered in his life?

Two hours later, Blair paid the park fee at the gate and in less than another half hour he pulled into the campsite on a bend of the river. It was wooded, with spruce and birch, the ground soft with centuries of accumulated pine needles layered over the granite. The river lapped at the rocky shoreline, and a light wind rustled through the boughs above them. There was a slight trace of wood smoke in the air, barely discernable over the more prevalent scents of the forest and water.

Blair got out to unload the back of the truck, and when Jim began to help, Sandburg just shook his head. He pointed at a handy boulder, and said, "Sit - your leg doesn't need any unnecessary aggravation. I'm capable of setting up the camp."

His voice was tight, not encouraging of any comment or conversation. When the tent was up, and the sleeping bags unrolled, he handed Jim one of the sandwiches he'd bought and stored the rest of the food in sacks that he hung from nearby trees. When he finished gathering a couple of armfuls of wood, and got a small campfire started, Blair called it a night.

Wordlessly, he curled up into his sleeping bag and rolled to face the wall of the tent. However much Jim might want to talk, he was just too damned tired to listen…

*********************

By the time Blair woke the next morning, Jim already had a fire going, and a pot of coffee brewed. He was down by the shore, trying to catch their breakfast. The morning was fresh, peaceful, with only the chirping of some birds, a chattering squirrel and the rush of the river filling the vast silence of the wilderness. Sandburg saw Ellison cast a hopeful look over his shoulder, and his heart ached to imagine that Jim apparently did still want them to be friends. He pulled out his own fishing rod and a lure, stuck his outback hat on his head, poured himself a mug of dark Columbian and then wandered down to perch on a rock and cast his line.

"Morning," Jim offered.

Sandburg nodded as he sipped the hot beverage. He let the tranquility sink inside and ease the turbulent emotions that had run amok over the past ten days or so. Taking a deep breath, smelling the fresh, clean forest air, letting it out slowly, he murmured quietly, "This is nice."

Jim heard him, as Blair had known he would, and ventured a smile, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. They fished in silence for long minutes, content to simply be in one another's company, but then Jim caught a good-sized trout, so they moved back up the long slope of rock to their camp. Jim cleaned and filleted the fish, while Blair got out the skillet and the flour. While Jim fried his catch, Blair sliced up tomatoes and an avocado, and then toasted some bread on the fire. Finally, the fish done, Jim set it in a pan to keep warm while he scrambled some eggs.

They ate in silence, which had gone from companionable to expectant. Blair kept giving Jim sideways glances, and Ellison couldn't believe the kid could be quiet for so long. Finally, they finished eating and Blair took the dishes and the pans down to the river. "Maybe you could make some fresh coffee," he suggested over his shoulder as he went.

By the time he got back with the cleaned and dried utensils, the coffee had finished perking. Sandburg put the gear away and hauled the two lawn chairs that he'd belatedly remembered tossing in the back of the truck the day before, over toward the fire. "Here," he offered, setting one up. "This'll be easier on your leg than perching on that rock."

"Thanks," Jim murmured as he gratefully shifted to the more comfortable support. Blair set up his own chair, sniffed at the coffee and then poured two fresh mugs, handing one to Jim before he sat down.

When the silence still stretched between them, Blair chewed on his lip to keep from pushing Jim to say whatever it was that he evidently so badly wanted to say. But, even when Jim wanted to talk, he had trouble knowing how to start. The simple fact that he'd wanted to do this, that their friendship was important to him, too, was good to know, but didn't really change anything - didn't make anything better or solve any of the problems between them.

"So…you're going to get your PhD?" Jim asked, the search for facts easier than trying to tackle the complicated feelings that twisted in his gut and filled his chest. "I thought the dragon lady had expelled you…"

"Fired me, actually," Blair clarified with a distant look in his eyes. "But, I'd taken the precaution of submitting my 'real' dissertation to my advisor before I held the press conference - so there could be no question that what had been leaked to the press had no legitimate status. She wanted me expelled, but the chairman of my department argued that I had a right to defend my paper. She finally agreed, so long as it happened quickly and I disappeared right after."

"When will you actually get it?" Ellison asked, thinking that these things usually took a while.

"As soon as the administrative work is done - they told me yesterday when the defence was over that I'd passed the oral," Blair replied flatly. He'd always imagined that he'd feel better about achieving his doctorate, but it all just felt hollow.

"I wish I'd known you were working on the second paper," Ellison observed, making an effort to keep his tone mild. Had he known, he wouldn't have jumped to such wild conclusions when the shit had hit the fan.

Blair gave him a steady look, knowing full well that it was yet another way that Jim could hold him responsible for how bad things had gone, and not disagreeing. He'd screwed up in so very many ways.

But the fact that Jim believed he had deliberately abused Ellison's trust, maliciously betrayed Jim for gain, still rankled - would likely hurt for a long time. Worse, even when Jim knew his assumptions had been wrong, he still had wanted Sandburg out of his life. He hadn't wanted to talk about what they might do to mitigate the situation - he hadn't wanted to talk at all. It was just over. Like he'd been looking for an excuse to cut Blair loose and finally had one.

Wearily, Blair looked away. When he was honest with himself, he could see things had been going downhill for months…since before Alex even. He just hadn't wanted to admit it - and he could hardly blame Jim for being sick of having him around. "I didn't think you'd really be very interested," he said finally, his voice and bearing devoid of animation. "You've always been pretty indifferent to my work at Rainier. I did realize that you'd be glad to know I'd never hand in the Sentinel paper, but I wanted to surprise you with it. And, uh, I really did think that as soon as I got my PhD, any excuse I had to keep riding with you would be gone."

Ellison had seen hurt darken the wide blue eyes before they shifted away, but he didn't know where to begin to deal with it all. Blair was entirely right about his lack of interest in the university - it just all seemed so damned esoteric and irrelevant. But saying so now wouldn't help anything. It was easier to stick with the facts, such as they were.

"You said you would be leaving the country," Jim finally ventured. "Where're you going?"

Blair almost refused to say, but then realized he was being childish. He'd said the day before that he considered Jim his best friend, and he did - he just didn't trust Jim anymore, or believe that he really mattered a damn to the older man. Still, if they could manage courtesy between them, it would be a good thing. After four years, it was damned hard to leave with nothing but hurt and anger between them. "I'm going back to Mexico," he replied quietly. "A couple of months ago, I applied for a small grant from the University of Mexico to explore the ruins you found with a view toward substantiating the thesis that it's the ancient temple of the sentinels; the grant was approved the day after you were shot by Zeller. I'll fly down there in a few days, as soon as I've got everything sorted out with the lawyer."

Jim was surprised, and then realized he shouldn't have been. Of course Blair would want to spend a lot more time there, studying the hieroglyphics. He nodded as he looked off toward the river. "How long will you be gone?"

"Six months, at least," Sandburg replied. "Depends a lot on what I find."

"And after that…?"

Blair shrugged. "Some of that depends on what happens with the lawsuits. I doubt I'll ever be able to work at Rainier again, which is too bad, because I liked it there for a lot of reasons. But, if I win, at least I'll have a reasonably clear personal and professional reputation - well, except for looking like an idiot and a troublemaker. Maybe Simon will give me a note or something to indicate that I was acting in the interest of the ongoing investigation as opposed to being deliberately confusing about the fact that the sentinel paper wasn't a fraudulent dissertation and was no more than fiction or a speculative draft about the innate attributes of law enforcement officers, take your pick. I don't like to ask him for it, but I might not have any choice if I can't find a job when I get back to the States. It's hard to say what possibilities of a professorship somewhere might exist next year." He paused for a moment, and then added softly, "I just don't know if I want that life, anymore."

"I thought getting your PhD was one of your big dreams," Jim replied, surprised, treading on uncertain ground.

Nodding, Blair sighed, "It was. But…I guess I've changed. You've changed me, your work. I still want to teach, but what you do is so much more - immediate. You and the others at the PD save lives, protect people. I liked being a part of that." He paused as he gazed up at the cliff that loomed on the far side of the river. "The university world just seems so…stuffy, so self-conscious…narrow. I don't know. I don't think I want to spend the rest of my life in the rarified atmosphere of some college, worrying about small-minded politics and publication requirements. It just seems…a little shallow, I guess."

Listening intently, Jim frowned a bit in concentration. "Are you saying you'd consider being a cop?" he asked, unable to keep a vestige of hope from his voice.

Sandburg rubbed his jaw, and then leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. His lips thinned a little as he shook his head. "No, I don't think I want to be a cop, though I liked being a detective, well, as much a one as I was, hanging around with you. I was thinking that, if I can clear my reputation, and maybe if Simon gave me a letter of reference, I could go to Quantico, and learn to be a profiler…"

Ellison's gut clenched at the thought of Sandburg having to witness the atrocities of truly crazy serial killers, and maybe becoming a target in his own right - not that he hadn't been targeted before. But a profiler had to get inside the head of the psycho, had to think like they did to predict what their next move might be - a lot of profilers ended up very depressed, even suicidal. "Why would you want to…"

"…be a profiler?" Blair supplied when Jim's voice faltered. "I guess because I think my understanding of cultures, social mores and norms, and human behaviour might actually be useful in that kind of work." Shrugging, he looked away. "They probably won't even consider my application. It's just one of the possibilities I've been thinking about."

"Why didn't you talk to me about any of this?" Jim asked. "I tried to reach you from the hospital, left messages - but you never got back to me."

"I guess I didn't think you'd be particularly interested," Blair replied, his voice tight, clipped.

"See - that's what I don't understand," Ellison blurted, frustrated. "I thought after your press conference - at the hospital before Zeller attacked MCU - that we were okay…"

"Yeah, I know," Blair murmured as he crossed his arms. His shoulders tightened and he bowed his head. He really didn't want to get into this.

"Why aren't we okay?" Jim demanded, really not understanding the problem.

Sandburg snorted and shook his head. Clearing his throat, he looked up at Jim, and pushed his hair back behind his ears before again crossing his arms tightly. "Jim, let me ask you - if someone, me for example, who knows you as well as anyone ever has, honestly believed you capable of betrayal, at the most fundamental level, for personal gain - to get rich at my expense - if I honestly, after four years, could decide that our friendship was all a huge waste of time and I wished it had never happened - how would you feel?"

Before Jim could begin to respond, Blair had risen from the chair, his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with barely controlled anger and hurt. Unable to remain still, he began to pace, gesturing with his hands for emphasis as he continued, his words flowing faster, his tone harsh. "You believed that I trashed you deliberately. After four years of working together, of living together - of what I'd thought was a pretty good friendship, you honestly believed I could do that to you. And even when you knew I hadn't, you still never wanted to see me again. You still wished that none of the last four years had ever happened, that you could just go back to what your life had been before we met." His voice cracked and he turned away, facing the river as he finished softly, hardly able to speak, "And if, after all that, you'd had to put your career on the line to protect me, and everyone in your world thought you were a liar and a fraud, and you had to give up everything that mattered to you - your home, your work, the future you'd planned on, your best friend, all your friends - would you be okay with me?"

"I didn't ask you to give that press conference," Ellison protested, defensively.

"No, you didn't; you didn't have much of anything to say to me at that point," Blair replied wearily. Shrugging as he turned back to face Jim, he admitted, "I guess it was a st