Guidelines
Power Play
Rated ADULT
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"Man, it is too damn early to get up," Blair complained as the sound of the alarm cut through his sleep. "Too damn early."
"Sandburg, it's the same time we get up every morning," Jim pointed out as he pushed himself up on one elbow and arched his back until it made a satisfying popping sound. Blair just seemed to burrow deeper into the blue sheets, one arm reaching blindly for the alarm on his side of the bed, and Jim felt a flash of guilt at the sight of the white bathrobe tie still around his Guide's wrist.
After a couple of months of working together, he knew Blair would never hurt him. Hell, the man would insanely throw himself between Jim and any possible danger, a tendency that left the Sentinel wanting to lock Blair up somewhere safely out of the way. But no matter how often he tried, he couldn't bond without fear clawing up his backbone and throwing every sense out of balance, at least, not without physically tying his partner down.
"Yeah, yeah," Blair muttered unhappily. "But every other morning I have something I want to do, like that Pakistani Independence Day celebration at the mosque. But am I going? No. I get to do the annual misery of the teaching staff in-service. Fuck." Blair finally pushed back the sheets, and glared at the alarm clock before reaching over and hitting it with far more force than necessary.
Jim had to suppress a smile at the tangled mess of hair and stubble that now groaned and stretched until bones popped. Wrapping an arm around Blair, he pulled the man to his chest, lowering his mouth to the juncture of shoulder and neck so that he could taste his guide. The morning after they bonded, Blair's skin always had a strong, salty musk to it that made Jim's senses snap into focus. Beneath his hands, Blair's muscles relaxed into him, and Blair let his head drop so that Jim could taste more of the skin, lapping up the pheromone-heavy dried sweat that coated his guide.
As he licked and nipped his way over the flesh, the scent grew stronger from the moisture. Working his way around to the front of Blair's neck, Jim felt his Guide's large Adam apple under his lips and he sucked gently at the skin. But he couldn't reach as much as he wanted, so he scooted back a bit, rolling Blair onto his back and then straddling his guide so that he could reach the other side of the neck as well.
Blair obligingly rolled his head to the side and Jim started tasting the new skin. When he reached the fleshy part of the shoulder, he bit down just hard enough to feel his teeth press into the skin, and Blair humped up into him, the smell of new musk and the dried bonding scent blending into a pheromone cocktail that nearly overpowered Jim as he sucked until he knew he would leave a mark behind. Fortunately, Blair never seemed to mind his habit of marking his guide.
When Blair's erection lengthened and hardened under him, Jim could feel his normal morning erection soften in reaction, and he cursed his own screwed up psychology. He released the now purplish skin and rested his forehead against Blair's shoulder.
"Man, we totally have time for a quickie. I will not mind being late for Dr. Edwards." Jim looked up to find Blair holding out the end of the white fuzzy cloth tied around his wrist.
"Blair, I'm so sorry," Jim said as he took the fabric in his fingers, feeling the nubs in the fabric with his thumb.
"Don't even go there," Blair warned him, "I don't have a problem with this. I just have to be careful going into the bath store because terry cloth is becoming an embarrassing turn on these days," he joked.
Jim looked up at his partner's open face, and he couldn't derail the guilt he always felt after having to tie his partner. Yes, he understood that Blair trusted him and, therefore, didn't attach any 'wrongness' to the act, but Jim felt like he betrayed Blair every time he couldn't trust his partner enough to let go of the fear and pain of his past.
"Man, I can hear your guilt. You can't control your body's reactions to certain stimuli, and that's okay. As a Sentinel, your sensory memory is far more developed…"
"Sandburg, being a Sentinel does not give me a right to keep making excuses," Jim said as he rolled away from his guide. Grabbing his robe from off the railing, he headed for the stairs.
"Damn cranky Sentinel," Blair muttered, and Jim couldn't avoid hearing that if he wanted to. The more they bonded, the more Jim found he couldn't give Blair privacy in the loft even if he wanted to. The man's every move registered on Jim's senses any time they were in the same building.
Jim turned the television on as he pulled breakfast steaks out of the refrigerator. Blair would give him shit about the fat and cholesterol, but Jim felt like steak and he didn't feel like listening to Blair's version of the food pyramid which seemed to include Adzuki Beans, Quinoa, Jicama and a dozen other weird foods without including good old fashioned steak and potatoes. Of course, Jim knew that he was exaggerating since Blair did occasionally love a thick, juicy steak, but he also felt cranky enough that his own exaggerated frustration with his Guide felt good.
When Blair finally wandered downstairs, Jim ignored the staggering steps and the wave of lust that followed Blair to the bathroom. Grabbing for the remote, he turned the volume up so he wouldn't have to listen to Blair taking care of his morning erection in the shower.
By the time he pulled the steak pan off the burner, he could hear Blair's frustrated grunts as he fought his hair into a neat ponytail.
"Man, I am so going to cut all this off one of these days," Blair complained as he came out of the bathroom in a blue shirt and dark blue jeans.
"Don't you dare," Jim threatened with a mock scowl, and he still found himself amazed at how laid back Blair could be, laughing at the threat that would have sent any other guide to a commanding officer to file an official complaint about an overbearing Sentinel.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don't have to wash the miserable stuff. The only reason I don't cut it is because when it's short the damn stuff poofs out like a Brillo pad."
"Then I *really* don't want you cutting it," Jim said as Blair came over and looked in the pan suspiciously.
"Steak?" Blair asked, a single eyebrow raising.
"You don't have time for a sit down breakfast, professor," Jim answered as though he had chosen out of courtesy rather than a feeling of pissiness that he really didn't have a right to feel.
"Uh-huh," Blair answered dubiously, but a knock at the door proved Jim's point and he left Blair to slap together a sandwich while he went to answer it. He pulled open the door and narrowed his eyes at the nervous man standing there.
"Teller." Jim said the name through clenched teeth.
"Ellison." Charlie tried to use the same intimidating tone, but he failed badly, especially since he wouldn't look Jim in the eye.
Taking a deep breath, Jim checked the various scents drifting off the man. After a moment, he was convinced that any illegal smoke smell was too old to pose Blair any risk.
"So, ready for Dr. Edward's famous threats and intimidations?" Blair asked before shoving about half the sandwich in his mouth so he would have both hands free to shrug into a tweed blazer.
"I can't believe I got suckered into teaching a class. This is monumentally unfair. I have to get up before noon, which is totally not my style." Charlie's self pitying whine left Jim unmoved, but Blair made muffled sympathetic noises through the sandwich as he grabbed his briefcase and then pulled the sandwich out of his mouth.
"Your Arch 105 students loved you," Blair said as he headed out the door, a brief lingering touch on Jim's arm the only farewell.
"That's because I lost their term papers and passed them all," Charlie pointed out as he followed.
"That's crap and you know it," Blair protested as Jim shut the door behind them. He continued to listen to half the conversation as he could hear Blair's voice all the way down to the street even as Charlie's voice became part of the background. For not the first time, Jim wondered why his guide had chosen Charlie as his closest friend, and while Jim did appreciate the fact that Charlie had put his neck on the line for both of them, he worried that a man with as many problems as Charlie could only pose a long term risk. Gritting his teeth, he realized that he just had to trust his Guide to ask him for help when that day came.
And that idea finally made Jim face the fact that he now had to go to work without his guide. He'd served a two week suspension while Blair went to work at the precinct, and he had never admitted how much of that time he spend gripping the table trying not to chase his partner down. And while they sometimes spent hours apart at the precinct, Jim could always track Blair somewhere in the building while he worked. Now he had to try and not let that absence interfere with his work.
The USSP had ranked his ability to work independent of a guide as one of the lowest on record, one reason Jim had been grateful when he finally crashed out of the program. When he had a guide, he clung to them. He found himself increasing agitated without them. But now that he had bonded with Blair, he would have one guide for the rest of his life, but that didn't mean he could ask Blair to give up his entire life for his Sentinel. Nope. Jim clenched his teeth and ordered himself to get through the entire day without Blair. Then, when they both got home tonight, he could bond until his Guide passed out from exhaustion. That was a plan.
Jim walked into the bullpen already feeling irritable, that crawling feeling that something was wrong running down his spine, but if he gave in and called Blair forty-five minutes into his first day at work, the man would know something was wrong. Jim could call his guide many names including annoying, persistent, and salacious, but he couldn't call the man stupid.
He barely had time to sit down before Simon's large shadow fell over his desk. "Jim, I got an official memo from the USSP this morning."
"Wonderful." Jim stabbed his computer with his pencil and fought the urge to break something. Of course the USSP would stick its nose in when he wanted them as far away as possible.
"I'm more worried about how closely they are keeping track of your schedule than I am worried about any warnings they have about your senses." Simon pointed out as he sat heavily in the chair normally reserved for suspects. Jim looked up at Simon, trying to figure out the guarded expression.
"Warnings?"
"They said that you are likely to become either emotionally unstable or unable to control your senses if Blair isn't at the station with you," Simon admitted in a low voice. Jim felt like laughing. He'd been emotionally unstable and without any control over his emotions for so long that the insult hardly seemed worth the cost of the fax paper. If Simon hadn't already decided he had emotional issues, a report from the USSP sure wouldn't change anything.
"How the hell did they know you were coming in alone today?" Simon demanded.
"It's orientation for all the TA's at Rainier; it wouldn't be hard to figure that out," Jim answered absent-mindedly. The teaching guides wanted to play a psychological game, prove that they could watch his every move, but Jim hardly felt threatened by bureaucratic shit heads when Blair had already made his choice to stand by Jim, no matter how messed up Jim was. And Blair knew better than anyone just how deep his angry, self-destructive streak really went.
"So, what are they talking about with your senses?" Simon finally asked.
"I'm fine, sir."
"Humor me, then. Is this document just made up?" Simon slipped a report in front of Jim, sliding it across the wood, and Jim had to restrain a cringe as he saw the official USSP stamp on it. Glancing through the text, Jim remembered signing this reprimand. It came from his brief pairing with Luis, who had even less patience than Cassie.
In condemning words, it described a Sentinel who became a non-functional liability when the guide removed himself for even brief periods of time. Jim remembered the out of control feeling, trying to keep himself focused on some training task while desperately searching the environment for some sign of his missing guide. He sighed and considered how much to tell Simon.
"No, it's not forged," he finally admitted. "When I was in the USSP, especially at the end, I had a lot of trouble with control. If my guide wasn't around, I had spikes and zones."
"Are you safe to go on the streets, Jim? I don't want a detective who zones in the middle of an investigation." Even though Simon's voice didn't condemn him, Jim still stiffened under the suggestion that he couldn't do his job.
"I'm fine, Simon. Part of my problem was that I didn't trust the guides I was working with. I expected them to disappear and I concentrated on trying to keep track of them instead of focusing on the job."
"And you trust Sandburg?"
"Absolutely. And that's why I'm fine on my own." Jim didn't mention the lingering discomfort because compared to his reactions in the past, he really was fine.
"I hate this sentinel crap," Simon said as he leaned back, but Jim could see the tension go out of the man.
"Yes, sir," Jim agreed. In fact, before Blair, he would have said that it wasn't worth the aggravation.
"So, this is basically an underhanded attack to try and make you uncomfortable enough so…" Simon paused as he waited for some sort of response, but Jim didn't know what to say. "What? So you go back into the USSP?" Simon finally asked.
"Maybe." Jim pushed the damning paper back toward Simon. "Maybe they just want to discredit me in general so that I can't show how successful a Sentinel can be outside of the program," Jim said as he considered the attack. General Kern probably wanted him back inside, but these guides just wanted him gone, and he really resented this political shit.
"I'd rather have a frontal assault than this subterfuge," Simon complained as he thumped the paper that sat between them on the desk.
"I'm there with you, Simon. I'm just glad Blair is handling this better than I am. Do you realize that they still haven't returned his confiscated possessions or replaced his social security card? If you hadn't bent some rules to get him the job here at the precinct, he wouldn't be able to rent an apartment or open a checking account or even get a job."
"Yeah, just as well. If the kid did get a job somewhere else the commissioner would have a fit. The man is frighteningly cheerful when someone mentions Sandburg's name." Simon rolled his eyes, and Jim had to smile at the gesture.
The commissioner had a sour reputation and a preference for ripping subordinates into pieces. Half the department worshipped Blair for taming the man's temper, and the other half resented the outsider who had the commissioner wrapped around his little finger, but then Blair had much of the department enthralled. Rafe turned to him for dating advice; he traded recipes with Taggart, and the man had the patience to listen to Ricardo's ex-wife complaints, which put Blair at the top of the man's will—if the man had anything left once his ex-wives finished.
"So, Blair's handling this harassment okay?" Simon asked. "We might be able to put some pressure on them with some of the paperwork issues, like the driver's license."
"He's amused by it. When I talk to him about it, he goes off on dominance displays and illusionary power bases. However, it still makes me nervous having Teller drive him around, so if you could put some pressure on the Motor Vehicle Department, I'd owe you a favor."
"I can do that. I'm just glad that the kid's handling this well and not trying to take on the whole USSP." Simon stood up, but when Jim didn't answer, his voice grew a little sharper. "Jim?" he asked. Jim kept his head down. He didn't know much of Blair's plans, but his inability to tune his Guide out meant that he heard more than Blair probably realized. "He isn't, is he?" Simon asked a third time.
"Not directly," Jim admitted.
"Is this something I should worry about? You two have given me enough gray hairs already."
"I'm not sure the USSP would worry even if they did know," Jim said as he rubbed his hair and tried to loosen tight back muscles. "He's been working with a woman he knows back east, Victoria Vinstein."
"The writer?"
"You know her?" Jim looked up in surprise.
Simon laughed, "I have a son, remember? You can't officially call yourself a parent until you've bought your kid at least two Vinstein books. She writes historical adventures."
"Well Blair's talked her into writing about Sentinels." Jim watched Simon's confusion and tried to hide his amusement. He probably had a similar expression when he'd heard Blair's scheme.
"And this is his form of taking down the USSP?"
"Just don't use that tone of voice in front of him," Jim warned his boss with a laugh. "I made that mistake, and I spent nearly an hour listening to him talk about cultural mythos and the transmission of values through children.
"So he's counting on these kids growing up thinking that the USSP is doing it wrong because it doesn't match what Vinstein wrote about in some historical fiction book?" Simon didn't even try and hide his disbelief. "Are you sure he's not breathing too much of the air over at Teller's place?"
"Hey, it makes him happy, and it means he isn't leading an anti-USSP parade, so I'm happy."
"If it works for you two...." Simon shook his head disbelievingly before changing the subject. "So, any progress on the Hahn murder?"
Jim felt his back tighten even more at the mention of the unsolved case.
"Don't give me that look. It's my job to ask," Simon sighed, "but Jim, you can't catch every killer. Besides, I have a new case for you. Let's take it into the office."
Jim logged out of his computer before following his boss into the office at the end of the squad room. He already had eight open cases, but three qualified for the cold case files, and Jim supposed he had to give up on them at some point. Maybe some recovered gun or unrelated investigation would give him a lead later on, but from Simon's grim expression, Jim guessed this new case would be taking up a lot of time in the near future. Settling into a chair across from Simon, he took the folder Simon slid across the desk.
A quick scan made his guts tighten. "Vice?" he demanded incredulously. "Come on, Captain. Don't do this to me. Rafe catches the vice cases."
"And if we needed to get into an upscale club or pass him off as an expensive hustler, I'd put Rafe on the case again. These people... well, you know these people, Jim. Rafe wouldn't stand a chance of getting close." Jim studied the names and pictures in the file. A few were familiar, but most were new.
"And what's my story for being gone for two years?" he asked as he tried to avoid growling his frustration. If Simon's glare was anything to go by, he hadn't managed to keep his tone neutral.
"The usual one. You went down south and got picked up for minor narcotics use. It fits with your back story."
"And if I'm on parole for narcotics, I'll avoid them in case my parole officer asks for a urine test."
"Exactly." Simon nodded. "Now the victim was a known breeder for the pit bull fights. He's been picked up three times, but only one cruelty to animals charge managed to stick. He was picked up again two nights ago, and this time vice had the case locked up: video tapes, breeding records, a training ring, and nearly sixty dogs. Fielding was on the verge of talking when his lawyer showed up, a lawyer he shares with Wallace, Hanes, and Esposito."
Jim looked down at the faces in the folder. He remembered Hanes, an insecure man with light brown skin and dark brown eyes. Hanes had handled the receipts for both the pit bull fights and the cock fights when Jim had worked vice before. Wallace and Esposito were new. Wallace was a fat man with dark hair and dark eyes that made Jim think briefly of Jabba the Hut. Esposito was sharp featured and even though he could only see a bust in the mug shot, he could tell the man was muscular from the squareness of his shoulders.
"So we think the lawyer told the other three that Fielding was ready to roll on them." Jim commented as he studied the pictures carefully.
"That's the theory. Vice got the call since it was their witness floating in the harbor, but killing a witness is our territory, and I want to know who ordered the hit," Simon just about growled. "So, since you have history with Hanes, I want you to check out a few of the clubs tonight."
"And if someone saw my news conference a few months back?" Jim asked dubiously.
"Then wait a couple of days until that peach fuzz you call a beard comes in. Trust me, I remember you when you worked vice, and I wouldn't have been able to ID you from the news conference," Simon said confidently, and Jim had to take the man's word since he knew the captain would never put a member of the unit in danger.
He just really hadn't wanted to put on that personality again, the cold, dangerous façade he'd used when working Vice had bothered him more than he had ever admitted. Jim picked up the file and headed back to his desk.
Blair struggled to keep his eyes open as Dr. Edwards switched out the transparency on the overhead. This one showed retention from freshman to sophomore year, and he could give her speech from memory. "Reach out to the students… blah… blah… blah…" "Hold high standards… blah… blah… blah…"
Blair sunk a little lower in his seat as Kelly sashayed into the room a good thirty minutes late for the meeting. If that had been Blair strolling in… Actually, if Blair tried walking anywhere in a mid-thigh leather skirt and heels that high, he would have very serious issues even without the twitch in Dr. Edwards' right eye when she was about to blow.
"Ms. Newman, so nice of you to join us," Dr. Edwards spit sarcastically, and Blair flinched just being in the same room with that tone of voice, but Kelly smiled sweetly as she slid into one of the many empty seats in the front row and tilted her head almost as though giving Dr. Edwards permission to continue. For a half second, time stopped as the two women stared at each other and everyone else tried not to breath.
"God that woman has balls," Charlie whispered as he looked up from the video game tucked between the official binder of TA rules and his stomach.
"As someone who has been up close and personal with her genitals, I can promise you, she doesn't," Blair answered. "And I'm hoping you meant Kelly," he added as he watched Edwards and Kelly break eye contact with an almost tangible snap.
"And as someone who is in favor of female genitals any time, any place, and any level of soberness, can I just say that you are fucking insane for going near that one?" Charlie answered about the same time Dr. Edwards frowned toward the back rows. Blair ignored Charlie and Kelly as he tried to at least look attentive. With his new project partnering with the USSP and his new job at the department, he'd managed to crawl up from social pariah to merely annoying in Edwards' books, and he didn't intend to drop back down again.
When the orientation ended, Blair tried to dart for the exit closest to the library where he could hide in the stacks for hours, but before he could reach the double doors to freedom, he found himself eye to breast with a white silk shirt and multiple strands of gold on a perfectly tanned chest. Four months ago the sight of that chest had short circuited every single one of his brain cells, and Blair had a nagging suspicion that he would have fallen back into the whole Kelly-breast worship again if it weren't for the fact that his taste in chests had changed. Like seriously changed.
"Hey there," Blair finally offered with his best not-looking-for-trouble smile.
"Surely you weren't going to leave without saying 'hi'," she said as she stepped closer, and Blair backed up, managing to bump Sarah Ang who specialized in Native American cultures. She shot him a dirty look, and he shrugged an apology.
"Oh, Blair, I just can't take you anywhere, can I?" Kelly laughed, her low voice rumbling with a sexy laugh as she threaded her arm between Blair's body and his right arm, capturing it in a strong hold as she pulled him toward the door.
"Hands off the goods, Kelly. I told you last year that this thing between us over, and I meant it."
"Oh Blair," she laughed, "I've heard that before, and it never lasts. Just give in quickly and we can go for coffee."
"Yeah, but this last time I really meant it," Blair said as he planted his feet, and then nearly fell over as Kelly just kept pulling. He would have been shocked at the woman's strength, but then he'd seen her dripping sweat, muscles flexing as she drove herself to the edge at the gym.
"Kelly, enough is enough," Blair said as he tried to keep some dignity while being dragged down the hall by a woman who stood a good eight inches taller than him. A few of his fellow TA's turned to watch the show, and Blair felt himself blush. Thankfully, he didn't have the sort of fair skin that showed his blushes or he would really humiliate himself.
"Oh, hey, Blair, don't we have to meet that one guy?" Charlie asked as he hurried behind them.
"Get lost, Teller," Kelly snapped, and Blair planted his feet as firmly as he could on the tile floor, pulling her to a stop.
"Kelly, knock it off," Blair demanded as he jerked his arm out of her grasp. In an instant, he could see the anger blaze in her eyes as she put her hands on her hips and glared down.
"Blair," she said, drawing his name out into three or four syllables in a clear warning.
"No, Kelly," Blair insisted even though his stomach twisted at that familiar expression. In the past it might have been a good sort of twist, but now he just felt the twisting nausea without the perks.
"You don't say 'no' to me," she said darkly, and her eyes narrowed. Blair suddenly realized just how ridiculous that sounded. Her attitude might have been a bit of a turn on when they were involved, but now she just sounded like a petulant child.
"Okay, I can say 'no' to you, and there isn't anything you can do except deny me sex, which really isn't a problem for me," Blair shrugged as he watched the color rise in her cheeks. "Really not a problem. Big-old enormous not a problem," he egged Kelly on with a wink to let her know just how not worried he was on the sex front.
Nodding to Charlie who stood there with a slightly shocked expression, Blair headed down the hall toward the elevators. The memo he'd gotten assigned him Artifact Room 3 as an office, and Blair had every intention of taking advantage of finally having office space and a bit of respect, even if Kelly Newman wouldn't be first in line to congratulate him.
"Man, you are seriously soft in the head," Charlie hissed as he dashed into the elevator just as the doors closed.
"Oh please, I've dated far scarier than her," Blair pointed out as he punched the button for the basement. "Remember Svetlana? Oh man, what a pair of legs she had." Blair remembered the blonde in her thigh high boots and plaid skirt, the one she wore when they went dancing.
"Yeah, but she was just intimidating, you know, as in, you were the only man on campus with the nerve to ask her out. Kelly is seriously wacked. Did you see the look she gave you?" Charlie asked, but Blair just stepped out of the elevator and headed down the hall. Two doors down, he found it. Below "Artifact Storage Room 3", a brand new plaque announced "Blair Sandburg, USSP Studies."
"Okay, I could live without the 'USSP' part," Blair said as he pulled out his key and fit it into the lock.
"You have some seriously fucked up priorities, if that's what you're worried about," Charlie commented with a snort as Blair pushed open the door to his very own office, which looked suspiciously like a storage room that someone had pushed a desk into the middle of. "This is it?" Charlie asked as he looked into the crowded room.
"Yeah, isn't it great?" Blair answered as he walked in and dropped the orientation information on the desk.
"If you're suffering from pack-rat-itis, maybe," Charlie answered dubiously.
"All it needs is some cleaning. You go hunt down some paper towels and a bucket of water, and I'll start shifting some of this stuff to clear up some shelf space," Blair said. Turning he found Charlie looking at him suspiciously. "Oh come on, it's going to be great," he defended his space, and really he meant it. The desk was an old, heavy oak behemoth, built like a table only lower, and the shelves had thousands of artifacts, each neatly labeled with a square tag so that Blair felt like a kid who'd found a secret room in some museum. It even smelled of age and respectability.
"Soft in the head," Charlie said slowly as he dropped his own orientation folder and the video game on the dirty desk before heading back out the door. "Soft. In. The. Head," he called behind him even once he was in the hall.
"It's great," Blair yelled back as he eyed the shelves, considering how to rearrange his new office so that he had file space without losing the museum feel by putting all the artifacts in boxes.
Four hours later Blair pushed back a sweaty stand of hair as he looked around his office. Artifacts from a dozen cultures sat on the shelves, but he had cleared two bookshelves for his own research, and the desk practically glowed with layers of dirt and dust scrubbed off. It was almost worth missing the Pakistani celebration.
Glancing up at the clock, Blair threw the soggy grey paper towel onto the mountain of trash sitting in a box top. The office hadn't come with a trash can or a computer or an extension cord long enough for his laptop to plug into the wall or even a cheap stapler, so Blair could see a trip to an office supply store in his future. Well, at least after he grabbed a very late lunch and then caught a bus downtown.
With a smile for his new office, Blair locked up and headed out as he debated between the fish place near the bus stop or the student union. However, as soon as he pushed open the doors to the Anthro building, the shouts of a crowd milling near the admin building attracted his attention away from his grumbling stomach and even that little twitch that made him want to call Jim, which he wouldn't do because he wasn't going to nag the man to death.
Cutting across the manicured lawn, Blair wandered toward a tall girl in a black t-shirt with torn jeans, the sort he might have gone for a few months ago.
"Hey, what's up?" he asked as he squinted up at her sign.
"Didn't you hear about the new program? The university sold their souls to the USSP to get a research project—pigs." The woman shook her sign and whooped as a young man with a goatee climbed up on a brick planter. Standing there in shock, Blair felt his arm grabbed for a second time as the girl pulled him forward with a surge of students who pushed in toward the front of the admin building.
"Are we going to let them turn our university into a political tool?" the red-haired man screamed as he balanced on the brickwork. A lacework of shadows from the tall trees gave his face inhuman curves as the audience yelled their support.
"NO!" screamed the girl next to Blair and the other students standing around. Blair watched in a sort of horrified amusement at the enthusiasm on the faces of the students around him, and a part of him considered adding his own voice since he wasn't a huge USSP fan himself. However, protesting himself seemed rather pointless.
"Are we going to let strong-arming soldiers march through our campus?" the man on the planter screamed, his voice growing shriller and louder as the crowd cheered him on.
"NO!"
Blair opened his mouth to point out that his Sentinel project wouldn't bring Sentinels on campus, but he doubted they'd listen.
"Are we going to let the government continue to erode our civil rights?"
"NO!" This time Blair did add his own voice. As someone who had been hauled naked out of his own bed, he could get behind that one. The girl on his arm smiled at him as she lifted her sign higher. A young man in flannel bumped him, and Blair pushed closer to the girl as he tried to avoid the crowd of students pressing in around him.
"Will we sit by while they turn our civil liberties into a joke?" the man screamed so loud that his voice broke on the word "joke," and he squeaked out the "k" sound.
"NO!" the crowd screamed back, Blair along with them. He'd avoided protests in his early years at the university since he really didn't want to get kicked out on his ass, but he'd grown up in the middle of protests, had been passed around as a baby so that photographers could get a good snapshot of some protester with a 'Stop Nuclear Pollution' sign in one hand and a curly haired baby in the other. Hell, he'd learned his alphabet while helping his mom make signs.
"Do we want the USSP on our campus?"
"NO!" Blair allowed himself to shout out all his frustrations in that one word and he screamed it louder than anyone. The girl next to him bounced some, shaking her sign, and Blair couldn't help but smile at her open enthusiasm. The truth was that he didn't want the USSP on campus; he just had to deal with them to keep Jim safe.
"Are we going to allow the USSP on our campus?"
"NO!" This time Blair didn't add his own voice to the chorus of responses. Bodies pressed in from behind, and Blair tried to turn and complain only to have a wave press in against him, shoving him toward the front of the admin building. The girl on his arm stumbled, and Blair reached down and hauled her up by her elbow before she could fall and get trampled.
"Hell No! We won't go!" the man on the planter screamed, and the crowd picked up the familiar chant as bodies milled into each other, elbows and shoulders shoving, and now Blair could see why. A line of campus police with batons drawn stood in a half circle around the protesters, and now, as the chant of 'Hell no! We won't go' echoed off the brick of the admin building, the campus police shifted nervously.
Blair tried to fight his way up to the planter, to try and somehow derail the coming disaster, but an elbow in his stomach nearly sent him to the ground, and he had to fight just to keep upright. In the milling crowd, he lost the girl, and now he worked around to the edge of the protest, his back up against the brick of the admin building as he watched city police pull people out of the crowd two and three at a time.
Pulling at the glass doors, he found them locked, and as police cars pulled up with their lights flashing, Blair realized that he might be in just a little bit of trouble.
***
Shifting in the metal chair someone had set up next to a wobbling folding table, Blair rolled his eyes at the officer sitting across from him holding the form he had just filled in.
"I told you I don't have any identification."
"And how do you spell your name?" the officer asked even though he insisted on staring at the form on which Blair had written his name rather than at Blair himself.
"Sandburg: S-A-N-D-B-U-R-G. Blair: B-L-A-I-R."
"Address?"
"852 Prospect, Cascade, WA 98765. Do we really have to keep doing this? I gave you my information, and if you would just call Simon Banks or Jim Ellison of Major Crimes, they'll vouch for me." Blair fought back a desire to rip the forms out of the officer's hands so that the man would at least look at him.
"Right." The officer didn't even bother trying to sound convinced.
"Got a problem?" An older officer with gray at the temples walked up, and Blair bit back a number of answers.
"I'm just trying to explain that my identification got lost when I did some consulting work for the USSP down in California." Blair kept his voice calm and steady, but it wasn't easy considering the new officer had a look of amused disbelief.
"Right, and that's why you're protesting the USSP," the older man nodded condescendingly.
"Blair Sandburg *is* the head of the new program, which is why I'm guessing our joker here isn't Mr. Sandburg."
"You run his prints?"
"Nothing in the database."
"If you'd run the police employee database instead of the criminal one, you might find something," Blair pointed out, and a hand fell on his shoulder, tightening as the older officer leaned over him.
"Son, this protest is nothing more than a ticket. Your folks will be put out when they have to pay the hundred dollars, but they aren't going to be as angry as you think. Just give us your correct information, and you can go on your way."
Blair stared up at the man silently. Really, what answer could he give? It took him a minute to decide on his next words.
"You guys really are stupid." As Blair watched the man's features twist into something far colder, he decided those hadn't been the best words to use. "Just check the employee database; I'm really Blair Sandburg. I was just cleaning up my office in the next building over."
"Stand up," the older cop ordered, and Blair recognized that tone from a dozen protests he'd attended with his mother.
"Oh man, you are screwing this up. I'm telling you the truth. You don't have to believe me, just take ten minutes to log into the employee datab—" Blair's words ended with a yelp as the man yanked him to his feet sharply enough to make Blair's shoulder ache.
"I have had enough of this crap. Do you kids think we have nothing better to do than babysit a bunch of whiners?"
"I never sa—"
"Terrorism and our boys dying overseas to keep our country safe… Sentinels dying overseas to keep us safe, and you lot have to complain because you think the world is unfair."
"I nev—"
"If you had an ounce of respect for the people who died in the Veteran's Day Bombings or an ounce of respect for the people who are fighting to keep us safe, you wouldn't pull this shit."
Blair would have answered but a strong hand pushed him face first into the side of a police van before frisking him, and the cop's tone of voice suggested that he had passed rational discussion a couple of exits back. When the cop finished frisking him, a cold voice ordered him to put his hands behind his back before even colder steel closed on his wrists. He waited as he heard another officer open the back of the van while Mr. Cranky held his arm like he was going to try and run off handcuffed.
"Get up in there, and next time an officer asks for your name, you'd better give it," the cop ordered as he pulled Blair to the back of the van, and Blair climbed in, sitting on the cold metal seat and exchanging a quick look with two other protesters already in there. Blair heard the metal cage door slam right before the van door closed, leaving the three of them in a twilight as the sun filtered weakly through the thick, narrow windows near the top.
"Hey, man, claiming to be Blair Sandburg and trying to put some of the blame back on him… very cool," one of the others offered in a friendly voice. Blair just sat back and let the back of his head thump against the metal of the van.
"Who's Blair Sandburg?" the other one asked.
"An idiot," Blair answered the student without bothering to move his eyes from the thick glass with the embedded chicken wire type reinforcement, "a real idiot."
Despite a lifetime of watching Rockford Files and Miami Vice, Blair found the reality of jail much different from television. Rather than tattooed murders with bald heads, eerily normal people shared his cell. A bleary-eyed business man in a wrinkled suit, one of the students he'd met in the van, and a thin man with a Metallica t-shirt and a face that looked like an extra from The Land of the Living Dead all sat on a low metal bench bolted to the cinderblock wall. Blair shifted on the bench as his ass started to ache. All he could do was wait for Hurricane Ellison to storm in. One day back on campus, and the charges included illegal assembly, failure to follow the directions of a law enforcement officer, and destruction of public property, not that Blair had anything to do with the broken planter or the spray-painted admin building.
Living Dead man sprang up from his spot at the end of the bench and started pacing as he nervously scratched his hair.
"My parents are so killing me," the other protestor complained softly as Living Dead guy scratched more enthusiastically, a look of rapture on his face as he cured some itch.
"I'll trade your parents for my roommate," Blair answered just as softly.
"No way. My parents are going to give birth to full grown Siberian tigers when they find out. I'd totally trade."
Blair didn't have time to answer as the door at the end of the room clanked open and a tall, muscular, completely pissed-off Sentinel pushed past a uniformed guard before stomping down the concrete walkway between holding cells.
"Who the fuck is that?" the protestor whispered in horror. Even Living Dead guy retreated to the end of the cell, his scratching limited to a spot on his upper arm while he watched suspiciously.
"My roommate." Blair flinched as the grey uniforms of USSP guides appeared at the far end of the corridor.
"No trade. I'll take my parents; at least I'll survive," the protestor hissed as Blair stood up and stepped to the locked cell door as Jim waited impatiently for the uniformed officer to open it, the muscle in his jaw practically doing a jig on his face.
"Chief," Jim said, and Blair could feel the anger rolling over him in waves.
"While Major Browning suggested that I prepare myself for some outrageous behavior, I hardly expected to find you protesting your own program," one of the grey uniforms coldly stated as they now moved cautiously down the hall.
"Oh man, do NOT go there. This was a big mistake."
"A mistake," the guide repeated condescendingly, but Blair ignored him and focused on Jim.
"I was leaving my office when I saw the protest, and I was just there when the police showed up. I didn't have any ID," Blair took a second to glare at the USSP guide, "and the cops wouldn't call you guys or check my fingerprints against the employee database. And man, I've been stuck in here for three hours with no lunch; where have you been?" Blair knew he was horribly manipulating Jim's over-protective instincts, but it seemed like the easiest way to avoid a rather public and messy death. Unfortunately Jim ignored his plea for food.
As the officer opened the cell door, Jim stood with his body blocking the exit, arms crossed over his chest.
"I was at your office, investigating a case of vandalism," Jim ground out from between clenched teeth.
"Oh no. Not my new office. Oh man, tell me they didn't get inside."
Jim just looked at him with one eyebrow raised. Seeing that expression, Blair sagged sideways into the bars of the cell. "This just sucks." Blair leaned his head against the cold metal and closed his eyes. A warm hand closed over his upper arm, and he opened his eyes to find Jim with a more sympathetic expression.
"We'll get it cleaned up before classes start," Jim promised, and Blair inched forward, wishing he could take thirty seconds to hide in his Sentinel's arms before facing the world, but the uniformed guides watched with suspicious gazes. Blair had to content himself with taking a deep breath and finding his emotional center.
"How bad?" he asked.
"Pig blood. The university is making some noises about some damaged artifacts, but mostly the blood just got the desk and the floor."
"Great, I'm back on Edwards' shit list, then. So, do I even have an office any more, or did the woman pry my nameplate off the door with her talons?"
"More like the commissioner berated her for not having security on such a sensitive project and endangering *his* cultural liaison," Jim answered, and despite the cell and the Living Dead guy now pulling up his t-shirt to scratch an emaciated stomach and the UPPS guides looking on in disdain, Blair could see the genuine amusement in his Sentinel's eyes. Jim and Simon had both complained of being on the end of the commissioner's sharp tongue, but that obviously didn't stop Jim from enjoying it when it happened to someone else.
"Yes, well, if we could get back upstairs, we do have a number of tests to complete."
"Tests?" Blair asked as he looked around Jim, his hand lingering on Jim's arm. When the USSP guide pointedly glared at the hand, Blair tightened his fingers so that he held Jim's arm tightly.
"We have reason to suspect your testing procedures, so we have come to perform a series of baseline tests on Captain Ellison."
"Baseline tests?" Blair had allowed Jim to subtly keep his own body between Blair and the guides, but now Blair kept his hand on Jim's arm as he stepped around. "You're doing tests without his guide there?" Blair demanded.
"We need accurate data." The taller guide said in a tone that clearly dismissed Blair's records. The scientist in Blair seethed, but the guide in him wanted to kick the asshole right in the shin… multiple times… preferable with steel-toed shoes.
"Testing any Sentinel requires a guide's presence in case of zoning or spikes," Blair hissed through clenched teeth.
"Captain Ellison has no guide, that is the whole reason for your research, so the issue is moot," the man answered in the most smug voice Blair had heard since Edwards turned down his dissertation topic.
"You son of—"
"Chief," Jim interrupted loudly, "let's get you out of back to the university so you can check on your office."
"Like I give a rat's ass—" Blair started.
"You are truly out of your mind," the taller guide said as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"I am acting as his guide, and I am the primary researcher in charge of this project. If you review the paperwork I signed with General Kern, you will see that I have all the legal rights of a guide until the USSP has accepted my dissertation." Blair crossed his own arms over his chest and glared back at both guides. That piece of information made them look at one another in clear alarm.
"Someone didn't do their homework," Blair said to the guides in his sweetest voice before turning his back and heading down the concrete hallway. "I always tell my students that if you don't do your homework, you'd better be able to at least bluff well, and man, you two so can't," Blair finished as he reached the metal door that separated the holding cells from the intake area. An officer pulled open the door, and Blair headed for the elevator.
"Mr. Sandburg," a voice snarled behind him, and Blair smiled as he hit the elevator button. Aggravating tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee almost made hours in a holding cell worth while.
"Hey, you can't leave without doing the paperwork," another voice called, and Blair turned to see grumpy cop from the protest closing in on him. Or at least, Blair did see him until Mount Ellison moved into his line of sight.
"Would you be Officer Gaddis?" Jim asked in a tone that left Blair surprised that it didn't start snowing from the sudden cold front.
"Yeah. Why?"
"Then you would be the one who harassed my partner when he was trying to get around protesters who targeted him." Jim nearly whispered his words, but each was a sharp little stone that hit Gaddis hard enough to make him flinch back. "You would be the one who slammed him around rather than try to confirm his identity." Jim started stalking forward, and Blair could see the two guides freeze in fear as the primal side of Jim reared its head. For a moment, Blair hesitated. If he stepped in, would they think Jim couldn't control himself? Better yet, *could* Jim control himself?
"You would be the idiot who let the protesters get into the anthropology building with pig's blood," Jim finished, and now Gaddis was nearly against the wall, his protruding stomach the only thing that kept Jim out of his face.
"Man, he is so not worth the high blood pressure, Jim. You get another ulcer, and it's going to be cabbage juice for a month," Blair pleaded. For a moment, time stopped as other officers froze and even the incoming suspects shut up long enough to watch Jim lean his hands on the wall on either side of Gaddis' face. Blair could practically feel the aggression rolling off Jim, and for a man who usually prided himself on control, this was not his best moment.
"Don't bother him again," Jim said seriously, and then he pushed away as he headed for the elevator. Blair just stood with an open mouth as Jim caught his arm and pulled him along. As the doors shut, Blair got a good look at a field of shocked faces.
"Okay, what the hell is going on?" Blair asked as soon as the elevator jerked into motion, leaving the USSP guides behind.
"Nothing," Jim said, but Blair could see the tight muscles in the Sentinel's arms raised in tense cords. Despite the cameras, Blair did what he had wanted to do from the moment Jim appeared to rescue him from the cell: He stepped forward and leaned into Jim's body, feeling the stiff body slowly relax as the elevator, for once, moved up without stopping on every floor. Eventually, Jim's arm crept around and circled Blair's waist, and Blair let himself sag into the feeling of security.
"What's wrong, and don't give me bullshit this time," Blair whispered. Jim sighed, his whole frame shuddering for a moment as the elevator beeped its warning. Blair straightened up some as the door came open on the fifth floor and picked up a secretary. Blair gave her a quick smile and nod.
"Not here, Chief," Jim whispered back, and then the doors opened onto the sixth floor. Blair let Jim guide him, Jim's hand on his back and large fingers curled around his arm. He'd long ago noticed that the more upset Jim became, the more he tried to physically control Blair's movements. Blair didn't comment as Jim led him past the desks in the bullpen and right through into Simon's office.
"Jim? Blair?" Simon asked as they came in. Jim started closing blinds without answering, and Simon pulled his unlit cigar out of his mouth. "Do I want to be here for this?" he asked in a low voice that sounded deeply tired.
"Probably not," Jim suggested, and Blair looked over in concern. Jim didn't say anything else, but Blair noticed how he moved in short, jerky motions that lacked all of the grace Blair had come to associate with Jim.
"I'll be… hell, I'll be somewhere else," Simon said as he flipped the monitor of his computer off and pushed himself up using the top of his desk. "I hate this Sentinel shit, and if I can find so much as an unpaid parking ticket, I'm going to shove those two guides into the smallest cell I can find and weld the door shut," Simon muttered as he left the room, pulling the door closed so hard that the blinds bounced and rattled.
"Jim?" Blair asked as he stepped forward. Jim pressed his lips together in an expression that Blair had learned to associate with frustration and pain. "Oh man, what's wrong?" Blair asked as he closed the distance and put his palm on Jim's chest.
"I've lost control of touch and hearing," Jim admitted before he pressed his lips into a thin, pained line.
"Shit." Blair fumbled with his buttons, struggling to hurry as Jim's eyes started dilating into black pools. As soon as he started pulling the shirt open, Jim's large hand rested against the hair on his chest. Jim's thumb slowly rubbed a small patch of skin until it warmed. When Blair let the shirt fall off his shoulders, Jim's arms pulled him into a tight embrace.
"I'm sorry," Jim muttered into the crook of Blair's neck, and the breath flowed over his shoulder making the small hairs stand up as the skin tingled.
"It's okay. Just find your dial for touch. You know what baseline feels like, so just let your skin find normal," Blair muttered as he backed up toward the couch, Jim shuffling forward with him as he held on. "Where's your dial for touch?" Blair asked as he sat, Jim following him down so that they were half-sitting and half-laying with Blair on the bottom. Blair reached up, and ran the back of his fingers over Jim's cheek. He didn't want to press fabric into overly sensitive skin, but he could feel the need to touch as strongly as he could feel his own hunger.
"About a seven," Jim finally admitted.
"Dial it back down to a five." Blair could feel the moment the danger passed because Jim stiffened and tried to pull away. Blair closed one arm around Jim's shoulders, and he put his other hand over the fingers Jim still had on Blair's chest. Jim sagged back down, his weight resting on Blair and feeling right. "Just use the baseline, you don't need to hurry," Blair muttered as the feeling of Jim's fingers brushing over his chest hair made his own body come to life. A thumb rubbed over a puckered nipple, and Blair's whole body jerked as though electricity had shot through it.
"Oh man. Oh man. Shit. Simon will kill us if we do this here," Blair breathed helplessly as his body responded to the feeling of being under Jim and having Jim's hands play with him.
"Relax, Junior. There will be no fluids on Simon's couch," Jim ordered as his hands stopped their random caresses and just rested on Blair's chest.
"Too late for that," Blair pointed out. From Jim's chuckle, he guessed that Jim knew just how quickly he had gone from worried to hard and leaking.
"I've never seen a man who could go from zero to fuck in five seconds," Jim laughed as he shifted, his weight still pinning Blair to the couch. "God, I think a table leg could get you going."
"Nope, just cranky, uncommunicative ex-USSP officers," Blair disagreed. He could feel Jim tense a little. "So, are your hearing and touch back in line?" Blair asked.
"Yeah, they're fine," Jim sat up on the couch and he pulled Blair with him so that they sat side by side with Jim's arm thrown around Blair's shoulder.
"So, what happened, and don't give me any bullshit," Blair said as he leaned his body into Jim's.
"The tests were a little…" Jim stopped. Blair considered which tests the USSP might have given to send Jim's senses out of control.
"Which—"
"Hoffman-Siebert visual acuity testing and a Rist sensitivity cycle," Jim blurted sharply and without emotion. He leaned away from Blair and the arm that had been holding Blair now scrubbed military-short hair. Blair sat in shock, trying to process his feelings before he said something that would add to Jim's burden.
"Those pieces of fucking filth," Blair finally snapped. No amount of processing would make him even a little bit okay with that. The Hoffman-Siebert required recognizing outlines in low lighting conditions with strobes intermittently flashing right into a Sentinel's eyes. It carried one of the highest warnings for spikes and researchers rarely used it any more. Blair certainly hadn't used it. The Rist required intentionally aggravating a patch of skin in an attempt to locate a Sentinel's zone or spike range.
"Where?" Blair asked. Jim didn't need any explanation. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. Where a doctor might put a blood pressure cuff, the skin had been worn raw with red welts and white spots.
"I'll fucking kill them," Blair swore.
"Hey, you're supposed to be the calming influence here, Chief," Jim said as he pulled the shirt back on.
"You need treatment, ointment and a bandage," Blair protested, but Jim kept buttoning his shirt.
"I just needed to get the dial back under control. I'm fine," Jim insisted as he stood up. "The tall one is Captain Cohn; he keeps quoting Browning, so it's safe to say he isn't part of the Ellison/Sandburg fan club. The shorter one with the pinched face is Wilke. Do you think they intentionally send them out in pairs where one never talks?" Jim asked as he rubbed his neck.
"Too bad they aren't all speechless; the world would be a better place," Blair muttered as he picked up his own shirt. He had just gotten his arms into the sleeves when someone knocked on the office door.
Jim walked over and opened it to find Cohn and Wilke waiting. Cohn's mouth had been open, and from his expression, he wasn't about to say anything good. Faced with Jim, his mouth closed with an audible click.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Cohn said with snotty innuendo. Blair just kept buttoning his shirt.
"Nope," he answered. "However, I'm glad you're up here because it saves everyone the time it would take to track you down and arrest you."
"Insane," Cohn repeated his earlier accusation.
Jim stepped back, and Blair glanced over. The man who could make suspects tremble and had no trouble slamming him into the side of a truck seemed to shrink away from this uniform. The sight of Jim backing away made Blair want to kick the entire USSP's ass. Unfortunately, he didn't have that many feet.
"You conducted tests which are clearly prohibited without a guide present. So, I can either charge you with assault against an unpaired Sentinel since you risked sending him into a zone with no guide to bring him back or I can charge you with interfering with a Sentinel pairing since General Kern's paperwork gives me the legal standing of a guide even if I'm not one." Blair smiled, but then he could afford to be kind when he held the cards. "Decisions, decisions," he intoned.
"You are a civilian with whom we have agreed to work in order to help you with your dissertation. You do not dictate terms."
"I am the civilian who General Kern gave a guide's rights and responsibilities, and you can go to hell. The USSP has a right to oversee this project, but you don't," Blair insisted. "If you get near Jim again, I *will* press charges."
"This is your pathetic attempt to hide your faulty research methodology."
Pointing at Wilke, Blair asked, "Can you observe and record data without assaulting a Sentinel and endangering his life?" Blair demanded. Of all the USSP guides he'd met, Wilke was the first that didn't set of his internal slime alarm.
Wilke glanced toward Cohn and then back toward Jim who leaned back on the edge of Simon's desk, clearly unwilling to get involved in guide business.
"Yes," Wilke barely whispered.
"This is ridiculous," Cohn snarled. "You will work with whomever the USSP dictates."
"Jim, I want to press charges for assault and unlawful interference with a pairing," Blair said as he crossed his arms. No way would the charges stand, especially since only the military could enforce the laws, but any civilian agency could arrest suspects, and the paperwork would be a nightmare.
"No problem," Jim said with a feral smile. He stood up and stepped toward Cohn. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you." When Jim grabbed Cohn's arm and pushed him toward the suspect chair next to his desk, Cohn literally spluttered his outrage.
"And please, use that right to remain silent because I have been listening to you all morning," Jim said as he pushed Cohn down into the chair. Blair smiled as the Sentinel disappeared and the detective took his place. Jim flicked his computer to life as he rifled though a drawer for the right paperwork.
"You have the right to an attorney…" Jim said without emotion as he found the signature card all suspects signed to show they knew their rights. "Just read this and sign that you know your rights," Jim said as he pulled the buff-colored sheet of paper to Cohn.
"You cannot imagine that I will—" Cohn started to stand.
"Do it, and I will enjoy cuffing you," Jim warned. The man sank back down into the chair. Wilke made a small choking sound as Blair headed for his own desk. He hadn't planned on coming to work today, but he had plenty of work including a culture training for incoming officers. As Blair pulled out the right file, he smiled at the sight of Cohn glowering, Jim typing away on the booking form, and Wilke standing in the middle of the bullpen with his eyes snapping from one point to another like a lost bird. Sometimes life was good.
Blair sat in the truck and watched Jim's profile out of the side of his eye. He really didn't need to get caught staring because he did not need a repeat of last night's fight. One nasty round of "I'm fine" "No, you aren't" "Yes, I am" was enough for him.
"I'm fine, Sandburg. Quit looking at me like I’m about to break."
"Hey, I never said—"
"You know they're just going to send someone else," Jim interrupted as the muscle in his jaw tightened. Blair understood the reaction, but it didn't make him any less angry at the people who had left Jim so defensive. He focused on the red car in front of them in traffic: two kids in the back fought over something in the middle, pulling and yanking viciously in their attempts to grab it.
"Maybe they'll just get tired of paying the air fair," Blair suggested. "Hell, they've got to hate airport security these days, so if I can send them through that misery a few extra times, it's all worth it. If we're lucky, they'll get strip searched," Blair laughed. Jim didn't.
"Chief," Jim stopped. He focused on the traffic. "Call me if you have any more protests on campus; I don't want a repeat of yesterday," Jim finally finished.
"Man, you and me both. And as long as we're talking about calling, call if the USSP idiots try anything. They can't run tests without me there. I just hope Cohn is on his way back home because I do not want to have to deal with him again."
Blair watched as Jim slowly smiled. "I don't know; I kinda liked how you dealt with him," Jim laughed grimly, and Blair watched the tension bleed out of Jim like a summer storm that blew through and then disappeared without a trace. Jim smiled wider as he took the turn onto Becker. "When I called in this morning, Simon said Cohn got bail at about 3 am and that Wilke is looking humbled as he sits next to my desk."
"He's waiting? Oh man, I could have gotten a ride from Karen. You did not have to drive me," Blair stopped as Jim's grin widened. "Unless, of course, you wanted to make him wait."
Jim didn't disagree as he turned the last corner and the first of Rainier's buildings appeared. "Do you need help carrying up the supplies?" Jim asked as he pulled his truck into a loading zone in front of Hargrove Hall.
"I'm fine," Blair promised as he pulled the strap to the laptop over his shoulder. He jumped out of the truck only to find the box of office supplies in the back had slid over to Jim's side. Jim got out of the truck and pulled the box out of the back before walking around to the passenger side. Blair noticed for the first time that Jim hadn't shaved that morning as the sun highlighted the tips of hundreds of hairs just poking out of his chin.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Blair asked as Jim closed the distance. He whispered softly enough that passing students wouldn't hear, but Jim's eyes still darted to the young men and women hurrying past in small clumps.
"Look, Sigmund, I'm fine. Truth be told, I'm more aggravated by this new assignment than by the USSP," Jim practically growled as he shoved the box of supplies at Blair harder than necessary. Blair scrambled to get his fingers around the edges as he took a step back with the force of the shove. Oh yeah, he could feel last night's fight circling like a vulture ready to rip into them. Blair went for a change of topic.
"Something big? If you need me down at the station, I can find someone to cover classes." Blair got his hands around the box and stepped forward again.
"No. I just got stuck working a vice case. Every time I have to go undercover for vice, I end up feeling like I went swimming in slime. Give me a good old-fashioned murderer any day of the week," Jim confessed.
Blair stared at his partner as he considered everything that might mean. "So, you're going undercover for vice?" He meant to sound casual, but Blair suspected he came closer to breathy.
"It's just temporary. There's a tough case, and a witness turned up dead."
"Oh man, does that mean I get to see leather pants and sequins?" Blair kept his voice to a whisper, but he couldn't keep the excitement out of his tone or the bounce out of his knees as he moved a little closer to Jim. "I really wouldn't mind that," Blair announced with a wide-eyed, nodding smile.
"Sequins?" Jim choked out.
"Maybe not sequins," Blair conceded, "but tight leather pants, maybe a leather vest, definitely the big leather boots." Blair watched as Jim's face froze in an expression of shock: wide eyes, mouth slightly open. Then Jim blinked quickly and shook his head in disbelief.
"I'm going to be dressed like a thug. Worn jeans, leather boots, shirt with the sleeves ripped off. This is not about looking sexy," Jim said as he crossed his arms.
"So, are you going all out with the scruffy beard and maybe a few earrings?" Blair asked with a smile.
"Probably," Jim narrowed his eyes and searched Blair's face with an intensity Blair associated with confusion. He found that any time he surprised Jim, and he often did, Jim would search him as though trying to decide how seriously to take his guide.
"The bad boy look is definitely sexy. Throw in a leather vest, and I'll follow you anywhere," Blair suggested lasciviously. Slowly, Jim's cheeks reddened as he eyes focused over his guide's shoulder. Blair glanced over to find a leggy blonde watching with open hostility.
"Oh man, I didn't mean to embarrass… shit… look, forget I said anything." Blair started backing away. Jim opened his mouth to answer, and Blair interrupted with one more change of topic. "Charlie's car won't be ready today, even if his cousin actually gets around to looking at it, so could you pick me up at five?"
"Not a problem," Jim answered without moving his eyes from the blonde.
"And give Charlie a ride home too?" Blair threw in. That got Jim's attention.
"I'm not a taxi service, Sandburg."
"It's only one day," Blair tried his best pleading expression. Charlie could get a ride with any number of people, but at least Jim would be sober when he drove—not many of Charlie's friends would be able to say the same.
"You're right—it is only one day," Jim groused before he turned and walked back to the driver's side. Blair focused on watching Jim drive away, shifting the box up onto his hip as he ignored the waves of hate from behind.
"Blair," a low voice said in a dark tone.
"Kelly," Blair answered as he turned toward his office and started walking. A pull on his computer strap yanked him to a stop, and he looked over his shoulder to see Kelly's long fingers wrapped around the strap.
"So, that's why you've thrown me over? You found someone who could do more than just tie you down and take you? You found someone who could fuck you?" Kelly moved closer, using the computer strap to keep Blair in place. "I could tell people such interesting stories about their favorite TA," Kelly whispered. At one point, that might have freaked Blair out, but after surviving real threats, he could only laugh at her hissed words and narrow-eyed glare.
"Oh please," Blair jerked the computer strap free and then glared right back at Kelly. "Look at how you're dressed with the boots that scream domme and the low cut blouse and the leather mini. Anyone who looks at you knows you're into tying up your partners. Therefore, anyone who knows we dated, knows I play tie up games. Did you know that 61% of adults between 18 and 30 either engage in bondage or fantasize about it while having sex or masturbating? I don't think anyone is going to be too scandalized." Blair laughed as he backed up a couple of steps, the box of supplied getting heavier by the second. "The biggest scandal will be that you got dumped, so go ahead and make yourself look like an idiot."
"You little—" Kelly flushed red and took a step forward leading Blair to roll his eyes.
"Oh please, go find someone else to play bottom boy for you because you definitely suck the fun right out of being tied up," Blair said, and several undergrads passing them on the sidewalk froze, heads swiveling around to look, and one particularly short girl blushed bright red before she reversed direction and practically ran for the science building. Freshmen. "Actually, you suck, but not well," Blair corrected himself as he turned and headed up the sidewalk, students clearing a path as he left Kelly behind.
Blair braced himself to be pulled to a halt again, but he reached the stairs without round two of vindictive Kelly. The way his week was going, it surprised him. He had almost reached the doors before he heard a familiar voice.
"Heard you had an interesting day yesterday," a woman said.
"Suzanne," Blair said happily as he turned to see a stunning Asian woman in a guard's uniform. He always thought of her as the one that got away, but it didn't stop him from loving her company anyway; she had a vicious sense of humor once you got past her proper exterior. "Oh man, I had a horrible day, but I'm betting that with the protest and the break in, your day was just as bad." The head of campus security slipped by him on the steps so that she could pull the door open. Blair smiled his thanks as shifted the box and headed into Hargrove. Even the short walk had left him feeling limp and wilted as summer heat and Cascade humidity had turned the whole city into a sauna.
"I hear you had a run in with a couple of the new campus police officers." Suzanne followed him into the building. Blair just snorted his disgust as he hit the elevator button with an elbow.
"More of a walk than a run. It was a giant exercise in miscommunication," Suzanne followed him into the elevator, and Blair braced his box against the wall as he pressed the button. "So, any ideas who did the redecorating job on my office?"
"We have a couple of leads." Suzanne bit her lip, and Blair turned his full attention to the woman, watching as her delicate mouth twisted unhappily.
"Suzanne?" Blair asked. The mouth twisted more as the right side of her lower lip disappeared into her mouth.
"Oh god, please don't tell me something else happened to my office." Blair leaned into the box harder as he felt his legs weaken. He'd expected his biggest problem with the USSP to be the actual USSP. Instead, karma seemed to have a sense of humor, circling back to bite him in the ass for all the times he'd helped his mother protest against 'the man'.
"We got a tip that the stunt at the office might not be related to the protest." The doors to the elevator slid open and Suzanne continued to just stand and look out at the hall for a moment before she seemed to force herself into motion.
"I don't mind telling you, you're kinda freaking me out, here," Blair admitted as he followed her out into the hall. "Suzanne, we've known each other for a long time—"
"Ever since you led your student in a revolt against the campus computer lab."
"I was just pointing out the evils of censorship."
"You called the Dr. Wilson a troll."
"Dr. Wilson is a troll," Blair said as he stopped outside his office. "The man even smells like old dirt, but his theories on what's appropriate use of the school internet would make him a troll even without the smell."
"Blair, we got an anonymous report that you've been propositioning students for sex in exchange for grades. The note suggested that a girl who turned you down vandalized your office after you gave her a low grade." Suzanne blurted the whole statement so quickly that it took a second for Blair to mentally rewind the words and replay them at normal speed. When he did, he froze half way through his office door.
"I…" Blair stopped, his throat tightening around his words until he felt like he might choke on the syllables. "I wouldn't," he finally got out. Stepping forward, he dropped the box of supplies on the newly cleaned desk before he dropped the thing. "You have to know I wouldn't," he said as he turned to face the head of security. For a blink, he could see the doubt and hesitation twist her small features, and then she smiled.
"Of course you wouldn't," she agreed. Blair leaned against his desk.
"Suzanne," he said, searching her face for the lingering traces of hesitation.
"Blair, I can't see you doing anything like this, but the university has to take every accusation seriously. We've opened an investigation, and we'll be interviewing your students from previous semesters." Suzanne gave him a small, weak smile, and Blair sat on the edge of his desk.
"Man, I never did anything like that. Hell, last semester I was dating Kelly who would have cut my balls off if—" Blair stopped in the middle of his sentence. He had obviously suffered major brain damage to miss that connection.
"Kelly," Blair said quietly, rage making his vision darken as he considered just how far she would go.
"I thought of that. We still have to investigate, though. If nothing else, we need to clear you."
"Man, I hope her karma drags her down into the body of a cockroach next time around," Blair grumbled through gritted teeth. Looking around at his new office, he suddenly couldn't find the joy he'd felt just 24 hours earlier. After years of working in hallways and common rooms shared by dozens of TA's, he'd earned a place of his own and the right to work on his Sentinel thesis.
However, now he could only wonder whether any of his students would take this chance to get back at him for a low grade or take a run at trying to get the administration to remove grades from their transcripts. Heck, he'd actually turned down a couple of girls, including one freshman who'd sat in the front row of one class in a miniskirt and no underwear. The woman had spend the first half of the semester randomly opening her legs and giving Blair a free peep show until Blair had learned to not look at that section of the classroom. Would she take his rejection badly and make up some story to get him back? He struggled to even remember what grade he'd given her.
"Blair, this is going to blow over," Suzanne said softly.
"Yeah. Right," Blair answered as he leaned against the box. "'Cause things always work out for the best," he pointed out sarcastically.
Suzanne didn't answer, but she did rest a hand on his shoulder for a second. Blair gave her a smile and shrugged. The gesture made her hand fall away.
"I'll survive. I always do," he said, and then he focused on pulling equipment out of the box.
"If you need anything…"
"You'll be out questioning all my students about whether or not I traded grades for sex," Blair snapped. The lack of any answer made him look up at Suzanne who watched him with wide eyes and a hand that fluttered between her lips and her neck nervously. "Oh man. That was so far out of line that I can't even see the line from where I am. I'm sorry," he immediately offered. Suzanne's hand finally rested near her neck.
"I'm sorry, Blair. It's just procedure."
"Yeah. I get that. I know you'll do the right thing," Blair assured her. Suzanne gave him a small smile and backed up a step toward the door. Blair focused on his box of supplies, continuing to unpack as he listened to Suzanne's footsteps take her out of his office. Great, day one, he got arrested for protesting and vandalism, and day two he became the center of the sex scandal. At this rate, he'd be arrested for murdering Jimmy Hoffa by the end of the week. When had life gotten so damn strange?
Jim scratched his stubble beard irritably as he looked around the darkened interior. Smoke slid past him in thick clots, making his skin itch and the sound of shouting men forced him to set his hearing far too low. The darkness and hollow, distant sounds made Jim feel like he was walking inside a tube sunk far below the ocean's surface: an unreal feeling of pressure wrapping around him.
Irritably pushing aside a drunk who careened into him, Jim focused on the bar. Bar might be too kind of a word for the old plywood door propped on two sawhorses, but Jim shouted a single word to the man behind the bar and then watched as the thin man grabbed a bottle and poured the amber whiskey into a glass. Jim took the drink with a nod and dropped a few dollars on the makeshift bar.
The first taste of the whiskey made Jim's taste flair so that the alcohol burned down his throat and made his eyes water; however, at least the booze killed the germs because Jim sure didn't hear any water sources. At best, the bartender was wiping glasses between customers—not that any of these guys would notice the difference.
A small group gathered around a wire enclosure. Tonight's entertainment included two roosters that flapped awkwardly against each other, silver gaffs, sharpened metal talons attached to their feet, flashed in the low light, and the crowd cheered as the darker bird fell back under a flurry of feather and wing.
Part of keeping cover meant doing what everyone else did, so Jim stood and watched impassively as the losing bird was tossed into a pile of dead animals while still flapping weakly. He took another big shot of whiskey to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. Part of him wanted to arrest every drunk, pathetic excuse for a human in the place and call the humane society to put the birds to sleep quietly, but he had other orders.
With eyes that stung from the smoke and the whiskey, Jim scanned the crowd looking for Hanes. If he was going to be honest with himself, he also checked the crowd for Wilke's narrow, pinched features. The man might not be trying to shove strobe lights in his eyes, but his ability to follow Jim everywhere was bordering on insanely annoying, and if Jim guessed right, Blair was actually closer to snapping than he was.
A small group of men broke away from the new cock fight, and Jim watched as they found a dark corner where they could trade drugs with at least some privacy.
"You lookin'?" a dirty-blond with a nervous twitch in his right eye slid close to Jim, and he looked down at the dealer.
"If I am, I'll find better shit than anything you have to offer," he dismissed the man and focused again on the cockfight, or rather the men watching the cockfight as they shouted and pounded fists against the rough two-by-fours that capped the chicken-wire enclosure.
"Meth, crack, barrels, crank, Special K—man, I can make you fly," the dealer followed with his sales pitch. Looking over, Jim memorized the man's features: light-brown phlegmy eyes, short hair, spider tattoo under his left ear.
"Not buying," Jim turned his back on the man, ignoring the goose pimples that sprouted along his backbone. Undercover meant doing stupid shit, like turning a back to a threat, because these people were stupid.
"Best prices," the man tried again, and Jim spun back around, grabbing the dealer by his t-shirt and hauling him close enough that Jim could smell the man's sour breath.
"I said I'm not buying, and you're turning into a nuisance," he growled his frustration. The man's eyes dropped, searching the floor with nervous movements that made Jim even more on edge. Every instinct said the man was on an edge and ready to do something monumentally stupid. "Stay the fuck away from me," he said as he pushed the man back so hard that he went stumbling into a pillar. Jim turned his back and pushed closer to the cock fight.
"Oh Peters, you really haven't learned any manners at all."
Jim turned slowly and found himself looking at Ricardo Hanes. Jim nodded as Hanes twisted his hands nervously, reminding Jim of a bug on a hot sidewalk with the way he constantly shifted as though standing on something hot.
"Hanes," Jim offered without emotion.
"Didn't know if you'd come," Hanes said as he moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jim, his eyes focused on the fight. The two birds had sunk their gaffs so deeply into each other's flesh that handlers had waded in to pull them apart. The crowd wanted action: not two animals slowly bleeding to death as metal stuck them together. Jim fought down an urge to flinch.
"Need the money, but if you fuck me over the way you did last time…" Jim let his words trail off, and Hanes twisted his hands even faster. The man would make a horrible poker player. The crowd roared as the newly freed birds attacked each other ferociously. Jim briefly entertained a fantasy of making these men fight for their lives in a cage while the birds watched. His disgust and the smell of dying animals, and bird droppings and blood nearly drove him from the room.
"Let me treat you to a drink," Hanes gestured toward Jim's nearly empty glass. Jim looked down at the whiskey and downed the last bit in a single swallow.
"Hanes, I'm working for you; I wasn't your drinking buddy back then and I'm not now." Jim turned around and headed back for the bar, digging in the pocket of his jeans for the dollar bills wadded into the bottom corner.
"This the man?" a voice wheezed, and Jim nearly lost himself in the wet sound of air rushing through laboring lungs. Even without turning around, Jim knew it was Wallace—the asthmatic. Jim put the money and his empty glass on the bar, watching as the same bartender tilted the whiskey bottle and refilled it. Jim took a drink before he turned back around.
"You the boss now?" he asked as he looked Wallace over. The man's neck had folds that reminded Jim of Jabba the Hut, but his eyes, blue and sharp, made it clear that only the man's body was soft.
"I hear you left Hanes high and dry a couple of years back. Doesn't inspire confidence."
"I remember Hanes getting stupid and blabbing to the wrong people, getting my place tossed by the cops, making me leave town to avoid certain questions," Jim shot back.
"I never… well how was I to know that Pickling was a cop?" Hanes finally stammered. Wallace shot the smaller man a withering look.
"Let's talk," Wallace waved a hand toward the shadows. Jim gave Wallace a suspicious look, not because of anything he saw in the dark corner of the warehouse but because anyone who wasn't a Sentinel wouldn't be able to see past the pool of light formed by a dangling bulb hanging over the far side of the bar. "What's the matter, don't you trust me?" Wallace asked with a rattling laugh.
"I don't trust anyone," Jim answered as he made a gesture inviting Wallace to go ahead of him. Wallace laughed again and then started toward the small table against the wall. Hanes looked toward Jim once and then followed.
"I like you," Wallace said as he settled into a chair with a heavy sigh. He leaned forward and Jim took the chair next to the man so that he didn't have to put his back to warehouse. Wallace glanced at him, and Jim tried to look like a thug and not a special ops trained soldier whose instincts demanded keeping an eye on the enemy.
"I don't want to get too deep into any of the trouble you have with Fielding. I got a parole officer riding my ass," Jim said as he put his drink down on the table and looked away toward the cock fighting ring.
"I heard you got in some trouble down in Arizona."
Jim snorted in response to Wallace's comment.
"Fielding's death made thinks a little complicated," Wallace started, and then he hesitated. Jim listened to the slight jump in the tempo of the man's heart, the muscle thumping a little faster now. "He was in the middle of a shipment, and some merchandise is missing."
Jim looked over at Wallace. "Little stupid to kill a man without knowing his secrets," he suggested, coming as close as he dare to the question of the murder.
Wallace stared back at Jim for several seconds before shrugging. "Tell that to the man who murdered Fielding; I sure didn't." Wallace heart remained steady and his pupils didn't dilate at all.
Jim took another drink of the whiskey. "So, you need me to find something."
"Fifty thousand or the shipment Fielding was going to receive for the money," Wallace confirmed. Jim kept his face impassive as he scanned the crowd. Suddenly, this simple in and out case was looking more and more complicated.
"Thought Fielding handled your dogs," Jim said.
"Oh, Jimmy, for someone who doesn't want to get in too deep, you're asking a lot of questions," Wallace said as he leaned forward, the wood creaking under the weight of the man's elbow on the table.
"I don't want to get blindsided. I got parole transferred up here because of my sister being sick, but I don't have any reason to trust Hanes or you," Jim slammed back the last of his whiskey and stood up to leave. From the jump in Wallace's heart rate and the near rabbit-fast pounding from Hanes' chest, he knew they'd stop him. These people were desperate.
"Peters," Hanes called out as he stood so quickly that he knocked his chair over. When the man came at him, Jim stepped into him, putting a forearm across the man's chest and driving him back into the wall where he pinned him.
Wallace moved slowly enough that Jim could have intercepted him, but winning wasn't the point of this fight. He didn't react until the click in his ear. Then he turned slowly, letting his fingers open so that Hanes could wiggle away as Jim remained frozen with his hands open and away from his body. The gun pointed at a spot just behind his ear remained steady for several moments as Jim studied the arm for those minute muscle twitched that would give him only a fraction of a second to respond if Wallace made the unlikely decision to pull the trigger.
"I don't like people manhandling my employees," Wallace said quietly.
"I'll keep that in mind in the future," Jim answered as respectfully as he could. Slowly the gun lowered and Jim dropped his hands to his side.
"So, you don't want to go stumbling around in the dark? I tell you this, and you're in, whether you want to be or not." Wallace gestured toward the table with the gun, and Jim carefully moved that direction.
"I won't go down for conspiracy," Jim said as he slowly lowered himself into a chair, his hands on the table where Wallace could see them. Wallace laughed.
"I wish the cops were the worst of our trouble. Fact is that Fielding set us up with a group out of Cranbrook. Feds and their damn Sentinels are so busy watching the docks and the Mexican border and the airports that the north border is open game. So, while Hector Carasco twists in the wind and struggles to get shipments into the country, Fielding's new contacts drove down with fifty thousand in crank and E in the trunk of their car.
"You're taking Carasco's territory," Jim said with a leaden feeling that made his fingers twitch. The last thing Cascade needed was a gang war.
"We don't have to take his territory, Peters. The government has shut him down, so he has nothing to sell, but you know the old saying: when a door closes, a window opens."
"And Fielding was the window," Jim finished. Wallace smiled.
"Someone on the inside crossed us. I know it wasn't me, and Hanes doesn't have the balls for it, but anyone else…" Wallace let his voice trail off.
"I really won't go down for murder," Jim said as he narrowed his eyes.
"You don't need to get your precious hands dirty. I guess you got enough of prison food in Arizona, huh? You just find the money or the drugs, find out who double crossed us, and if you can make contact with the connection out of Cranbrook, I'll double your fee." Wallace finally slipped his gun back into his waist and sat down at the table. Jim flexed his fingers and pulled them back under the table where they were closer to his own gun.
"And what would the fee be?" Jim asked.
"Ten thousand," Wallace said with a straight face. Jim blinked.
"We're on the verge of becoming a power in Cascade… of replacing Carasco and maybe even giving Furukawa a run for his money, but we can't count on the government forever, so we need to move now. You help me recover from this… disaster… and I will remember you when I run Cascade's drug trade," Wallace leaned back in his chair and watched Jim.
"This could be complicated," Jim answered slowly. "If Fielding was working drugs, Carasco, Furukawa, or a dozen street-level dealers could have caught wind."
"Expenses come out of your fee," Wallace said as he pulled a roll of bills out of his jacket pocket and slammed them down on the table. Then he pulled out a notebook and wrote a few names and numbers in a cramped, uneven handwriting, adding it to the top of the pile. Jim didn't reach out for it until after Wallace had pulled back his hand.
"I'll get what you want," Jim promised as he took the large stack of twenties. The note he folded and carefully slipped inside his wallet. "Whoever is moving in on the drug trade is going to be very sorry he ever heard of Cascade," Jim promised. Tucking the bills into his pocket, Jim took his empty glass in hand and nodded before heading for the door. Simon was not going to be happy… not at all.
"Okay, relax and focus on smell," Blair's voice instructed, and Jim tried to ignore the sound of Wilke's pen scratching over paper. "Starting from the time Hanes approached, describe the smells."
Wilke stopped, and in the blessed silence, Jim allowed himself to drift away from his other senses as he focused on the memory. "Scotch," he said as he isolated the sharp alcohol scent that he hadn't even noticed under the other odors. "Exhaust fumes, like from a truck." Wilke started scratching again, and Jim cracked an eye open to look at the man as he sat scribbling notes as he sat on the edge of one of Simon's chairs.
"Will you knock it off, already?! Man, *I* can't hear myself think with you doing that, and I'm not a Sentinel," Blair exploded. Wilke froze, his pen hovering over the page of his notebook as he looked up with wide, surprised eyes.
"I'm just taking notes," he defended himself.
"Take 'em quieter then," Blair grumbled, and Jim could see color rising to Blair's face. His guide didn't like losing his temper, and Blair's body temperature inched up in response to his own embarrassment.
"Okay, truck exhaust," Blair said as he focused on Jim again. Wilke sat still with a stunned expression, and Jim struggled to not smile. "Focus on that smell."
Jim closed his eyes and tried to find the memory, but the ghost scent of rotting animals and drugged sweat and piss overwhelmed him. With a grunt of disgust, he sat up and rubbed a hand over his short beard. It itched.
"Bad?" Blair asked, moving from the chair in front of Jim to the couch next to him. Jim relaxed as strong fingers rubbed his neck, and then the scratching started from the other side of the room.
"That's it," Blair burst out as he jumped up and started toward Wilke. "Out. Out out out. Get out," he ordered. Wilke scrambled out of his chair and hurried for the door, nearly colliding with Simon as the captain opened the door to his own office.
"Wilke," Simon growled as the man barely avoided hitting him and ducked around Simon to retreat to Blair's desk where he had appropriated a corner and a drawer.
"Oh man, that guy is getting on my last nerve," Blair complained as he returned to the couch and threw himself down so hard that Jim could feel the springs pop and recoil.
"That hasn't been hard lately," Simon pointed out as he closed the door and headed for his chair. Jim listened as Blair's heart rate quickened before the man took a few deep, meditative breaths and pushed his long curls back out of his face. "Anything new?" Simon asked as he quickly scanned the papers from his in-box.
"Maybe if that toad had…"
"Exhaust fumes from a truck, too intense to just be from the street, but who knows if that means anything," Jim interrupted his partner. Simon looked up.
"Should I be worried about you two?" he asked.
"Why?" Blair asked, his heart rate speeding again.
"Because you're acting as touchy as my wife during her ninth month of pregnancy. It wasn't pleasant then, and I'm not liking it any more now," Simon pointed out.
"Oh man, I'm just… I don't like having Wilke here," Blair finally finished. Jim watched the worry lines form at the side of Blair's eyes, and he reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Chief, after you sent Cohn packing, Wilke isn't going to start trouble."
"Oh man, I know that, but I just can't get… you know… balanced." Blair held his hands out in front of him and mimicked the motion of tilting scales.
"Get your balance because I don't want you on the streets if you're going to go snapping at everyone," Simon ordered.
"Yeah, right, like I'd be allowed on the streets anyway," Blair muttered so soft that only Jim heard the words; however, from Simon's expression the man had caught the tone.
"Sandburg, if you have a problem, spit it out." That tone would have sent any other member of the department running to insist everything was fine, but Blair set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest.
"I should be with Jim," he insisted.
"Sandburg, we've talked about this," Simon said in the tone he usually reserved for his son… and usually used when he was reaching the limits of his patience.
"No way should Jim be in there alone with so many smells and sounds assaulting him. What if he zones?"
"And what, exactly, would be your cover? A Deadhead who fell off the truck during the Grateful Dead's last tour through here?"
"Oh man, this is… this is so patriarchal and stereotypical that it's not even funny. Just because I don't fit into your preconceived little box of masculinity, you think I can't take care of myself."
Simon looked over to Jim in confusion, but he could only shrug his shoulders. He had no idea why Blair seemed so short tempered lately. Simon sighed. "Kid, I think most of the men in this building would have trouble taking care of themselves with this crowd."
"See?!" Blair practically yelled. "Kid! I'm a kid to you! And if it's that dangerous, I should be there to back Jim up. If he zones, no *way* are they going to miss that he's a Sentinel."
"Chief, I'm being careful to not use the senses too much. Your exercises when I get back are working wonders, so I don't even try to focus on the senses on site."
"Man, you are not helping."
"If you think I'm going to help you talk your way into this assignment, you need to think again," Jim said. Blair turned and glared at him.
"Sandburg, Jim's been doing this for a long…"
"Not when he's been on line, he hasn't," Blair said. Jim could see the muscles in Blair's face twitch as the man fought against showing the strong emotions he could so often feel running just under Blair's skin. Even though Blair showed the world all his outgoing enthusiasm, he buried his darker emotions so that Jim could only sense them in the twinge of a muscle or the skipping beat of his heart.
"Blair," he said softly.
"Whatever, man," Blair insisted as he pushed up and headed for the door. Jim watched for a half second as Blair pulled the door open and headed into the bull pen. Then he got to his feet and chased after his guide, his long legs closing the distance just as Blair reached the doors to the hall.
"Back off," Blair grunted as he pulled his arm free of Jim's grip, or at least tried to. Seeing far too many eyes on them, Jim pushed Blair out the door and to the left, past Personnel and the men's room to the end where a glowing sign announced the emergency stairs.
"Knock it off. Let go," Blair complained and squirmed, but Jim ignored that as he trapped his guide in the corner of the hall with his own body.
"What the hell has been eating you for the last three days?" Jim demanded. Blair looked up mulishly and pushed against his chest hard enough that Jim had to brace himself and push back as they engaged in a silent war. Eventually, Blair gave up and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. The sight of that neck curved out made Jim swallow and struggle against a need to grab his guide and bond until he drove every bit of tension out of Blair's body. Instead he reached up and tugged a curl.
"Talk to me, Chief."
"Man, it's nothing."
"Obviously not. Come on, what's running through that pea brain of yours, Darwin?" Jim smiled as Blair cracked open one eye and tilted his head down enough to glare.
"Man. I just feel so damn helpless," he eventually admitted. Jim could feel Blair sag against the wall, and he tucked his hand in behind Blair's neck and pulled his guide close.
"Chief, these memory exercises are helping me recall information I didn't even know I had, and, without you, don't forget that I'd still be in Oak Groves. You're helping."
"I know. I know I'm being unreasonable. Shit, I really need to meditate and find my center again." Blair leaned forward, and Jim opened his arms for his guide, ignoring the hurried footsteps as officers passed the opening to the hall and then rushed by, pretending to not see the two men embracing.
"Not like you have a monopoly on unreasonable," Jim admitted. "But this assignment is no place for a civilian."
"Man, this is bad on my ego; you know that, don't you?" Blair asked into his shirt, and Jim threaded his fingers through Blair's hair, not sure whether he was trying to soothe Blair or himself.
"You want to go beat up some perp down in South-town this weekend?" Jim asked. Blair answered with a punch to his side just hard enough to make him grunt. Then Blair pulled back, and Jim turned all his senses to cataloguing his guide. He looked tired. Even his smell was slightly sour. "You okay, Chief?"
"Yeah, yeah," Blair answered, and then his heart started pounding faster. Jim opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Blair pushed past him, fury barely contained inside a tense body.
"Two words, Wilke, 'Fuck' and 'Off'," Blair started down the hallway toward Wilke who stood, notebook in hand, and Jim grabbed Blair's arm, reeling his guide back and grabbing his shoulders. Blair struggled, his back tight with anger and his face promising murder, but Jim held on as Wilke backed up and disappeared through the door to Major Crimes. "Man, I hate that guy," Blair complained as he finally stopped fighting.
"Chief, what the hell is wrong with you?" Jim asked as he felt Blair's body slowly relax.
"Nothing. I've got to go to the bathroom," Blair said as he pulled toward the bathroom. Jim held on for a second. "I think I can handle this one on my own," Blair said with a thin laugh as he pulled himself free. Jim watched as Blair disappeared behind the door, and then he turned to look toward the bull pen where Wilke had disappeared. Making a decision, he strode down the hall and into the bull pen, focusing in on Wilke who stood near the file cabinets at the back of the room.
"What did you say to him?" Jim demanded as he navigated the room without looking away from the USSP guide. Blair had been happy before Wilke and Cohn showed up, and it didn't take a rocket science to figure out that the current short-tempered and stressed version of Blair showed up at the same time the USSP guides had. Wilke pressed back into the cabinets for a moment, before stepping forward with a mulish expression of his own.
"I haven't said anything to upset Mr. Sandburg."
"Bullshit," Jim said as he stepped forward into Wilke's space. "You've done or said something, and I want to know what." Jim watched as Wilke's eyes dilated in fear and guilt.
"If Mr. Sandburg has a problem with me, Captain Ellison, it's not because of anything I've done."
Jim moved forward, stopping only when his chest touched Wilke, making the man's heart race even though he kept a calm expression. "Detective…. Detective Ellison, and funny enough, I don't believe you."
"Jim?" Rafe's voice called from behind, but Jim continued to stare down at the USSP guide with his starched brown uniform and green patch and shined shoes. He was everything Jim hated about the guides: controlled and controlling and arrogant enough to think they could do anything. "Jim," Rafe called louder.
"Detective Ellison," Wilke said, emphasizing the first word, "I haven't done anything to Mr. Sandburg other than observe his interactions with you."
"And it's time you stopped doing that," Jim said, his jaw aching as he fought the urge to shake the man until he confessed to doing something to upset Blair.
"I'm here officially as part of—"
Jim stopped the man's words by grabbing the guide by the shirt and slamming him into the filing cabinets hard enough to make the wall rattle.
"Jim!" Rafe's hand closed over Jim's forearm, pulling at him, and Jim allowed himself to be pulled away, the stench of Wilke's fear strong in his nose. "Back off," Rafe insisted as he got between the two men. Jim just continued to glare at Wilke.
"You stay away from Blair… clear your shit out of his desk, and keep your distance," Jim threatened, pointing his finger with stabbing motions that made it very clear he'd really rather just take a punch.
"Ellison," Simon's bellow interrupted any Wilke-beating fantasies.
"Sir?" Jim turned his back on Wilke, not wanting to even look at the man any more.
Simon looked from Wilke to Jim and back several times until Blair came through the bull pen doors, the wood doors clacking shut behind him. Simon then glanced that direction before making up his mind. "Jim needs to check out a few locations; Rafe, you drive Blair and stay in close contact in case Jim needs back up or his guide. Wilke, get out of my bull pen," Simon ordered before turning and retreating to his office.
"I miss something?" Blair asked in confusion, but Jim just snagged his guide's backpack on his way past their desks, pushing Blair ahead of him to get his guide away from Wilke. "Guys?" Blair asked again.
"You're riding with me, Hairboy," Rafe said as he followed the two of them out to the elevators.
"Oh man, what'd I miss?" Blair asked with more enthusiasm than Jim had heard for days. If it took roughing up a few USSP guides to bring back Blair's usually bouncing mood and drive the tension out of his guide's body, Jim was more than willing to provide the fists.
"Nothing interesting, Chief," Jim said as he herded Blair onto the elevator.
"You are such a liar," Blair accused him as the door closed. Rafe snorted his agreement.
Part Seven
"Chief, get back in the car," Jim growled as he watched his guide come trotting down the street, closing the distance between Rafe's car and his truck.
"Not a chance, man. Back at Fielding's place, you had a cover, and I'm cool with that… okay, not exactly cool, but whatever. Anyway, you have no business snooping around Carasco's place, so if you get caught, there's no cover for me to blow." Blair slowed to a walk as he got closer to the truck, stopping a few feet away to stand with his arms crossed with a clear 'make me' expression.
"If I get caught, I don't want you anywhere near me."
"I'm going to be with you so you *don't* get caught," Blair shot back. Jim looked past Blair to Rafe who stood near the brown sedan. The man held his hands up in a classic surrender pose and backed up a step. Jim sighed. Leave it to him to pick the world's most stubborn guide.
"This is—"
"Dangerous, police-business, unsafe, yadda, yadda, yadda." Blair made little 'yadda' motions with his hand as he nearly chanted the words. Then he angled away from the road and headed up the hill.
"Blair," Jim nearly growled.
"Look, unless I miss my guess, we've got a good mile, mile and a half hike up to the house, so can we do less complaining and more actual walking?"
Jim started after Blair, grabbing the man's arm. With a yank, he brought Blair back down the hillside and crashing into his chest.
"Geez, big guy. Didn't know you were into exhibitionism," Blair joked breathily as he braced a hand on Jim's upper arm.
"Sandburg," Jim warned him.
"Jim," Blair mimicked his tone. "No way am I staying behind. You're going to have to use your senses up there, and I'm going with you. That's what guides do, and if you leave me behind to sit and do nothing…" Blair stopped, his words failing him, and Jim could hear the tremor beneath the voice. Blair stood still, leaning heavily against Jim's chest for a moment, and then he pulled himself free. Jim studied the body language, the stiff back and narrowed eyes and tight mouth that all screamed Blair's distress.
A flash of Rob in his captain's uniform formed in Jim's memory: the man ordering Jim to back off the testosterone, the man laughingly punching Jim's arm, the man screaming Jim's name in agony as another rod pushed into his flesh so that Jim could smell the burning flesh and blood. A dark part of him uncurled and wanted nothing more than to handcuff his guide to the car where he'd be safe. Jim reached out and grabbed Blair, crushing him to his chest as he fought back the swelling memories and the nausea they brought with them.
"Jim?" Blair whispered as arms went around his waist, and Jim struggled to separate the smell of that distant land and the sound of screams from the present where his whole, safe guide stood in his arms.
"I don't want you hurt," Jim admitted as he rested his cheek on the top of Blair's head. He gritted his teeth to get the next part out. "You stay behind me, and you do what I tell you to. If I say run, you run, and you don't look back."
"I won't leave you," Blair answered as his arms tightened around Jim's waist. Those words echoed in Jim's mind, the promise he'd whispered to Rob as his guide stood at the bottom of that trap, eyes black with fear and sour sweat smell like rotting fish laying on a sea shore. Jim breathed through his mouth trying to escape the scent. He fought with his instincts, reminding himself that the man in his arms was Blair and not Rob.
"Chief, if I say run, you will go get help. You aren't a soldier or a cop," Jim said as he pulled himself out of his memories and straightened up. His rough stubble caught at Blair's hair so that long curls clung to his face. Jim reached a hand up to wipe his face free of the strands that tickled at his lips and cheek.
"God, it's like hugging a cocker spaniel," he complained.
"Hey, you try getting hugged by a porcupine," Blair shot back as he pulled away, smoothing his hair back down, but Jim could still see the concern as Blair studied him carefully. Jim started up the hill, deliberately ignoring Rafe who must have wondered what the hell they were doing.
"You stay behind me and do what I say, or I will give you the mother of all whisker burns," Jim threatened.
"Bully," Blair complained mildly, but Jim noticed the man also waited until Jim got a step ahead of him before following. "Now just remember, keep focused nice and wide with all the senses. Don't let yourself get distracted," Blair whispered. Jim relaxed into the moment as his senses expanded, the sounds and scents from thousands of sources flowing past him.
"I still wish you'd stay at the car," Jim groused.
"Dream on, fuzz boy," Blair answered, and Jim just grunted as he hiked up the hill and kept in the shadow of the trees as they approached the perimeter of Carasco's property.
"What now, oh great god of special ops?" Blair asked as they looked at the wire fence that divided open land from the crime lord's property.
"This would be a lot easier if the feds weren't being such dicks," Jim commented as he eyed the wires and listened to the electronic hum of circuits. Pulling Blair around to the far side of his body, he started walking the fence line with his guide beside him.
"Aren't they always?" Blair asked.
Jim paused, confirming a squirrel as the source of a scratching sound before answering. "Yeah, but they had Carasco under surveillance without informing us. And they could get a federal search warrant within the day."
"But… I thought… do you have any evidence Carasco killed Fielding?" Blair paused, and Jim absent-mindedly pulled him back into motion without taking his eyes off the fence.
"Federal warrant wouldn't be for Fielding, but that doesn't mean they couldn't poke around."
"Man, that's…"
"Chief, now is not the time for a civics lesson. Carasco is the bad guy, and we use the tools we have to use to catch him."
"Still not cool. And if I had a vote, I would call breaking into his property not cool, too," Blair whispered. Jim stopped and considered a limb, mentally weighing himself and his partner before continuing to walk the fence, their footsteps grinding the leaves into the damp soil.
"If I were a cop, yeah," Jim agreed. "But I'm a thug hired by Wallace to break in here and look for drugs or money. If I happen to find evidence of a murder, it's covered under the inadvertent discovery exception."
"Man, bogus. Supreme Court never should have reinstated that exception," Blair muttered.
"Look, can we please have this discussion some other time?" Jim stopped and glared down at his partner.
"Hey, just saying," Blair shrugged, and Jim jerked his thumb toward a tree.
"Can you climb?" he asked. Blair looked at him strangely for a second and then followed the direction of the thumb to the tree.
"No problem. Up and over?" he asked as he headed for the tree in question.
"Yeah, just don't touch the wire," Jim agreed. Blair clambered up the tree, quiet curses the whole time, and Jim followed. "Straight out on that limb, and then drop onto the other side," he said as Blair reached the right branch.
"No shit, Sherlock," Blair grunted, and Jim clenched his teeth to avoid saying something back. As they moved into enemy territory, his stomach tightened, and he could feel something cold settle into his skin… something that made him want to break anyone who came near Blair.
Blair dropped down to the other side, rolling slightly but avoiding the wire at the last second. Jim hadn't realized that he had stopped breathing until he started again, dropping down next to Blair in a few seconds. The trees were thinner on this side, the shadow of each tree falling separately across the hill like bars. Jim stepped into one of the shadows with his back to the tree, and pulled Blair to his chest.
"Hear something?" Blair hissed.
"I need to listen," Jim whispered back, and Blair froze in place, his heart pounding so hard that Jim could feel the vibrations of it in his forearms as he held Blair around the chest. Using that to center himself, Jim leaned around the trunk of the tree and looked across the grounds to the brick mansion, focusing until he could see through the panes of glass with their white trimmed wood.
Focusing, he caught one heartbeat downstairs. Compared to his guide's heartbeat, the sound was faint and muffled. A second and third beat came into focus, even farther away. Jim struggled to find their source.
"Anyone?" Blair whispered so softly that anyone else would have heard only a breath, but Jim gave a short nod as an answer.
"I can't tell how far they are," he admitted after struggling to focus. In the USSP, he'd learned to use background noise to identify distance and even provide a rough triangulation for location, but he struggled to just follow the faint beats.
"Where?" Blair breathed.
"The house."
Blair squirmed in his arms, and Jim glared down, frustrated at having his concentration broken.
"Oh man, you can hear heartbeats in the house? Oh man. That is…" Blair hesitated. "That's so cool!" Jim almost smiled at the raw enthusiasm.
"Can it, Chief. This isn't some test," he growled instead
"Yeah, but that must be a good 500 yards away. No way can they hear us, and you're picking up their heartbeats. We are so testing this."
"After Wilke leaves," Jim promised as he pulled Blair back to his body, reversing their positions so that he pressed Blair's back to the tree, leaning his own body in to keep his guide still. A burst of pheromones caught him off guard, and he felt his body tighten in response.
"Chief, you have issues," he complained as he loosened his hold. The pheromones faded, but still drifted around him as he studied the house.
"Normal human reaction to stimulus and danger," Blair whispered back, and Jim shook his head as the world suddenly sharpened. The edges of the bricks came into focus so that he could see the pores in the material and follow the grain of the wood trim under the white paint. The heartbeats he was tracking intensified. If someone had ordered him to describe it, Jim could only say tha