Chapter  10: Jim

HEARTBEAT

I shouldn't have told Blair about the journal.

Like I had a choice... I had to tell him, I know that. Not telling him when I did would only have meant telling him later, when it'd probably be too late to do anything about it. This way, as hard as it is on him -- and on me -- we have time to think things through, maybe even come up with a solution.

Not that I can think of one right now.

Blair's been tense and preoccupied for the past week, ever since I told him about the situation with Oliver. Damn, I still wish there had been some way I could have avoided that. But there wasn't, and we all know about wishes and horses and beggars, right?

After that night, after making love to him, I realized that I had to tell him. He gives himself to me so completely, holding nothing back -- how could I keep something so important to both of us to myself?

At least he doesn't seem angry at me for hiding it from him for so long. It's not that he isn't troubled by all of this -- he's definitely upset, but there's no way I could expect him to be anything else, I suppose. Of course, just because he's having a predictable reaction doesn't mean I can't worry about him, right?

That's why I'm here at Rainier in the middle of the day. Blair usually has a free period about now. I can at least stick my head in his office to see how he's doing -- if I get lucky, he'll have enough time to grab something to eat, maybe even fool around a little --

I shake my head as I go down the shadowed, dusty hallway to Blair's office. Down, Ellison. Don't want the poor guy thinking you're a sex maniac. Oh, I am, at least as far as Blair is concerned, but I should probably be a little more discreet about it, at least in public.

As I near the corner around from Blair's office, I hear rapid footsteps coming toward me. I step to the side of the hallway just as a petite blonde woman rushes past me, angry tears pouring down her face. For a moment, I consider following her to see if she needs any help... but in the end, I don't. She's not my problem.

My problem is sitting at his desk with his head in his hands; just from his posture, I can tell that he's absolutely exhausted. I knock on the open door. Blair jumps and whirls around -- the haunted look in his eyes is gone almost before I can register it. All the same, the first thing I ask him is, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Standing up, he pulls me into his small, cluttered office -- it's only been his for a few weeks, but it already looks like he's been here forever -- and closes the door to give us a little time alone. Without really discussing it, let alone coming to a mutual, rational decision, we've never concealed the fact that we're a couple; but being out of the closet doesn't mean that privacy is something we're willing to give up completely.

Blair scoops a pile of papers off of the second chair so we can both sit down. "You just startled me, that's all."

I'm still not entirely convinced. Something is bothering him.... "I've got a few hours free -- how about you? Do you have time for lunch?"

"Lunch? I don't know, man..." He stares at the heap of papers and test booklets in front of him. Then, pushing himself away from the desk, he says decisively, "Yeah. I need to get away from here for a while. There's a Bengali place down on Franklin that's supposed to be really good -- that sound okay to you?"

"Sounds fine." Bengali? Doesn't he like any restaurants that serve normal food? He really seems to have this weird grudge against hamburgers. I'm getting ready to turn down my sense of taste already, but it'll make Blair happy, and right now, it looks like he needs a little happiness.

He pauses as he puts on his coat. "Hey."

"What?" I look down at him, and I feel some of the worry fade away as his smile widens.

"I never said how I was glad to see you, did I?"

"Nope. How about you show me instead?"

"Good idea." And as our lips meet, he does just that.

Several days later, Blair still seems edgy. Every time I ask him about it, though, he either changes the subject or says something about idiot freshmen. I'm not sure if I believe him. We still haven't figured out what to do about Oliver and the journal, and I'm worried that it's really eating at him.

All the same, there's not that much either one of us can do about it, and we seem to have come to an unspoken agreement not to discuss it for the time being. He concentrates on his classes and the idiot freshmen and I concentrate on work. When we're both home at night, we concentrate on each other. I suppose we're scoring a perfect ten on physical communication, but the verbal side seems to need some work.

At least at work, I actually seem to be making progress on the first major case I'm looking into. I'm also making progress on my relationship with my brother. It feels so strange to actually like him. Which, I suppose, is one of the two good things to come out of my time in Peru.

Steven looks up from his desk as I enter his office. He nods at the file I drop on his desk. "Is that the Doyle case? Do you think he's our guy?"

"Nope." Seating myself in the chair in front of the desk, I grin at my brother. "Looks like our guy is Doyle's sister."

"His sister?" Steven drops the paper he's looking at and stares at me. "But she doesn't even work here. Are you serious?"

Nodding, I stretch out my legs. "Oh, I'm serious, all right. He gave her a set of emergency keys to his office -- she's been using them to sneak in there and make copies of the shipping schedules. Her bank account shows a few large deposits lately, and they're all a lot more than what you'd expect someone on a teacher's salary to make. If you track them back to the source, you'll probably find a connection to that Brazilian company." My smile fades. "Doyle didn't know a thing about it. He's pretty broken up about this -- besides what it's going to do to their parents, he thinks you're going to fire him, at the very least."

"I probably should fire him," Steven mutters.

"You probably should. But you won't."

Steven gives me a dirty look, but he doesn't answer. We both know he's not going to fire Doyle for something he didn't do, no matter what the accepted corporate practice might be. It's too much like something our father would have done. Funny. All my life, I swore that I'd never be like the old man. I never would have dreamed that Steven was swearing the same thing.

Changing the subject, I say, "And speaking of happy families, guess who I talked to this morning?"

Closing the file, Steven leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose. "If you're talking about happy families, that automatically eliminates any of our relatives. Who was it?"

"Blair's mother."

Steven looks at me sharply, eyebrows raised. "Really. Did she call you on purpose, or was she looking for Blair and you answered instead?"

"No, I was the one she was looking for. She said it was time we had a little talk."

"And did you?"

"Oh, yeah."

Steven waits for me to elaborate. "And?"

I can't keep from smiling. "For an unreconstructed hippie chick, the woman is one hell of an interrogator."

"Well... what did she think of you?" He doesn't bother to hide his curiousity.

Shrugging, I say, "I think she's reserving judgment until we actually meet. She's flying out here next month."

"That's a lot better than an outright rejection, Jim."

I nod. "Yeah, I suppose -- it's a lot better than I hoped for, to be honest."

I spend the rest of the afternoon tracking down the money trail -- looks like it was the Brazilians. Well, well. Chalk one up for the good guys.

Just as I'm walking back to my office, I hear Steven calling my name frantically. I walk back in his direction as he hurries down the hallway toward me. "What's the problem, Steven?"

Taking my arm, he turns me around so we're heading back to his offices. "I've been trying to get hold of you for an hour -- what the hell happened to the cellphone I gave you?"

I pull my arm out of his grasp as we walk past his secretary. "I hate that thing. It gives me a headache -- why? What's the matter? Something new on the Doyle case?"

"Jim, it's Blair -- I don't know the details yet, but it looks like someone tried to grab him in the parking lot at Rainier -- "

"What?"

Steven puts out his hands, trying to calm me down. "I've made some phone calls, and he's at the hospital but it doesn't look like he's hurt too badly -- in fact, I don't even know for sure that he's hurt at all, so you shouldn't...."

"Oliver. If this was Oliver, I'll kill him. Journal or no journal, I'll kill him."

Steven doesn't get a chance to answer before I'm out the door, but I can hear him telling his secretary that he'll be out of the building for a while. Then he runs down the hall, catching up with me by the elevators. "Hold on, Jimmy. I'm coming with you."

"Fine." I'm too busy forcing myself not to think to give him any more of an answer.

Steven won't let me drive, but he agrees to take the truck rather than one of the company cars. Under any other circumstances, the sight of my impeccably dressed brother driving a truck would have been funny as hell. The way things stand, though, the humor barely registers, and I'm sure not in any mood to comment on it.

"He's probably getting sick of it," I mutter.

"What do you mean? Who's getting sick of what?" Steven looks at me out of the corner of his eye as he weaves his way through traffic.

I almost don't answer. But... this is my brother. I've trusted him with so much already. So I say, "Blair. I wasn't there for him again. He always seems to get hurt when I leave him alone."

Steven sighs. "Jim -- can I give you some advice?"

"No."

"Well, I'm going to, anyway. If you really feel that way, keep it to yourself, because I don't think Blair's going to be happy hearing it. He's... a good guy. I can't see him blaming you for something you had no control over."

I look at my brother closely, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Somehow, in the middle of everything else I'm feeling, I have room for a spark of surprised gratitude. He likes Blair.

Imagine that.

All the same, when we get to the hospital, Steven has the brains to just follow along behind me and keep his mouth shut while we make our way to the receptionist's desk to find out where Blair is.

"Mr. Ellison?"

Steven and I both turn around to face the tall, powerfully built black man coming down the hall toward us. "Jim Ellison," he clarifies.

"That's me." Glancing at my brother, I step forward to meet the stranger.

"Simon Banks. Captain, Cascade PD." He comes to a halt in front of us; he nods to Steven and looks closely at me. "Mr. Sandburg gave your name as his next of kin."

"Yeah. Blair's my partner." If Banks has a problem with that, he does a real good job of hiding it. Rather than giving him a chance, though, I go on the offensive. "What can you tell me?"

Banks raises an eyebrow. He glances at Steven, who's chosen to fade into the background for the duration of the conversation. Looking back at me, he asks, "About Mr. Sandburg's medical condition, or about the investigation?"

"Both. Start with his condition."

Leaning against the receptionist's desk, he says, "The doctor says he's bruised and shaken up, but that's it. He's already given his statement, so he can go home as soon as he wants."

He's not hurt, not seriously. I hold on to that thought desperately. "What about the attack? Were there any witnesses?"

Nodding, Banks says, "Five. A woman named Dolly Brooks, and four students. Their stories all match -- they all say a man grabbed Mr. Sandburg in the parking lot, but he managed to fight him off. The campus security guards didn't get there in time to catch the guy. We've gotten descriptions from all of the witnesses -- sounds like the perp was a lot bigger than Mr. Sandburg. Either he's tougher than he looks, or he's lucky."

"Both." I look at Banks closely. "If you don't mind me asking, what's a captain doing investigating a simple assault?"

Banks keeps his voice bland as he answers. "Someone put a call in to the commissioner's office and... suggested that I make sure the investigation is done right."

"Really." He avoids looking at Steven. So do I, but for much different reasons. First chance I get, I'll have to thank my brother for making that call. "Do you have any suspects?"

"Not yet. Mr. Sandburg said he never got a good look at his assailant -- we hope that the other witnesses will come up with something we can use. Maybe if he actually gets another look at the guy, he might be able to give us a positive I.D." He pauses, then asks evenly, "He told me something that's probably important, though. Were you aware that he'd recently received several threatening letters from an Amanda Vaughan?"

I'm too shocked to do more than shake my head, and I feel Steven become more alert by my side as he recognizes Vaughan's name. I finally manage to say, "No. Blair never told me about that."

I can feel Banks' eyes boring into me. "Really. I asked him what the threats were about -- he wasn't exactly forthcoming. Said something about academic rivalries, and that we should probably look somewhere else." Tugging his coat back into place, he straightens up. Before he turns to go, he says, "I'd like him to come down to the station as soon as possible to look through some mug books. And you might want to tell him that we won't be able to do anything unless he tells us everything he knows. Gentlemen." Including both Steven and me in his nod, Banks turns and leaves.

When he's gone, Steven demands, "What's this about? The woman Banks mentioned -- does she have some kind of connection to Blair's Vaughan?"

"His widow," I answer dully.

"Why would she be threatening Blair?"

Shaking my head, I head down the hallway to the examining room where Blair's waiting. "As soon as I find out, I'll let you know."

"You're angry."

"Yeah." I shift my attention away from traffic just long enough to glance at Blair. He's sitting stiffly in the corner of the seat, angled so he's almost, but not quite, facing me.

"You think I should have told you." Blair's voice is tightly controlled.

Mine isn't. "You got hurt because you didn't."

"We don't know that, Jim. We don't know who sent that guy. Hell, for all we know, it could have just been some random gay-bashing thing -- " He breaks off and draws a deep, careful breath.

Shit. I don't want to be angry at him, but I am. Even though I understand why he didn't tell me about Amanda Vaughan, I don't like it. I don't like it because I wasn't there to protect him, and I don't like it....

Might as well be honest with myself. I don't like it because it's exactly what I did when I didn't tell him how dangerous Vaughan was, and when I didn't tell him about Oliver and the journal. The difference is, Blair didn't get mad when he found out. Scared, upset, worried -- but he wasn't angry. So why am I so furious when he acts the same way I did?

Stupid question. I'm not mad at him, I'm mad at myself for not being there. Rationally, I know that I can't watch over him every minute of every day. He wouldn't tolerate it, for one thing. But emotionally -- he's mine, I'm supposed to take care of him, and I failed. I know Blair doesn't blame me for that. Doesn't mean I can't blame myself.

I look over at him again, more carefully this time. The doctor said he didn't have anything worse than a few bruises and pulled muscles. That's part of the reason for his stiff posture. The other part -- he's still keyed up over the attack, and the fight, and the fear, and my yelling at him.

Well, I have two options here. I can wait for him to blow up at me, which I don't think is going to happen. Or I can stop being such a jerk.

The second option makes a lot more sense.

So at the next stoplight, I reach over and brush the back of my hand against his cheek. He looks up at me, startled and tense. Apologetically, I say, "Captain Banks told me about the fight. Kurali would have been impressed at the way you handled yourself." By which I mean that I'm sorry for getting angry at him.

He stares at me for a few seconds; then one corner of his mouth quirks up in a tiny smile. "You think so?" By which he means that he accepts my apology. "I didn't even kill anyone. He always told me that was my biggest problem." Even though he's trying to keep his voice light, I don't have any trouble picking up the tremor underneath.

"He didn't mean it, Blair. He knew it just wasn't in you." I'd like to say more, but the light's green now, and the things I want to tell him can't be said until I can touch him, hold him... protect him.

At least I can pretend that I can protect him. It might make us both feel better.

We continue the drive in silence, but it's an easier silence than it was before. I don't say anything else until we're back at the cabin and he's settled as comfortably as possible on the couch.

Then, sitting down next to him, I ask, "That woman I saw at Rainier the other day -- that was Amanda Vaughan, wasn't it? She's what's been bothering you, on top of everything else." Blair nods, but he doesn't answer. "Tell me about these letters. How many have you gotten, what did they say, and why the hell didn't you tell me about them?"

I can tell that Blair is tempted to give me a flippant, joking answer. In the end, though, he just shrugs and says, "Three letters. She's accusing me of trying to destroy her husband's reputation."

"How could she think that? You don't want to discuss the bastard, period. If anything, you're protecting his reputation."

"Which is something she doesn't know. If you can figure out a way to tell her that won't destroy her, I'd like to hear it," Blair says wearily. "Besides, the fact that I'm not talking about Vaughan is making a lot of people really curious. Hell, even Dr. Russo thinks it's strange, and she likes me."

"You lost me. Why would they think it's strange?"

Blair tries to explain. "You have to understand how academics look at things like this, Jim. I was the last person to see the great man alive. Anyone else would be trying to cash in on that -- publishing whatever research he might have completed before he died, doing everything possible to set himself up as his heir apparent. The fact that I'm not doing any of those things...." He trails off, looking miserable. "Same thing as a smear campaign, man, and I should have had the brains to anticipate all of this. It'll probably blow over sooner or later, but for now, it's got people wondering."

Sighing, I pull him into my arms carefully. "Do you think she would have hired someone to hurt you?"

He shakes his head, but doesn't look up. "I don't know. Maybe. She was pretty angry -- she's devoted herself to promoting Vaughan's memory, and if she thinks I'm standing in the way of that... maybe. It'd be pretty weird, though."

"For all we know, the woman is weird. Look who she was married to." I'm sorry for the words as soon as I say them -- the last thing I want to do is make Blair think about Vaughan. Of course, he probably does that anyway.

"Good point," he mumbles into my shirt. After a moment, he asks quietly, "Do you think Oliver might have sent him?"

Running a hand through his hair, I say, "That was my first thought. But anyone sent by Oliver would have -- " I can't bring myself to complete the sentence: that anyone sent by Oliver would have been a professional. He would have finished the job, and the attack definitely wouldn't have been in public. If the attack really had been a message from Oliver, we wouldn't have to wonder about it.

Blair doesn't ask me to finish my thought. He probably knows what I'd have to say. "Let's look at the bright side. Maybe it was just an attempted gay-bashing." He hesitates uncomfortably. "He did call me a fag. Wouldn't be the first time I had to deal with that."

"That's happened to you before?"

"Yeah. Not constantly, not even that often -- only a few times," he hurries to reassure me. "But... you know, it happens."

I ease him into what I hope is a more comfortable position. "You never told me about that."

"The subject never exactly came up," Blair replies, looking up with a half-hearted smile. "Hell of a thing to hope for, isn't it? After all, when a homophobic thug is the best of all the possible alternatives, things are pretty bad."

"Yeah." I know what he means. We're quiet for a few minutes. Then, because I have to, I say, "But you should have told me about the letters. I could have -- "

"You would have worried about it," he interrupts me. "I just -- I figured you had enough to worry about as it was, and come on, a freaked-out faculty wife doesn't exactly compare to Oliver."

"She does if she's threatening you."

Blair laughs softly against my chest. "My protector, huh?"

"That's right. Do you still have the letters that she sent you?"

He hesitates. "Yeah. You want to see them?"

"Yes. I have to read them, see if she is a serious threat. The police will need to see the letters, too," I warn him.

"Oh, man...."

"Don't fight me on this, Blair. They can't investigate unless they have all the facts."

Blair finally pulls away and looks up at me. "All the facts? Or just the ones we want them to know?" he demands, a thread of anger finally coming out in his voice.

I open my mouth to reply, then stop. He's right. There's so much we can't tell the police. "We'll start with the letters. If we need to tell them more... we can decide about that later, after we see how the investigation goes."

"The investigation," Blair repeats unenthusiastically. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he gets up from the couch and slowly wanders into the kitchen. I follow him. As he pours himself some juice, he mutters, "I wonder how I rated a captain."

Leaning against the table as he sits down, I say, "You rate a captain because Steven raised hell with the commissioner's office, from what I gather. And considering how much money he's given to the mayor's campaign fund, it's a pretty safe bet that they want to keep him happy."

"Steven? Steven did that for me?" He blinks owlishly. "Why?"

I smile, sitting down across from him. "He didn't say, but I think it's because he gives you the credit for turning me into a halfway decent human being."

"Really?" There's an odd, reluctant hope in his eyes. He's never said anything, but I know how much it would mean to him if my brother accepted him, rather than just tolerated him. Probably the same way I feel about his mother....

"Really." Reaching across the table, I take his hand in mine. Threading our fingers together, I say, "Steven likes you." Blair looks down at that, but I don't have any trouble seeing the expression in his eyes, combining both relief and pleasure. "And, to change the subject slightly, I talked to your mother this morning."

"Mom called?" Blair looks up curiously. "What about?"

"She's finally got some time off her job, and she's planning on flying out here the first part of next month."

"Oh, wow, man, that's great! You're going to love her -- oh, wait." Some of the enthusiasm fades from Blair's eyes. "We don't have any furniture in the other bedrooms -- there are a few cots, but we can't really expect my mother to sleep on a cot." He chews on his lip for a moment, thinking. "Of course, she goes on all these retreats, and the accomodations at those places usually aren't too deluxe, so maybe she wouldn't mind...."

Laughing -- mainly out of relief to see him happy about something, after everything that's happened -- I stand up and lean across the table. Dropping a quick kiss on his lips, I say, "Don't worry -- we'll worry about sleeping arrangements when she gets here." If we're lucky, I add silently to myself, that's the biggest thing we'll have to worry about.

"He hasn't had any luck yet, has he?"

"Not yet. I've sent another detective down to get the next batch of mug books."

"Great." Trying to control my impatience, I let the blinds fall and turn back to Captain Banks.

He's sitting at his desk; when he sees that I've left the window overlooking the squadroom, he drops the letter he's reading. "They're not very pleasant reading, but there's nothing in these letters to indicate that Amanda Vaughan would have gone to the lengths of hiring someone to attack Sandburg."

Seating myself at the long table, I say, "Maybe not. Is there anything to indicate that she wouldn't?"

Shrugging noncommitally, Banks gets to his feet and walks to the coffeepot behind his desk. He doesn't bother to offer me any; after my first three refusals, he seems to have gotten the point. As he sits down again, he says, "If you've figured out a way to prove a negative, you're a lot better than I am." Abruptly, he asks, "Are you telling me everything?"

I hesitate. The guy is sharper than I'd expected. "I'm telling you everything I know about the attack."

"Everything you know," Banks repeats. He doesn't hide his skepticism. "How about everything you suspect?"

I search his face. Irritation, exasperation -- and underneath it all, a good cop trying to do his job. "I'm telling you everything I can."

He shakes his head, almost, but not quite, in disgust. "That's a real big help, Ellison." He stares out the window -- not at the squadroom, but at the sky. "I did some checking on you two, you know. You and Sandburg. I know you were in the Army, and I know he's a student, and I know both of you wound up in Peru somehow, but other than that?" His glance slides back over to take me in. "Couldn't find out a damn thing."

"Really?"

"Not a damn thing," he repeats, speaking very distinctly. "So tell me -- if you can -- why someone would bury so much information about the two of you? And why does Mrs. Vaughan have a problem with the kid out there?"

I meet his gaze steadily. "Her husband was on the same plane with Blair. He went crazy after the crash -- he eventually killed three people. Blair doesn't want that made public, and he doesn't want her to know."

Banks leans forward. "Is that true?" His eyes narrow.

Not looking away, I say, "Every word of it. There are some things that happened down there that I... can't tell you about, but that's the truth." When he doesn't answer, I go on, "I want the bastard who attacked Blair. Believe me, if I knew anything about his identity, I'd tell you, no matter what the consequences."

"What kind of consequences are we talking about?" Banks doesn't look like he's entirely convinced, but some of the antagonism has left his face.

"For you, probably nothing. For me -- and for Blair -- " I don't finish.

"For me, probably nothing." Banks leans back slowly in his chair. He gives me a long, steady stare. "You know, Ellison, you're a real cheerful guy."

"Tell me about it."

We both look up as someone raps on the door. One of the detectives sticks his head inside. "I think we got something, sir."

It takes all my willpower to let Banks precede me out of his office, but I'm only a step behind as we go over to the desk where Blair's sitting. Sparing only a quick glance at him, the captain nods at the open mug book. "Have you made an identification, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yeah." Blair's voice is tense and strained. "This guy here."

"Are you sure?"

Blair looks up at the captain, then at me. I can see the certainty in his eyes. "It's him. I'm sure."

Nodding with satisfaction, Banks says, "We'll check it out. Thank you for your time, Mr. Sandburg." He shifts his gaze to me. "I'll keep you informed." The tone of his voice suggests he's offering just a little more than a professional courtesy.

"Thank you." After a quick look at the picture and the name underneath it -- Roscoe Martinson-- I put a hand under Blair's arm and urge him to his feet.

"Is that it?" Blair looks at Banks, then at me. "I mean, I thought -- don't I have to go to a lineup or something?"

Obviously striving for patience, Banks says, "We have to find him and bring him in for questioning first. Now, assuming that's something you'd like us to do, I think we should get to work," he adds pointedly.

"Come on, Blair."

"But...." With a final glance at the book, he lets me lead him out of the squadroom. When the door has swung shut behind us, he whispers, "Jim, I really think that was the guy. Shouldn't we -- what?" He breaks off as I hold up a hand.

"Shh." Pretending to zip up my jacket, I listen intently. It shouldn't be that hard, not much different from listening for prey, for an enemy....

After a second, I manage to isolate Banks' voice. "...Fits the description the witnesses gave. You have an address for him, Brown?"

"Yeah...." After hitting a few computer keys, the detective says, "No permanent address, but he usually hangs out down by the wharfs. I'll get on it...."

"Okay. Now we can go," I tell Blair.

"Oh, man. Jim, I really don't like this," Blair tells me. He perches on the arm of the couch and looks over at me.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not about to do anything stupid."

"I'm not worried about you doing something stupid," he snaps. "I'm worried about this Roscoe guy doing something dangerous. And do you really have to take that thing with you?"

I finish checking my gun. As I slip it into its holster, I say, "Yeah. Blair, don't worry. I can handle Martinson."

"Sure you can," he mutters. "I managed to fight him off, so how much could he do to you, huh?"

I have to remind myself that Blair's not trying to pick a fight. "Look, we need to know why this guy attacked you. I'm not going down there to take him down single-handed -- I'm just looking for information."

"Fine." Blair gets off the couch and takes his coat out of the closet. "If it's perfectly safe, and it's just information you're looking for, I'm going with you."

"The hell you are!"

He glares at me stubbornly. "Is it dangerous or isn't it? If it's not, there's no reason I shouldn't go."

I start to answer him, but my attention is caught by the sound of an approaching car. I listen to the engine for a few seconds before turning to Blair angrily. "What's Steven doing here?"

"I thought maybe he could talk some sense into you -- God knows I wasn't having any luck. I called him while you were in the shower."

"Of all the idiotic -- "

"Oh, so now I'm an idiot?"

"Jim? What's going on in here?" My brother walks in just in time to interrupt what would probably have become a blistering argument.

I point a finger at him. "Both of you are staying here."

"Sorry, Jim. You're not getting your way on this." Blair keeps talking even when both Steven and I try to interrupt him -- me to disagree, and Steven to ask once again what's happening. "Jim, every time one of us tries to protect the other, bad things happen. Just once, I'd like to avoid that part. And if something bad is going to happen, I'd rather get it over with and avoid the waiting." Shrugging into his coat, he grabs the keys from my hand and stalks to the door. "And I'm driving," he says coldly over his shoulder.

Steven looks at the door, then at me. "Okay. You tell me what's going on."

"I have to figure it out myself before I do that, Stevie. Come on -- the mood he's in, he might just leave without us," I growl.

Both Blair and I calm down on the drive to the wharf district. Part of that is because Steven's presence keeps us from saying anything really hurtful to each other. And part is because we both know the other is right. We do have to find out who, if anyone, sent Martinson. And Blair does have a right to know exactly what's going on.

All the same, I make both of them wait by the truck while I go into a few bars to ask around.

After the third one, I come back with some information. Getting behind the wheel -- Blair finally gave the keys back to me after Steven had a talk with him -- I say, "Okay. Martinson has been living in a hotel on Sycamore since he got out of jail."

"Jail? What was he in jail for?" Blair asks. He still sounds tense, but not nearly as angry.

"Armed robbery. Twice."

"Oh."

I give Blair a concerned glance. "He's still on parole. That's why he's hiding out -- if he's convicted again, he goes back to prison for life."

Steven leans forward over the seat. "So that probably rules out Oliver being involved, doesn't it?"

"You think so?"

"Yeah." Meeting my brother's eyes in the rearview mirror, I answer Blair's question. "Oliver wouldn't have to rely on someone like Martinson -- he'd be able to get the best, not some loser fresh out of the joint."

Blair hesitates, then nods. "Okay. So you think Amanda Vaughan is behind this?"

"Maybe. Right now, she's the likely suspect."

Steven takes his phone out of his pocket. "You think Banks is still in his office?"

I start the truck. "Maybe. But hold off on calling him for a few minutes, Steven."

"What?" Steven pauses in the middle of punching in Banks' number.

At the same time, Blair groans, "Oh, Jim, this is not a good idea. This is the nice thing about civilization, remember? We can get someone else to do the dirty work. If the toilet's backed up, we call a plumber. If we have a thug to arrest, we call the police. It's part of the foundation of modern society."

"We will call the police," I tell him. "As soon as we're sure he's there."

"Wait a minute -- we're going after this Martinson guy?"

"Yeah," Blair and I answer Steven in unison. He sounds exasperated, I sound stubborn.

And Steven knows better than to argue with either of us. Sighing, he puts his phone away. "This is your idea of a quiet evening, huh, Jimmy?"

"Welcome to our world, Steven," Blair says mournfully.

I don't turn around as I hear two pairs of footsteps coming up the stairs behind me. I keep my voice as low as possible as I say, "I thought I told you two to stay downstairs so you could be ready to call the police."

"Yeah. That's what you told us. Isn't it, Steven?"

Sounding like he wishes he could be somewhere else, Steven says, "And it sounds like real good advice. I think we should all go back downstairs." But I think he knows that's not going to happen.

I turn around to meet Blair's eyes. He looks scared, and stubborn, and I can tell from his face that he's staying until it's over, no matter what happens. His expression softens a little as I look at him, and a flash of understanding passes between us. Quietly, I ask him, "Will you at least stay back here until I know what's going on?"

"Yeah -- "

And that's when things go bad.

The door at the end of the hallway bursts open; without thinking, I shove Blair behind me, into Steven's arms. Both of them are knocked to the ground, and I allow myself a moment of stark terror as I realize how close we still are to the stairs, and how easily they could have fallen down the entire flight. But then I'm running down the hallway, toward the open window where I can just see a leg disappearing.

When I get to the window, the man -- Martinson -- is already halfway down the fire escape. I start to follow him down, but it's too slow, he's going to get away, I'll have to tell Blair that he still has to worry about the man who attacked him once already, and who might try again....

I'm still two flights behind Martinson. He'll be on the ground in a few seconds. He knows the territory, and I don't. That's an advantage I can't let him keep -- if I'm going to get him, it has to be now.

Martinson hits the ground running.

I have time to think, If Blair's watching, he's really going to be pissed off.

Then I jump.

"Do that again and I'll kill you."

"If I do that again, you won't have to kill me. I'd never survive the fall," I groan as the paramedic pokes at my shoulder. Looking up at Blair, I barely stop myself from telling him he's beautiful when he's angry. Oh, he is, but I don't think this is the time to point that out.

We both look up as Steven and Captain Banks walk over. Banks looks me up and down. "You're going to make my life very interesting, aren't you?" he growls around his cigar. He doesn't sound a bit happy. And Steven -- Steven won't meet my eyes or Blair's.

Giving me another angry look, Blair turns to Banks and asks, "Did you find out anything about -- ?" He nods toward the police cruiser, where Martinson is. It's not fair. I landed on him, so how come I'm the one who got more banged up?

A glint of satisfaction comes into Banks' eyes in spite of his anger. "He told us everything. Full confession -- unless he does something stupid like pleading not guilty, you probably won't even have to testify at his trial. Told us all about the woman who hired him, too."

I can feel Blair sag next to me. "So it was Mrs. Vaughan?"

"Nope."

Blair and I are both too stunned to say anything. Unhappily, Steven says, "Martinson was hired by Mary Doyle. She thought the attack on Blair would distract you from investigating her." He hesitates. "I'm sorry."

"Mary Doyle?" Blair asks in confusion. He looks from me to Steven and back again. "Who the hell is Mary Doyle?"

"The case I was working on for Steven," I tell him. God, I feel tired. It hurts so much to see the understanding on Blair's face -- great, we have the guy who attacked him. But we still don't know a thing about what Colonel Oliver is going to do, and he still has Amanda Vaughan hanging over his head.

And here I thought I could take care of it for him. Hell, all that I found out is that I have one more reason to feel guilty -- Blair wouldn't have been hurt if it wasn't for my investigation.

Banks watches our faces curiously. As the paramedic finishes checking me over, the captain says, "There's still a lot you three aren't telling me." None of us answer him. Moving his cigar to the other side of his mouth, he adds curtly, "And I think there's a lot I don't want you to tell me. We don't need anything more from any of you gentlemen tonight. I'll be in touch."

My brother, my lover and I are all quiet as we walk back to the truck. Neither Blair nor I object as Steven holds out his hand for the keys to the truck. Blair climbs into the back seat without a word, and Steven and I get in the front.

After a few miles, Blair sighs. "You know, my mother told me once that no situation is ever entirely resolved. Nothing ever ends -- troubles sleep and wake, and new ones are born, but the old ones never die."

I glance back at him -- carefully, because it hurts to move. "Is that a quote from something?"

"Probably. I don't know what, though."

Steven says, "Well, this trouble is my fault. I'm sorry. If I hadn't asked Jim to investigate -- "

Blair interrupts him. "If it hadn't been about this, it would have been about something else. Or it might have been Oliver or Mrs. Vaughan, and it would have ended up being a whole lot worse. This wasn't your fault, Steven."

"...Thank you, Blair." We're all quiet for the rest of the drive to the cabin. By the time we get there, I'm almost too stiff to get out of the truck. Without a word, Blair is next to me, helping me out and putting my arm around his shoulder. I lean on him heavily as we walk up the path to the cabin and go inside.

Steven stays in the living room as Blair takes me straight to the bedroom. Our bedroom. He helps me undress, and he makes me sit down on the bed. He folds my discarded clothes neatly before tossing them in the hamper, muttering under his breath all the while. I'm too tired to pay much attention to his words, but I can't miss the fear that he's using his anger to cover up.

Grabbing his hand as he leans over me to rearrange the pillows, I say, "Blair. I'm sorry."

"For what? Scaring me half to death?" In spite of his words, his hands are gentle as he urges me to lie down.

"For that. For Oliver, for Vaughan, for Mrs. Vaughan -- hell, Blair, I'm sorry for all kinds of things."

"None of them are your fault." Blair scowls at me as he pulls the blanket up. "I still think you should go to a doctor."

"I'll be fine -- the medic said I didn't have a concussion."

Snorting, Blair says, "Yeah, like I believe that. The guy was, like, way too young to know anything." I guess this isn't a good time to point out that the paramedic couldn't have been much more than a year or two younger than Blair. He looks at me and says, very seriously, "I meant it, Jim. I don't ever want to see you do something like that again. When I saw you go leaping off the fire escape like you were a Flying Wallenda or something...."

Taking his hand again, I pull him closer. "I know. I'm sorry. I just couldn't take the risk of him getting away."

"Yeah, well... next time it happens -- not that I'm expecting it to happen -- just... let him get away, huh?" Sitting down beside me, he lays a hand on the bruises on my shoulder. It hurts for just a second; then the warmth of his skin starts to soak into the sore flesh, easing the pain. "I'd rather deal with that than worry about you getting hurt. And don't you dare tell me you're not hurting right now."

"Okay. You win. I'll go in for a checkup in the morning."

"I mean, on a really good day, Superman might be able to get away with a stunt like -- you will?" And the dumbfounded expression he gives me is worth my concession.

I smile at him, letting myself sink deeper into the pillows. "Yeah. Anything to get you to stop nagging me."

"I don't nag."

"Sure you don't."

"I don't nag. I'm just always right." He wins the argument by kissing me. As our lips meet, I feel the last of his tension drain away. Pulling away reluctantly, he says, "I'm going to see Steven out. Anything you want me to say to him?"

"Just thank him."

Standing up, Blair fusses with the blankets. "I was going to do that anyway. Back in a few minutes."

I close my eyes and stretch my sore muscles. "I'll be here." I listen to Blair's retreating footsteps as he leaves the bedroom. I could turn down my hearing, I suppose. But I don't.

"Well, he says he'll go to the doctor in the morning, at least," Blair grumbles.

I can hear the surprise in my brother's voice as he says, "You actually got him to agree to that?"

"He agrees now. Let's see if he still agrees in the morning -- oh, geez, I didn't realize how tired I was."

There's a rustle of cloth as Steven puts his jacket back on. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah." Blair laughs a little. "Just sore. Jim's not a lightweight."

"Why didn't you say anything? I'm closer to his size -- it would have made more sense for me to help him walk."

Blair doesn't answer for a few seconds. Then he says, all the joking and irritation gone from his voice, "If Jim thinks I'm strong enough to support him, there's no way I'd let him down, Steven."

A few more moments of silence before Steven says, "I know. He knows, too. If you need anything during the night, call me." He leaves without another word.

Blair putters around in the living room and the kitchen for a few minutes; he goes around checking all the doors and windows, and then I can hear dishes going into the sink, and mail being sorted, and general tidying up. Finally, Blair comes back into the bedroom. "You still awake?"

"Yeah. Get in here --I could use some company." I hold the blankets up for him. He strips off his outer clothes quickly and climbs under the covers with me. He tries to arrange himself carefully around me, avoiding all my sore places. He doesn't need to worry. All my aches become a little easier to bear as soon as he touches them.

After a few moments, he asks, "What about Oliver? I mean, if he wasn't behind this... maybe he meant what he said about never calling you for anything, about never threatening us. Do you think we can trust him? Maybe he's really going to leave us alone."

As much as I want to tell him that he's probably right, I can't. "I don't know whether or not he meant it. Either way, I don't think we can trust him."

Blair smiles into the side of my neck. "You're so reassuring. Look on the bright side -- he might have decided we're too much trouble to bother with."

"Maybe." But I hate not knowing. After a few moments, I say, "Blair? What you said in the truck about troubles never ending... doesn't that bother you?"

"Oh, yeah," he sighs. "It bothers me. A lot of things bother me. War, disease, poverty... we've just got to handle this the way we handle the big problems. Try to make our little corner of the world a little better, a little safer, and hope that it affects the world as a whole."

I close my eyes for a moment as he rubs his head against my shoulder. "I still wish I could make all of it go away for you."

"You do that every second I'm with you, Jim." I can hear the sleep gathering in his voice, feel it in the heaviness of his body next to mine.

Smiling, I whisper, "You know what? You're a hopeless romantic, Sandburg." With just the tip of my finger, I trace the pattern of the tattoo on his shoulder. I don't need to see it, or even feel it. I always know it's there.

"Everybody's gotta be something, man," he murmurs. Then he's asleep.

Yeah. Everybody's got to be something.

And I'm his.

I can hear the blood whispering in his veins, shuddering through the chambers of his heart. Each pulse sends subtle vibrations through his sleeping body. If I heighten my sense of touch, extend it just a little more... yes. I feel the vibrations passing through his skin onto mine, into mine, being absorbed into my own body, influencing the patterns of my own heart and blood.

Now he's a part of me. Forever. His heart is part of mine, and mine is part of his.

And no matter what else might happen, nothing and nobody can ever take that away from us.

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