Meditations On Childhood
by KungfuNurse

kungfunurse@visi.com

Sentinel and all things related belong to Petfly.  I make no money from these stories, I merely try to express my admiration for the show.

Warnings: slash, J/B pairing, some minor angst.

Written for Sue, who took a chance on a new author for the 2005 Moonridge auction.  An endless 'thank you' to Ms. Alyjude, who not only encouraged me to expand on my little obsenads, but performed a wonderful beta on the finished piece.  And another thank you to Paxwolf, who encouraged me not to cut corners.
Final work seen only by me.  All mistakes are mine alone.

***

October, 1969

Liquid blue eyes opened to the world.  A tiny pink mouth rooted hungrily, and found food.  Warmth, food, comfort-holding.  For a moment it was enough.

However, soon the tiny face crinkled up and a thin wail echoed out.  Anxious shushing and food warmth again.  But no.  Nononononono.  More, there should be more.  

Where was the more?

Fussing and kicking didn't bring the more.  Hungry sounds didn't bring the more.

Scared now, and angry, the determined lungs screamed.  Why didn't the more come!

Forced beyond enduring, the new mind opened.  Opened as the eyes had opened.  Soft mind rooting hungrily for the more.

More?

Across an ocean, a seven year old boy stumbled and fell to his knees, scattering his Halloween candy.  He lay on the street, trembling, as sight-sound-smell-touch-taste-curiosity exploded through his body.

More.

The boy gasped and rolled to his back, staring up into the night sky.

"Huh…hello?  Who…?"

Then a pounding, like a heartbeat, sounding louder and louder in his head and the boy's whole body began to throb in time with it.  Fingers, hair, skin, everything.  Everything tasted this heartbeat and saw the sounds it made.  He closed his eyes again, bit his lip (metal tang sticky with caramel taste) and confusion gave way to joy as he was flooded with pure, incandescent love.

Content, now, the infant sighed and suckled at his mother's breast.

***

June, 1972

Jim brushed his blond hair out of his eyes.  It was getting long, again.  Time to cut it soon.

The ten year old looked around the fair and spotted his little brother.  Steven was standing in line at the Wild Thing, eating cotton candy and getting ready to lose it all over the biggest, baddest roller coaster around.

Jim smiled a tiny little smile that had more to do with his eyes than his mouth. It was good to see Steven happy, for once.  The poor kid had cried and cried after Mom…

Well, Mom had been the only one who ever could ever make him stop crying, anyway. Without her, the tears had just poured out.  It made Jim crazy.  He'd done everything he could think of, but nothing helped. Then Steven got quiet.  Months went by and he didn't talk and his teachers *started* talking.  Talking about "regression" and holding Stevie back a grade. Jim didn't know what it all meant, but he did know that it was up to him to save Stevie.

So he'd hoarded his money, called a cab like Bud had once taught him, and brought Stevie out here to the summer fair.  The cab driver had been reluctant to take boys with no parent in sight, but Jim just gave him the 'look' – the one he used to keep the bullies away from Stevie.  The cabby had shrugged, taken his money up front, and brought them here.

Jim knew that all Stevie needed to do was laugh.  Once even a little sound came out, the words would come.  Jim would do what Father couldn't.

He stood a little taller, thinking about that.

The line pulled ahead some, and Jim craned his neck to find Steven.  He'd take the kid on the Tilta-Whirl next.  Then to the Haunted House.  Stevie liked ghosts, right?  Or was it zombies?

Jim closed his eyes to remember, but instead of seeing a row of plastic toys, he was swamped with a bright blue gaze from a half remembered dream.  Eyes that laughed and called to him and burned right into his soul.

Jim

Gasping, he jerked his eyes open and whipped his head around, looking for the source of that not-whisper.  But all he saw were the same people waiting in line as before.  None of them could have whispered to him in that soft, childish lisp.

He tried to remember where he'd heard that voice and seen those eyes before, but as always it was like trying to hold sunlight in his hands.  The dream-like knowledge was there… but not.

Frustrated, Jim pushed it all away.  He was determined to focus on white and plastic, not huge, summer-sky eyes full of all the love Jim could ever want…

NO.  Stevie's toys were zombies, and Stevie liked zombies and his friend Alan had found them on the beach and Stevie had… had what!

A soft breeze whipped up and something tugged on Jim's mind.  He found himself turning his head, scanning the crowds for that elusive scent-sight-sound that whispered at the back of his consciousness.

There.  Behind the ring toss.  His body started in motion before he could think about it.  He focused closer, harder, and saw through a gap in the crowd the short head and bouncy black curls.  Heard that voice.  That voice.  God, god please keep him there.

Jim broke into a run, dodging a stroller and jumping a puddle, only to bounce off some guy's back that he'd missed seeing.

No, no, wait.  Don't go yet!  Jim wailed silently.
 
Ignoring the shouted "Hey Kid!!" behind him, Jim desperately picked himself up and dashed for the ring toss.

Empty.

Jim's stomach clenched and he slumped down next to the booth.  Maybe he was going crazy.  Those huge blue eyes.  That soft touch that would never hurt, not even when Jim was extra worked up.  Maybe he'd never find them.  Maybe nothing was real.

And now the world started to blur and grey, like it always did when he let himself think that.

Dreams won't feed your family, Jimmy.  Now stop those tears!  I won't be responsible for raising a wussy boy!

Father's voice now chanted over and over in his head. Only Stevie's lost words and Mom's not-here-ness and Father's here-but-gone-ness were really real…

Two small feet scuffed into Jim's view, and he lifted his head. "What're you doin' here, punk?" he joked weakly.  "You'll lose your place in line."

Stevie thought about this for a long minute as he pulled at another grainy string of cotton candy, then turned and sat down beside him.

"Did you find Mom?"

The whispered words rang in Jim's head like a scream.  Stevie's first words in ages and ages and he thought that Jim…

The sound from the roller coaster thundered in his ears, then roared into cotton muffledness.  Jim's fingertips felt numb.

But Jim had a mission.  He'd set out today with a job to do, so Jim worked to move his own grief aside, to be gentle with his little brother.  The last thing he wanted was to scare the sounds back into Stevie's throat.

"Oh Stevie, no," he murmured quietly.  "Mom… Mom's gone away, baby bro."

Stevie just sat there, staring at his feet as they twisted patterns in the dust.

"It, well, I thought there was someone… else," Jim continued lamely.

Stevie seemed to consider this, then peeked up through his bangs.  "You were lookin' for him, again.  Right?"

Jim felt his jaw drop.  "Uh, yeah, but how did you…?"

Thin little shoulders shrugged.  "Dunno," whispered the barely-used voice.  "Saw you looking before, that's all."

Silence stretched between them, flavored with cotton candy breath and dusty summer shade.

Eventually Stevie shifted a bit closer to his brother and asked, the words coming easier now, "Why, you know, why're you lookin' for him anyway?"

Jim risked a sideways glance at Steven.  The kid was intently destroying the last of the cotton candy, shredding it and making pink gooey balls in the dirt between them.

 Pink.

Jim could hear the clicking of the roller coaster restarting in the background and smell the crepes on the other side of the huge crowd-- he shook his head quickly, took a deep breath, and focused on Stevie.

"I dunno, Sport.  It's just, you know.  Important."

"Oh."

Soft breathing, and Jim decided he'd take what he could get, today.  He stood up, dusted off, and held out his hand to Stevie. "Come on kiddo, let's go see the otters."

Hand in hand, the two brothers walked through the afternoon sun, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

***

June, 1974

Blair scrunched his face up, concentrating on the sand in front of him.  No, not sand.  It was a me-di-um.

The bubbly five year old shook his curls out of his eyes and tried the word on again. "It's a medjum," he lisped out loud.

"Actually, it looks pretty big to me," a mellow adult voice boomed next to him.

Blair cocked one little eyebrow at the interruption. Naomi's friend, Fred, was sitting next to him on the beach, drinking a beer and staring at the surf while Blair labored on his little sand village.

Blair didn't mind that Fred was watching him today.  He was one of the nicer friends Naomi had.  Fred always made pancakes with blueberries on the mornings after he stayed over, and always made sure to make time for Blair.

"A medjum is what choo make stuff wiff, man,"  Blair asserted calmly, as though talking to someone half his age.

Fred just stared goggle-eyed for a second, then laughed his big, booming laugh. Blair was chortling too, because Fred had a really good laugh.

"Well, I stand corrected," he said.  "And what are you making with your medium?"

"Dis' is da head chief's hut,"  Blair began agreeably, pointing to one sandy lump in front of them.  "And dis' is for da wives, so deys don't get mad at bein' wit the chief all da time."

"Man's gotta have his privacy," Fred chuckled, leaning over the little sand village.  "Where does the witch-doctor live?"

"Over hewe," Blair pointed happily.  Unlike most of Naomi's friends, Fred was really good about not making fun when Blair was trying to be serious.   "See, he's got a gawden with moon plants for seein' stuff."

"I think someone's been sneaking out of bed at night,"  Fred rumbled, snatching Blair into his lap and tickling him till he wriggled like a puppy.

Blair shrieked delightedly.  "Jus' once.  Promise!"

"Pinkie swear?"  Fred asked seriously, holding out the digit in question.

"You gots it, man!"  the bouncy five year old burbled, hooking his pinkie with Fred's and shaking them.

"Well, all right.  Guess we won't have to tell Naomi then."  Fred 'ooomphed' and settled Blair back in front of his creation.  "Now tell me about this hut all the way out here."  He pointed to a sand dollup on the edge of the village. "Is that where they put the bad guys to lock them up?"

Blair turned huge, serious blue eyes up at Fred, and all laughter drained from his face. Looking into that earnest gaze, Fred felt like he was somehow… sliding.  The young man found himself digging his hands into the ground as if to anchor himself from being pulled in against a tide.

"Dat's Jim's house,"  Blair said quietly.

"Who's Jim?"  Fred asked, just as quietly.

Blair examined Fred with wide eyes that were suddenly far too old for his cute, chubby little face.  Apparently Blair decided that Fred could be trusted because he said, "Jim's my fwiend."

Fred licked his lips nervously.  He knew that Naomi had other "friends", and that not all of them were as good to Blair as he was.  Not that Fred suspected anything, well, *bad*.  He'd never allow any child to remain in that kind of situation.  But now, seeing that one isolated hut, Fred wondered if he'd missed something big.

Hesitantly, not sure how to ask it, he said, "Does Jim do… bad things?  Bad things to Blair?  Is that why his hut is so far away?"

To Fred's complete shock, Blair tumbled backwards on the sand, laughing and chortling with glee. "No silly!!"  Blair announced.  "Jim needs Bwair to keep stuffs quiet fow him!  Dat's why his hut is so faw away."

"Oh," Fred said, relaxing a little.  "So this Jim's kind of a grouch, huh?"  His teasing was only half-hearted, not really sure that everything was kosher yet.

"Huh,"  Blair replied, hunkering back over his village.  "Jim's just a boy, not a gwouch."

"Little, like you?" Fred poked Blair gently in the tummy.

"Nope.  Like dems," Blair pointed at a bunch of young teens chasing each other in the surf.

Fred heaved a sigh of relief.  "Oh, well that's okay then.  Come on, little buddy, your Uncle Fred needs a bite to eat."

Fred gathered his beach towel and sunscreen up, and turned back to Blair.  As he did so, an icy chill settled in his gut.  Blair was staring off into the distance, his hand drooping like he'd forgotten it was held out there.

"Blair?  Blair!"

***

Blair heard Fred's voice from far away, but didn't answer.  Thinking about Jim reminded him that he hadn't heard from the older boy in a long time, so Blair pushed into that corner of his mind where Jim sort of "lived."  But instead of Jim, he found a grey, stinging mist.

Every time things got too loud or too bright, Jim would go into the grey fog.  And Jim had needed more and more help with loud things and bright things for a while now.  Blair didn't mind.  He really loved Jim.  Loved him so much more than anybody else loved Jim.

Wistfully, Blair wished Jim could come and live with him all the time.  He got so lonely sometimes.

This time the grey sticky fog felt like burning cold ice, and Blair whimpered a little in his throat.  Something must be hurting Jim, and his friend was lost in it.

The young boy held his hands out in front of him, and started wandering around.

"Jim, Jim man, where are you?"

Sometimes Jim heard him and met him halfway.  Blair started talking, hoping Jim would follow his voice.  The words came clearly now, not impeded by an immature palette.

"Hey Jim, home's this way!  C'mon Jim!  I'm here, now.  Jim?"

Distantly Blair heard a wild animal's scream, and a very human groan.  Hurrying ahead, Blair ran through the stinging fog until a form took shape out of the mist.

Blair stooped down, cradling his Jim's face in small, chubby fingers.  Gently, oh-so-gently, he brushed random patterns across Jim's face and through the short, sandy blond hair.

"Shhhhh, 'sokay Jim,"  Blair soothed.  "I'm here now, I'm here.  What's wrong?  Who hurt you?"

"It's my ankle.  Stupid, I'm so stupid," the twelve year old gasped.  "Jumped out a window, didn't even know…"

Blair continued stroking and soothing his friend, eventually lying down next to the older boy and snuggling up against him. "That better, Jim?"

"Yeah, yeah, Chief.  That's good."  

The fog was clearing away a little, thanks to his efforts, and he could see that Jim was starting to fade, too.  

"Didn't even hurt until I looked at it, then whammo…" Jim said, his voice sounding farther and farther away…

"Sshh, Jim.  Hush now"  Blair murmured.  He wriggled happily when Jim slid his arms around the young boy's body and snuggled him close.

"Missed you, Chief."

Jim's voice swirled off into silence, and eventually so did the feel of his arms.  Blair just lay there, curled around himself.  He wished Jim didn't have to go away all the time.  He loved Jim so very much.

"I don't want to be alone anymore"  the young boy whispered to no one.

So Blair remained curled on the forest floor a while longer, pretending that Jim was still with him.

***

Fred raced up the shore, frantically yelling for anyone, anyone to call an ambulance.  The five year old in his arms lay limp as a rag doll, barely breathing as his head and limbs bounced bonelessly in time to Fred's running.

"Help!  He's having a seizure or something!  Someone… someone help!!"

***

February, 1979

Up until an hour and a half ago, visiting the Forbidden City had been the high point of Naomi's year.  Chiang Shen, an uncle of an old friend of hers, was hosting her and her son in a place no ordinary "pale face" would ever be allowed to see.  

This had been just the sort of confirmation Naomi had needed to verify that she was on the right path in her life.  She'd known from a very early age that she was destined for something besides growing up, getting a job, then settling down to live and die.  The very fact that she was even now walking barefoot through the Empresses' Palace of Celestial Purity surely meant, well, something.

Oh, but it was a bitter consolation prize that she'd found.  Too late, Naomi had learned that ancient palaces and mystical places of power were meaningless.

In a revelation of unbearable clarity, Naomi now knew that she would rather have a white picket fence and an aging, potbellied husband rather than all the riches in the world.  Because an hour and a half ago, Naomi had discovered that her true path in life had disappeared.  He'd up and lost himself somewhere where there was no modern search equipment, or even Pig Cops and their vaunted police procedures.  And now her Blair was missing in the dead of the Chinese night, and all Naomi could do was pace the floors of this ancient temple and wait for daylight.

Well, screw that.  Screw that to all the seven Chinese hells and back!

Naomi strapped on her hiking boots and threw some basic survival gear in her ever-present backpack.  The night was getting cooler, and Goddess only knew the last time Blair had eaten or drank anything.

Bullying one of the guards to loan her a rusted out old truck, Naomi gunned the accelerator and headed out of Peking and into the surrounding countryside.  She didn't pause to think about a destination.  After all, her spirit animal, the wild roe, always jumped quickly and trusted to its graceful feet to bring it down safely.  And besides, acting impulsively had brought her son to this place, and it would damn well serve to help him leave it.

Later, Naomi would swear that she wasn't consciously following the pack's cries.  And only once, many years hence, while on a really nasty trip, did she ever admit that she'd been following the ghostly trail of a huge grey wolf.

Naomi pulled off the side of the road deep in the remote countryside and flung herself out of the truck.  It made no sense.  There was no way her baby boy could have made it this far on his own.  

But Naomi had never allowed logic to stop her and besides, she ruefully admitted, Blair wasn't quite a baby anymore.  His recent (and early) plunge into puberty had hit him hard.  Blair was confused about girls and fighting his natural attraction to boys in order to "fit in".  As soon as she'd learned that, she'd scooped her beautiful misfit up and determined to plant him somewhere less mainstream and more spiritually enhancing.

A twisted root snagged Naomi's boot and sent her sprawling.  There you go, woolgathering again!  she snarled to herself.  Can't you do anything right?  You can't even concentrate long enough to find your son!

Disgusted with herself, Naomi hefted her face out of the muck and… froze.

She was face to face with two sleek, grey wolves.  Their eyes shone in the headlights with the eerie chatoyance of night creatures.  

The two lupines turned and trotted off a few yards, then stopped to swivel their ears and stare back at her.  It was almost as though they had been waiting at this spot for the sole purpose of guiding her.

I get the message.  Naomi grunted as she slowly picked herself up and followed.  

And really, Naomi couldn't help but tremble at how the Goddess had blessed her.  A renewed sense of awe curled in her stomach and made her heart beat fast with excitement.  Surely no human had ever been so intimate with-

Naomi's breath caught, and a hoarse gasp wrenched her throat closed.  The two guides had led her down a slope to the base of a ravine.  There she saw what it meant to be truly Goddess-blessed.

The pack was lounging contentedly, furred stomachs full with the farmer's water buffalo, the remains of which were off to the side.

The short nosed, adventurous pups rolled and played happily, while the adults indulgently looked on and groomed any youngling who roamed too close to a parental tongue.

One wolf sat quietly on his haunches, allowing a face and two small, square hands to bury themselves in his ruff in silent farewell.

And when Blair raised his head to stare into her eyes, his own shining with that same lupine chatoyance, Naomi sobbed a quiet prayer that the Goddess not bless her son with more than his mother could bear.

***

For the fourth time since Naomi had bustled him into the truck, Blair tried to start reading his beloved monograph.  She had thoughtfully packed it up with the emergency supplies, and Blair couldn't wait to delve into it.  

He'd been fascinated by this book ever since he found it one blustery afternoon in the street markets of Hong Kong.  Up until that very second he'd believed his Jim to be some sort of strange and wonderful anomaly.  And he knew that Jim felt that unbearable uniqueness keenly.

But this!!  This man, Richard Burton, was talking about these 'Sentinels' as though there were hundreds of them!  One for each tribe across the globe.  It suddenly seemed possible that Blair could help Jim find others like him.  Blair could learn everything about these wonderful men, and it would all go towards helping Jim.

Then, maybe, Jim would start talking to him again.

A silvery howl broke through the sudden misery that swamped Blair.  The huge grey had called to Blair all day, enticing him further and further from his mother's side.  Blair had hopped rides on passing carts and had hiked for hours to answer that summons.

Even now he wasn't sure that it hadn't been mostly a dream.  Because he remembered running fleet-footed and strong with the wolves.  And with the running came learning.  Old, strong voices that resonated with the earth and the wind whispered in his mind.  They taught Blair to accept his loves and his fears.  They ran with Blair into the Jim-corner of his mind and led the young shaman into infinitely vast spaces.

And the grey had leaned his warm weight against Blair, allowing his young charge to soak his tears into the wiry fur.  Even with all his wisdom, he hadn't been able to tell Blair why Jim didn't want to talk to him anymore.

However, the grey assured Blair that all life traveled in cycles.  Winter frosts may kill a sick one, but if you survived there was always a spring to come.

And Blair was determined to find that spring.  He didn't know what he'd done to drive Jim away, but he would find the problem, and he'd fix it.

Gritting his teeth with renewed fervor, Blair again turned to Burton's monograph.  Somewhere in here the explorer had mentioned spirit animals.  Blair couldn't imagine how that related to a non-Sentinel like himself, but he was sure there was a connection.  Possibly, possibly he'd have to do more research, perhaps even locate other books by the man.

A soft, suppressed sniffle from the driver's seat distracted him again.  Without looking, Blair reached across the seats and held his mother's hand.  He didn't know what he'd done to hurt her, either, but at least *she* hadn't shut him out yet.

That was something, anyway.

Jim, Jim, man.  Just talk to me.  Please?  Tell me what's wrong and we'll fix it.  I promise we'll fix it together.  Jim?

As usual lately, Blair felt like he was shouting into the void.  But the memory of warm fur and a deep, wise voice filled him, and he bent again to his work.

***

August, 1979

Jim stared straight ahead, light blue eyes boring right through the chalk board, dark blond hair clipped close to his head, his straight back not resting on the chair.  The haircut was new, and Jim liked it.  He'd always looked too pretty. Too girly.  All the guys said so.  This new cut kept that blond mess out of his face and made him look older.  Tougher.  Besides, Father said it made him look like a skin-head.  Reason enough to keep it.

"Jimmy, read paragraph three, please."

The seventeen year old clenched his young jaw and resolutely ignored the woman up front.  That wasn't his name.  Stupid substitute.  She just didn't know anything about controlling a class.  She'd been all nice and sweet to Ricky Burns, and half the class saw him give her the finger at recess.  Now she was using little kiddy names on them and trying to be their friend.  Stupid, stupid.

"Jimmy?  Now Jimmy, read the assigned paragraph or I'll have to put your name on the board.  You don't want that, do you?"

Jim continued to ignore her, his ramrod straight body quivering with anger.  Oh, go ahead, he sneered mentally.  Write my name on the board.  You still won't get it right.  He was tempted to tell her that it would be worse to be sent home early, but didn't.  What if she actually believed him?  Then he'd have to deal with Father, who was working from home today.  No, much better to have an official reason for staying away, even if it meant trouble later.

With a sigh, the plump woman adjusted her glasses, picked up the chalk, and wrote 'Jimmy Ellison' in big, loopy letters.  Then she turned and called out another name.  Jim tuned her out.

Later, after detention, Jim set out for home on foot.  The clueless substitute had sat him down, tried to play shrink on him.  Asked him about his home, his daddy.  Fuck, she'd actually said 'daddy'!  Made him want to puke.

Jim stared at the traffic light.  Looked like green.  Probably was green.  A quick glance at the moving cars and he decided he was right.  He was getting better at decoding the different shades of grey in his world.  All sorts of grey out there.  Grey that used to be yellow, or white,  now that was hard.  Kinda tough to really see.  But grey that was green or blue or red, those were easy.

There was a time when the world used to be full of colors... Jim remembered a golden haze drenching green lawns and Mom wearing a peach and yellow blouse.

And another memory, more like a dream, surfaced.  A half-remembered dream of small hands and bouncy black curls.  Full lips always stretched in a smile and a little body that loved to cuddle.

Fuck.

Jim pushed the memory away and started to cross.  Gotta stay focused.  Get lost in dreams and that's when someone gets the jump on you.  And you're too old for imaginary friends.  Father was at least right about that.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost walked right into Trent and his gang.

Father may call him a good for nothing skin-head, but Trent was the real deal. Jim knew he'd never be anything like this freak.  No sir, no spider web tattoos on his elbow.  He heard enough of that white supremacist crap from Father, disguised as socially correct comments on the "uneducated under-classes."  But Steven seemed to lap it up.  

There he was now, running after the rest of Trent's gang, carrying all their book bags.  Jim sneered and turned a corner.  He knew he'd get big points at home if he told Father about Steven acting like a lapdog.  But he decided he wasn't going do that.  Let Steven be some stupid flunky.  Jim didn't care.

***

It was dark now, and Jim just couldn't sleep.  Something was wrong.  His ears had felt stuffed with cotton for a few years now, but he held his breath and tried to listen anyway.

Giving up, Jim crawled out of bed and tried to pull on his pants.  It was always hard when he couldn't see what he was doing.  Sometimes he couldn't feel where his hands and legs were or what they were doing.  His shins were covered with bruises and bone-deep dents where he kept running into things.  He shrugged the thought away.  So he ran into things.  Big deal.  Not like it ever hurt.

He jumped out the window and felt his legs give out under him.  He'd broken an ankle like this once, and had walked on it for two days before realizing that something was wrong.  Then as soon as he'd noticed, he'd fainted like a sissy in front of everyone.

Jim didn't even remember fainting.  His soon-to-be ex-girlfriend had told him about it while she was breaking up with him.

This time he took a minute under the street light to check himself over.  Everything looked fine.

Setting out in an easy lope, Jim covered the ground quickly.  He wasn't sure where he was going, but it felt good to run.  Good to be out when Father thought he was asleep and harmless.

Jim didn't feel harmless.  Jim felt... powerful.

He saw grey light flickering in the darker grey of the ravine ahead and slowed down to approach from an angle.  A campfire was blazing and black shadows danced maniacally in front of it.

No, not dancing.

Arms swinging, legs flying, they hollered and whooped and cursed while a dark form huddled under their feet, trying hard not to cry out when the next blow fell.

At this, Jim's eyes got wide and he screamed and ran and balled his fists and who did they think they were?!  He remembered a little hand in his at the summer fair and a soft, confused whisper asking about "Mommy" --  and suddenly rage, fear, and power flowed through him, and God, the strength of his arms and his grasping, hurting, fearful hands, and now the punks were running; running and shrieking, and he had him, had Stevie in his arms and he'd keep him safe... always safe.

Those stupid punks and their God-dammed initiations.  Not his little brother.  Never Steven.

Then Jim glanced down and was caught.  Mesmerized.  God.  God, oh God.  There was color in the world.  And it was beautiful, trickling in a pulsing red down Steven's cheek.  Jim wanted to cry.  Oh God, thank you for red.

Much, much later, after Steven was cleaned up and tucked in, Jim sat alone in his room and pondered red.

So.  Blood was red.  He'd liked seeing it.  Really liked it.  Did that make him like Trent?  A monster?

He shuddered and ran his hand across his short hair.  Short like Trent's.

*No,* he wanted to protest.  He'd saved Steven.  Trent had caused the blood, and Jim had stopped him.

Only, only wait.  There had been more blood.  Blood trickling from Trent's nose and red-sticky-beautiful on Jim's grey knuckles.  So bright it glowed amongst the used-to-be colors around it.

Jim groaned in fear.  Monster.  Skin-head.  Freak.  

The words gibbered and snickered at him.

No, no, no!  Jim threw himself off his bed and paced furiously.  Freak, yeah, maybe freak.  But not a monster.  Never that.  His mind spun, desperate to prove his fears wrong.

Freak, Father's voice insisted.  My son, a good for nothing-

No! he wailed silently.  Help me, please!  Someone!

And beyond the maelstrom of his hopeless despair, Jim heard something whisper back.  A soothing trickle of not-sound that he'd blocked out for so long, determined as he was to keep his feet in Father's reality.

Jim, man, you don't have to be a monster to see blood.

The familiar voice was so full of tender love that it almost broke Jim's heart.

C'mon, think.  Cops do, you know.  And soldiers, too.

Jim caught that thought, that not-whisper, and held on with both hands.

Cops and soldiers, who kept people safe but sometimes, sometimes also made them bleed.  He could do that.  He could do that.

Finally, Jim stilled.  He felt it -- a strange, new resolve being born in his heart.  He went to sit on his bed and watch the yellow and pink sunrise bloom, all the while feeling the familiar stranger settle in the back of his mind.

"Welcome home, Chief," he murmured.

***

September, 1987


"Blair, honey…"  Naomi's voice drifted tentatively across the room to where he was sitting in full lotus.  Blair scrunched his eyes up more tightly, concentrating on his meditation.

"Sweetie," she tried again. "Really, we need to talk about your teacher's report.  Now you know that I'm here for you if you need to talk about girls or boys or schoolwork-"

"Mo-om!"  Blair's voice cracked on the vowel.  "I'm realigning my chakras!"

"And that's important, Blair," she hastened to assure him.  "Honestly Sweetie, I'm so proud of you.  You know Starfire's little girl can only get hers to spin clockwise, and she can't even see the crown chakra.  Why-"

Naomi's burbling stopped abruptly, and Blair reluctantly squeaked one eye open.

"You did that on purpose, young man,"  Naomi glared sternly at him.  "I won't be distracted, not about this."

Blair sighed in defeat and flopped on his back.  "It's not as bad as all that," he protested, staring at the ceiling and picking at the shag carpet.

"Sweetie, you're thirteen.  Now this may be normal for a young boy, but you've never felt the need before to resort to this sort of self-comforting.  To see it emerging at your age, why, I can't help but think that something dreadful must have happened at school.  Some trauma that you just can't… oh, Blair, why won't you talk to me?"

Naomi's blue eyes grew wet, and she tugged at her red curls in her distress.

"It's just, it's just this thing, Naomi."  Blair tried to make light of it.  He knew that it wasn't just anything, but he desperately didn't want to get into it.  Not now that he'd found Jim again.  He was superstitiously afraid that even speaking Jim's name aloud would make him go away once more.

"Besides," he continued, trying another tack.  "Mrs. Pendellson is a really nice lady, but she's like, so completely defined by society's expectations of her that she wouldn't know a non-Christian spiritual encounter if it bit her in the-"

"Blair!"  Naomi stood over her son now, full lips compressed in frustration.  "Don't be crude unless it's for a good cause, Honey. And I will not be sidetracked again.  An imaginary friend is a far cry from spiritual enlightenment."

"Mom!"  Blair shot up off the floor and started pacing the tiny apartment.  "You make it sound like I'm three."

"You're not three, Blair," Naomi coaxed.  "You're a young man and that's why all this has got me so worried!  Now sit down here with me and tell me all about what's got you in such a state."

Naomi trailed off and patted the cushion next to her.  

The couch was a salvage from the downstairs neighbor's garage sale, and Naomi had sewn red, yellow and blue stripes randomly across the fabric.  She claimed it soothed her inner eye.  Blair thought it was just like her to take someone else's castoffs and make them beautiful.

Naomi wanted the whole world to be beautiful, and she was trying to help him, so he meekly sat down next to her, thinking furiously.  He was running out of obfuscations.  What did that leave?  The truth?

Jim, man, you gotta understand.  Please don't go away again.  Okay?

"Now, Blair," Naomi once again interrupted his musings.  "Let's start at the beginning.  Nora Pendellson says she's caught you zoning off in class more than once.  At first she says she wasn't worried, a boy of your intelligence would naturally be a little bored in basic geometry…"

Naomi's voice colored with pride at this.

"But then she caught you mumbling someone's name.  So she asked the other kids, and it turns out you talk to this "Jim" person all the time.  How can you say it's no big deal if you're suddenly obsessed with-"

"Naomi."  Blair took a page out of his mother's book and interrupted her swelling tirade.  He took her hand and stared into her oh-so-serious eyes. "I, well, we met a long time ago.  I was really little, and didn't know how to tell you about him.  I mean, why he was only there sometimes, and not others."

Shocked, Naomi said, "Blair, do you mean to tell me that you've been hiding something as important as an imaginary friend from me for years?"

"Mom!" Blair wailed, drawing it out in protest.  "He's not something I just dreamed up!  He's real!"

Naomi was up and pacing now, too absorbed in her own thoughts to hear.  "Why, this could have been your spirit guide trying to reveal some profound truth,"  she continued, undeterred.

"That's what I've been trying-" Blair tried to interject.

"All this time? Well that's it, young man.  That's just the last straw.  We're leaving to see Swami Erickson tonight."

"But Naomi, I don't want to go to Idaho."  Blair winced at the whining sound in his voice.

"Mom," he bit his full lip and began again.  "School just started last month, and I know all the kids this time, and Sara just asked me to the weekend mixer. I've got a life here, Mom.  And what about my friends?"

Naomi swirled to a stop in front of Blair, her hands cradling his soft cheeks. "Oh Honey, if they're really your friends, they'll only rejoice that you've finally found your true path.  Now where did I put my address book…"

Blair slumped dejectedly as he watched Naomi wander off in search of enlightenment's number.  He picked lint off the couch that wouldn't be traveling with them, because owning things just weighed down your soul on its eternal quest for truth.  Blair really liked this couch.  Naomi had done unusual and beautiful things with the abstract patterns she'd created and now it would be left behind, detached from and moved beyond.

Blair felt a fit of anger stab at him.  He didn't want to detach from his friends, or his school, or even the stupid couch.  Because he knew, from long experience, that they wouldn't be coming back.  Swami Erickson would foresee that true enlightenment would lie in Colorado Springs, or Minneapolis, or maybe on some continent hours and hours away by plane.  Anywhere but Cascade, Washington.

"Well, I'm coming back," Blair suddenly decided.  He'd already checked out Rainier's early enrollment program, and had liked what he'd seen.  Their anthropology department was widely recognized as the most liberal in the area, and he knew he was smart enough to make the early enrollment.  

Blair realized, with no arrogance at all, that he was probably ahead of most of his teachers at Cascade Middle School.  If the age restrictions weren't so tight, Blair could possibly have enrolled at Rainier this school year.

So.  Three years.  Three more years of chasing a will-o-the-wisp of joyful unity with the Unknown.  Then Blair would be free to finally, finally choose his own path.

Slightly mollified by these thoughts, the short teen mussed his curls out of his face and settled back into a lotus position.

At least I've got you again, big guy, he said, directing the thought toward that special place in his head.  How're you doin' today, anyway?

Across the country, a newly minted elite Ranger collapsed in his bunk.  He was bruised, stiff, and so completely exhausted that he could hardly tell up from down.  He wasn't complaining.  He wasn't.  However, lying down felt like heaven and he had no intention of moving.  Ever.

Besides, the pain was all worth it.  He was officially another step removed from Father's life.  One step closer to satisfying the call that burned in his chest.

"Doin' fine, Chief," the big man mumbled, barely conscious now.  "Doin' good."

***

Date, Unknown.  Month, Unknown.  Year, 1988

Captain James Ellison of the Army Rangers was curled around his miniscule fire, trying to warm a can of soup.

"You might as well try sitting on it."  A coarse voice spit out the words.  "As likely to warm it with your bum as that tiny ass fire."

Jim had long practice ignoring Jennings.  But now, after weeks of being separated from the rest of their section, the other man was finally getting on his nerves.

"You like eating cold rations so much?  Be my guest." Jim replied with icy reserve.

Jennings shivered and looked away from the silent menace in those October blues.  Of all the crazy ass shits out there, why he'd had to get paired up with Insane Ellison was beyond him.  Didn't help that the guy's instincts were un-freakin-believable.  The man knew stuff that no one should be able to know.  There were stories, as in plural, of the times Insane Ellison would leap out of a sound sleep and run full tilt towards some perfectly harmless bunch of rocks, only to come back with an enemy scout in tow.

And sometimes, Jennings had heard, he'd come back with just parts of the scout.  Depending on what kind of mood he was in when he'd woken up.

Of course, those were just stories, and Jennings was a man who believed in only what he could see through a sniper scope.  So none of that really explained how the hell Ellison had managed to acquire so damn many lives.  Again and again the man would get lost in enemy terrain, left behind while he was covering his team's exit.  Days would go by and the whole camp would give him up for dead. Then bam, one day, easy as you please, he'd show up, having navigated some minefield that angels would have rather shit themselves than walk through.

And now the crazy mutha was just sitting there, in the middle of enemy territory, making soup.  Well that was just fucking dandy.  But none of that mattered to Jennings.  A Ranger was a Ranger.  This punk ass Ellison had nothing on him.  With that firmly in mind, Jennings decided to pick at some open sores.

"Where'd you get that nickname of yours, anyway?"

Jim grunted and eyed his backup.  Despite family connections and some actual talent, Jim didn't consider the wiry demolitions man to be Ranger material.  And besides, his sweat was always pungent.  Like onions.  Sometimes Jim was surprised the Russkis didn't smell them coming.  But an unknown amount of time in enemy territory with only Jennings to get his back, and even Jim felt the need for a little give and take.

"You mean, why do they call me Insane Ellison?"  Jim grinned his feral smile.

Jennings wasn't the least put back by all those teeth.  He wasn't.

"I tell you, Jennings, and you don't breathe a word of it to anyone.  Anyone.  Especially the shrinks back home.  Clear?"

The tone was dead calm, and Jennings wondered when the hell he'd learn to stop picking at scabs.

"I mean it, Kid," Jim continued.  "I even think you squealed on me, and I'll feed your liver to the Reds over there."

Jennings just nodded, not trusting his voice just at the moment.

Jim sighed and used his finger to stir the soup.  "Look, you know me and my platoon were taken a few months into my stint with the Rangers, right?"

Jennings nodded.  Everyone had heard about Bravo team being captured and subjected to "information retrieval."

"My field officer, my wire man, hell, everyone. They were all bug-house when we got rescued.  Stark raving paranoid, every last one."

Jim picked up the steaming hot can and took a swallow.  "You ever wonder why I was the only one certified for a return to field work?"

Privately, Jennings wasn't sure the shrinks had made such a good call on that one, because now Ellison was smiling that fierce, crooked half grin that made a guy wish he'd just stop using facial expressions altogether.

"I survived, because my imaginary friend held my hand the entire time."

Jennings sat there, waiting for the punch line.  Long minutes of silence went by, and it seemed like the joke was going on for way too long, here.

Ellison gave another chilling, self-deprecating smile, and this time Jennings couldn't help but flinch.

After that, Jennings spent the rest of the maneuver taking extra care to watch his back. And when the Reds finally caught up with them and Ellison got shot covering his retreat, Jennings pretended not to hear the anguished "Blair!" echoing through the trees.

And even when Jennings spent the next two days humping a wounded Ellison out of enemy territory, two days of listening to the guy whisper and mumble to his imaginary friend, Jennings still didn't say a word.  

Not one friggin' word.

***

August, 1990

Blair ignored the smells of beer and pot smoke, heavy in the air all around him, and went deeper.  Deeper.

He flexed his mind, powerful now from years of use.

C'mon, Jim, c'mon buddy, let me in.  Open up just a little, need your help here, Big Guy.  Ahhh, that's it, there… shhhh.…shhh… just listen to my voice.  I'm here now.  Oh Jim.  Oh my Jim, what did they do to you?  No, forget I asked.  Doesn't matter, nothing matters but you and me and the sound of my voice.  Ssh… oh babe, of course I love you.  Nothing you can do will ever change that.  Just relax, I've got you now, Jim.  I'm right here.  Right here.

From far, far away, Blair heard the muffled, indistinct sounds of the party he'd left.

"Man, look at Sandburg.  Kid's tripping on something wicked."

"Just shove him in the corner over there.  He does that sometimes."


May, 1997

Jim Ellison was a man of endurance.  A man who had learned that life was so much trickier and more painful to handle than a good, clean death.  Hell, if death were some cool, elegant Japanese blade, then life was that spiny little hedgehog trying to crawl up your pants leg; both painfully embarrassing and potentially emasculating.

So he'd learned to accept certain things.  Certain truths about living and whatnot.  Like the fact that everyone left you.  It didn't matter how much you loved them, or how much they claimed to love you back.  In fact, often, the more you loved them, the faster they disappeared, as though your desire for them fueled their flight.

Jim knew he was harsh and unlovable.  Hell, everyone who'd ever really known him had said as much, either in word or deed.  What were the odds that everyone else was wrong?  That he was the only sane man in a world of lunatics?   No, they were right, and even if he hadn't started out completely unlovable, by now he'd spent so long with hedgehog quills piercing his skin that he was permanently scarred.  Even Carolyn, possibly the most cool and self-contained woman he'd ever met, had eventually found all that scar tissue too much to take.

And Jim had become accustomed to thinking of himself like that.  Insane Ellison.  Stoneface Ellison.  Freak.  He heard things and saw things no one else saw, including stuff even he knew wasn’t there.  For a while after Peru it had all gone away, and he'd again lived with shades of grey and the vague hope of finally being normal.

A hope that his last few weeks on solitary stakeout had shattered.

However, in spite of knowing that this time his apparently cyclic insanity would land him in the state ward, Jim couldn't bring himself to completely regret its return.

Because the insanity meant that Chief was back, too.

Chief.  Blair.  The one being in the entire world who had loved Jim for everything he was and despite everything he'd ever done.  Jim had rejected and pushed his "friend" away time and again over the years, desperately searching for a more normal connection with humanity. But Blair always welcomed him back so warmly.  After Steven had committed that final betrayal between them, after his friends had wandered off and his wife had stormed off, Blair was always, always there.  Always ready to love him.

And the kicker, the damn fucking shame, was that Chief didn't even exist outside of one scarred soldier's psyche.  So there was no way, no possible way that the hyperactive young "doctor" who had just bounced his way in and out of Jim's exam room could be…

No.  

Some things a man just accepted, like accepting that you were going insane in your late thirties.  But to start believing that your imagination could just walk in a door?

No.

No fucking way.  He wasn't that far gone, yet.

So the next day found him in front of a storage closet in the bowels of Rainier, clenching his teeth against some insane jungle music and mad as all hell.

So what if this kid had some passing resemblance to how he'd always visualized Chief.  Didn't mean anything.  Didn't make Chief any less real in Jim's head.  In fact, who did this, this punk think he was?  Where did he get off being real -- flesh and blood real -- while the only person who loved Jim was just-

Fuck.

His righteous indignation carried Jim through the door, only to leave him stunned by the sight before him.  Gone was the nervous whiz-kid doctor from County General, and in his place was this… hippy with fly-away hair and strange chair-dancing tendencies.  God, just looking at him pissed Jim off further.  The little fraud couldn't stop at impersonating Jim's brilliant, loving friend.  Oh no, now he was smearing that legacy in mud with his irreverent stupidity.

But Jim couldn't deny that there was something about that beat, that precious, precious heartbeat.  It sounded so much like the one that had shaken his soul loose one October night and changed his life forever.  Enraged, barely listening to what he was saying, Jim threw the imposter against a wall, smelling, feeling, God -- taste?  Did he have to taste to be sure this wasn't-

Not real!  He begged desperately in his mind.  You're not real.  All these years, you'd have found me if you were real.

"If you shut me down now, you are never going to find out what's up with you!"

The imposter's voice slammed Jim out of his thoughts, and he backed away in sudden panic.  God, he knew.  Somehow this kid knew more about Jim than he did himself.  Jim could feel it in his nerves, in his soul.  

Unable to take another second of that intensely compassionate regard, Jim ran.

He stumbled down the front steps, barely understanding what was happening to him.  The sun slashed his skin open, leaving raw, searing wounds as he staggered across the campus lawn.  Each breath he took sucked millions of squiggling, thrashing things into his lungs, and Jim choked on the autumn air.  He wanted to scream in agony as voices and conversations from all around drilled through his ears and reverberated in his skull.

This was so much worse than the shades of grey.  His senses were amplified, magnified, torturous.  Jim staggered to a halt, mesmerized by the awful and compelling ghost images of a single, red Frisbee.   

The burning sensation on his skin faded into feathery wisps as that shockingly red toy defied gravity to hang forever before his eyes.  It was magnificent in its horrible serenity and Jim just… couldn't… look… away…
 

Why didn't you ever find me? he whispered in that endless moment on the pavement.  Why did you leave me alone with-

Jim's hands screamed in pain as asphalt bit deep into his palms.  He gasped desperately for air as a smelly, clanking thing thundered all around him.  He writhed pitifully in his skin, trying to finally break free of his body's tormenting assault after a lifetime of confusion and pain.

"No man!  Don't move don't move don't move it's going to be okay just hold still don't move don't move…."

The litany was muttered into his right hip, and it settled him, grounded him, kept his skin from splitting open to pour his soul into the autumn sky.

Jim stood up, dazed, only to see the hippy kid bounce off the pavement like a cartoon rabbit.  The worthless, clueless kid had followed him!  He'd assaulted and battered a police officer!  He'd thrown Jim on the street and… and…

"C'mon Chief, we've got to get out of here."

"We?  As in us?  Oh, that's great man, 'cause I've got some really specific ideas of how to proceed here…"

The damn… the darn… oh the stupid kid had just saved his life.  And Jim had called him 'Chief'.  Again.  In fact, he had the unpleasant suspicion that he'd been doing it all along.

Wearily, the battered old soldier followed his new guide behind Rainier's auditorium and on into Old Town.

***

"Specific ideas of how to proceed.  Oh great job Blair.  Just brilliant.  If he believes that maybe next you can sell him that bridge you have for sale…"

"You say something Sandburg?"  Jim asked around a mouthful of falafel.

Blair looked up from his mutterings, stunned all over again.  He was here.  Jim was actually, physically right here.  Blair's ideas of proceeding had largely involved getting his gorgeous Sentinel naked and horizontal as quickly as possible, but it seemed the universe, and Jim, had other plans.

Why did he have to be partnered up with the densest guardian on the planet?  

"No, Jim, just thinking."

"Well think louder, damn it.  It hurts my ears to listen to something that soft."

Blair stumbled to a halt.  "Hurts?  I, I don't-"

Jim sighed and tossed his wrapper.  "I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this stuff, but… okay look.  You know when your eyes are accustomed to a dark room and then 'wham', someone turns on the light?  It's like-"

"Of course!  You're concentrating so hard on the softer sound that louder sensations overwhelm you.  But Jim, it's not supposed to happen like that.  Your body is supposed to compensate naturally-"

"Well it's not, okay!  It never has!  That's why I want you to fix it!  Fix me, I mean.  How do I turn it off?"

"Jim, man, you don't turn it off.  That's like saying you want to turn off your hand or your hair.  It's part of you."

Jim rounded on the short, curly-haired kid and snarled in his face.  "Well it hurts!  It hurts physically, it hurts emotionally, and now it's hurting my job.  So to hell with natural, get out the damn knife and cut off the offending bits or so help me God I'll lose it.  I'm… I'm losing it now, Sandburg.  I'm barely hanging on with my fingernails, here."

Blair could see how appalled Jim was by his admissions, which was, like, way confusing.  Didn't he know that he could always confide in Blair?  Didn't he know that Blair had already been there through all the pain and misery?  Didn't he…

Oh.

Blair started walking again, ambling slowly as Jim matched his pace.  "Umm, Jim?  You don't know who I am, do you."

Jim drew breath and Blair watched as some snarky reply was born and died on his lips.  A strange look shone in the big cop's eyes, and Blair felt the first stirrings of hope.  "Jim?"

"You, remind me of someone," Jim said slowly, reaching out to touch the younger man.  "Someone I've never met."

"There's a reason for that,"  Blair whispered, oblivious to the crowd pressing past them.

"Tell me."  Jim pressed quietly, moving closer to Blair.  "Tell me about Sentinels."

"I'll do better than that," Blair replied, placing his hand over Jim's heart.  "I'm going to tell you a story about you, and me.  C'mon."

Blair took Jim's arm and started pulling him through the crowd.  Jim balked and snatched his arm back, but Blair just shook his head and started walking backwards, beckoning Jim to follow.  

And he did.

***

Jim needed another drink.

"So let me get this straight.  I was just some normal, average kid, going through life until you were born.  And then what?  Bang?  Superpowers?"

Blair groaned and leaned his head against the back of the sofa.  "Jim, you were never normal.  It's simply not safe for a Sentinel to  develop their senses until after their Guide is born."

Jim took another sip of his beer and stared into the barren apartment, thinking this over.

"In other words, I was always a freak, and you made me freakier."

"No!  Well, yes, but you're not a freak!  God, I could just really, really hate your dad for saying those horrible things.  I mean hating is bad, and the karmic load is so not cool.  But for you, man, I'd do it.  I'd do just about anything-"

"But he was right!  I'm a freak of nature!  I've lost my wife, my family, soon my job, I can't stand to wear clothes or eat food half the time and now I'm sitting in the middle of my living room with some strange University student-"

"Grad student, man."  Blair interjected.

"- who's telling me that he psychically kick-started my slow loss of sanity the day he was born!"

Blair sat quietly, absorbing Jim's words.  Slowly he raised his face, and Jim was startled by how ashen the skin was.

"I'm hurting you.  All this time I thought we… but I'm just causing you pain.  Aren't I?" he whispered.

Jim's anger leaked away in the face of Sandburg's grief.  "Well, sort of," he replied uncomfortably.

"Okay."  Blair stood, smiled a shaky smile, and began walking for the door.

"Hey, we're not done here."  Jim frowned and stood, setting his beer on the table.

"Yes we are."  Blair stood with his head bowed, his hand resting on the door.  "You'll wake up tomorrow, and this will all be just, just a bad dream."

Jim reacted to the hitch in Sandburg's voice before he could think about it.  He strode across the room and slammed his hand against the door, holding it closed.

"You said it couldn't be turned off! "

"I also said your senses wouldn't come on-line without your Guide.  It makes sense, then, that they wouldn't stay on-line without one, either.  So I'll just-"

"You'll just what?"  Jim menaced softly, crowding Sandburg against the door.

Blair swallowed hard, his heart rate spiking as all that hard muscle trapped him against the unyielding wood.

"I'll just.  Go."  He whispered.

Jim bared his teeth in a snarl and Blair jumped as he heard a hunting cat's scream in his mind.  "You mean leave.  You just found me, after making me wait my entire life, and now you leave!  Just like everyone else.  You made me this.  You made me what I am.  And now I'm not enough for you!"

"You don't want me!"  Blair screamed back, anger bubbling up through his shocked depression.  "I waited for you!  All my life I waited!  And now you don't… you don't…"

Scalding tears slipped down his cheeks, and he bowed his head, exhausted.

Softly, Jim touched Blair's chin, turning his face up until their eyes met.

"If you wanted me," he said, "then why didn't you ever come for me?  Why didn't you find me?"

"Oh, Jim."  Blair gulped and smiled through his tears.  "I did, Big Guy.  All these years, man, I was just waiting for you to find me back."

The simple truth of that pierced Jim's heart, and he moved to put his arms around his friend.  His joints felt rusty and clumsy, as though he'd never held anyone to him before.  Maybe he hadn't.  Maybe nothing in his life existed before Blair's salty tears on his shirt and Blair's curly mop snuggled under his chin.

And later, after much talk about Sentinels and their backups, and even later, after the clothes were removed and skin and hair and lips started caressing, Jim asked again.

"So if it was your job to find me in our heads," he murmured, milking the luscious lips with bites and kisses, "and it was my job to find you in the flesh…"

He trailed off, distracted by all that real -- honest to God real -- Blair flesh.

"Then why did… mmmm, Jim,"  Blair moaned, his skin tingling with pleasure, "then why did I come looking for you?"

"Yeah, that,"  Jim agreed, nuzzling his face into the soft hair over Blair's stomach.  There was a long breath of silence, and slowly Jim looked his partner full in the face.

"Oh Jim, I was so lonely.  I just… just couldn't wait any longer."  The whisper cracked the older man's heart, freezing his muscles in place.

"Blair," Jim choked out as he moved to cover his love, his soul, his Blair.

"Please don't leave, again."  Now Blair's voice was barely a sound, and tears threaded wet trails into his curls.

Jim engulfed Blair with his body, pressing the younger man closer.  But not enough, oh God, Jim needed so much more.  "Make it be like that first time, lover?"  Jim pleaded into the unruly hair.  "Be inside me, all the way.  Like the first time."

"First time?"  Blair mumbled from somewhere around Jim's breastbone.

Jim chuckled and shifted a little so his guide could get some air.  "That's right, you would have been a bit young, then.  Just, show me.  Show me how you do it."

Blair seemed to consider that a moment.  "Like this?" he ventured, and pushed himself into the Jim-corner of his mind.

Jim felt that wonderful, piercing sweetness fill him.  "Oh Chief, yeah, like that.  Please, like that but more."

More.  Blair whispered into their minds and opened himself to his Jim.  And now Jim could see all of Blair's love for him, and his confusion at Jim's going away, and all the lonely, lonely hours spent isolated in that brilliant mind. And Jim, hungry for all of him, poured himself out into Blair to make room for more.

Come inside me babe,  Jim crooned.  I've been alone too, Chief.  Please come home.

Jim's voice echoed between them as Blair wrenched their connection wide.  The piercing sweetness swelled in his bones, and Jim's skin and lips and quivering muscles thrummed in time.  Jim gasped with pleasure as Blair bucked under him, rubbing his hard, throbbing flesh against Jim's thigh.  

"Jim!  Oh Jesus, oh God this is… Jim, what … what is this?"

"This is us, babe."  Jim murmured smugly.

Blair's panting enflamed Jim, and his hands stroked and molded Blair to his body, trying to absorb him through his skin.  He bent to capture Blair's lips and suckled there, fusing their mouths like he was trying to fuse the rest of them. The heat was building higher and more fiercely between them and Jim felt himself melting, running like watercolors into Blair.

Almost, almost there.  He panted in their minds.  Just a little, oh… oh Blair… a little… uh… uh… more…

Jim's mind turned to liquid under that molten pressure and his hips thrust as his cock swelled and throbbed in time to Blair's heart.  

Faster… harder… he was flying apart and they were both sobbing into the wet heat of the other's mouth and writhing, desperate for more contact.

And out of memory, a little boy's voice echoed through the trees.

I don't want to be alone, anymore.

Never, love,  Jim replied fiercely.  Never alone again.

"Jim… oh God Blair!  Oh yes, uhh… uhh… oh… I'm gonna, I'm… yes yes YES!!"

Two voices shouted together, and two pairs of blue eyes shivered closed, their souls melting into each other.  Together.  Finally together.  

Forever.

 
fin

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