Archive of Our Own

still don't own them - pet fly does

don't you love it when a plan comes together?

still don't know my rank - lucky to know my name. this is just one of those ideas that won't let you rest until it's written

This story is a sequel to: Apache

Detective Blair Sandburg gaped in astonishment at the organised chaos of the emergency services swarming around his precinct. Sirens and lights flashed everywhere as men and women shouted and moved urgently. The paramedics and EMT's were swarming like flies among the people from the PD, checking and treating the multitude of injuries and complaints.

"Damn, a man can't even go to court for the day without them getting in to some kind of trouble," Blair mumbled, ignoring firmly the idea that he was the department mascot for attracting trouble. After today they'd never be able to blame the weird things that happened on him again. Blair restrained the impulse to slap his forehead in disgust. What was he talking about? Of course they would.

"Sandburg!" Phil Anderson from Homicide waved and Blair jogged over quickly. Anderson was one of the cops outside Major Crimes that had accepted him after the thesis mess. The detective was leaning against a squad car, while his partner sat in the rear passenger seat with an oxygen mask.

"Hey Anderson. Macready, you all right?" Blair greeted them, looking at the pale face of the seated cop. Even Macready's fiery red hair seemed pale at the moment. If Central wasn't secure, then what was?

"Yeah," the cop rasped through the mask, "Jest dandy."

"What the hell happened?" Blair asked Anderson, watching the other man fuss over his partner.

"Something went off in Major Crimes. A gas of some kind. We've got unconscious people all over the place - it looks like a terrorist attack. Your people were fished out alive - I guess they've been taken in to hospital already. They recalled you from court?"

The last comment was a reference to the sombre dark suit that Blair had bought specifically for court after he'd graduated from the academy. That was a year ago and a lot of water under the bridge.

"Yeah, I was just told that Central was 911 and to get down here. Do you know which hospital they're using?" Blair looked around nervously. Gas meant chemical reactions and the Sentinel would be doubly vulnerable without his Guide. Spikes and zones were nearly nonexistent nowadays as Jim's control became almost second nature. Whenever they did hit it was a sign of some environmental hazard or an incipient illness.

"General, I think," Anderson replied and Blair nodded his thanks before heading over to the command post. He checked in and got permission to head over to the hospital to act as liaison there. The good news was that the gas was not a fatal toxin - it merely knocked people out. Whoever had done this was surprisingly not looking for a body count.

General was busy, and at first the nursing staff tried to fob him off, but Blair pointed out that there were quite a few men back there who'd just been gassed and carried concealed weapons. That got him the access he needed to the patients. He made a list of who was there and collected guns and other weaponry, depositing them in a plastic tub on a trolley and noting down what came from who so there wouldn't be any arguments. He got to the end of the casualties and turned the weapons over to a uniformed cop who was standing at the door. Then he put in a priority call to the Commissioner.

Of all the people in the ER at General, five were missing. His Captain, his partner, Rafe and Brown and Taggert. There was more to the attack than had first appeared.

Jim watched from the corner where he was tied as the rest of his people woke. The hut they were in was small and cold, built in the middle of Kincaid's compound. The Sentinel had awakened from the gas much earlier, and Jim would have liked to play possum to find out what was going on and use the first opportunity to turn tables on their captors. Unfortunately the Sentinel's senses were off the scale and he'd woken screaming in pain and throwing up what felt like every meal he'd had in the last month. They'd restrained him and then hosed him off once they reached this location before throwing him in with his still unconscious and unrestrained colleagues. The cold air and wet clothes were rapidly sending Jim into hypothermia, though at least he wasn't forced to wallow in the smell of his own bile. Hearing spiked irregularly and thankfully touch and taste were shut down. His sense of smell was working as normal, though he hadn't turned it up and his eyesight was also behaving for now.

Unable to respond to Simon's concerned questions - his teeth were chattering too hard and he was shaking with the cold too violently, Jim could only grimace in gratitude as his wrists were undone and his friends put their coats around him. Taggert and Simon added their body warmth, sandwiching him between them. Rafe and Brown moved carefully around the nearly pitch black - to them - hut.

"What the hell's going on Simon," Taggert muttered, "One minute we're in the office, then we're here."

"K-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-inc-c-c-c-aihhhhhd-d-d-d-d-d-d," Jim stuttered out between bouts of shivering. He was starting to feel a little warmed by their efforts and Simon's large hands were rubbing his wrists and hands gently.

"Kincaid? He's out?" Simon asked and Jim managed a stiff nod. Taggert sighed and put his arm around Jim's waist to keep the detective warm while Rafe and Brown muttered threats under their breath. The survivalist was not their favourite person. His band of merry men were nutcases at the best of times, but with their leader back on the job...

"Shit," Rafe summed it up in a weary tone, "And I'm betting we're not in Cascade any more."

"You got that right, Toto," Brown replied gloomily. They were keeping their voices low and their movements as quiet as possible in an effort to avoid the notice of their captors while they figured out their situation.

"Any idea how long we were out?" Taggert asked Jim quietly and Jim shook his head. Brown checked his watch. It had the date on the face as well as the usual time.

"Holy shit!" he hissed, "It's ten o'clock, Tuesday night!"

"But we were in the Monday morning meeting!" Rafe protested while Simon swore softly in Jim's ear. When there was no reaction from the Sentinel, Simon frowned and cupped Jim's face, turning it so he could look at the dazed eyes.

"Damn, Ellison, this stuff has really messed you up. I thought you were just cold," he fretted, wondering how Blair would have overcome this particular problem.

"Is it a Sentinel thing or an allergy thing?" Joel asked worriedly, "Trust our luck - Blair's not here to take care of him."

"Thank god," Brown said fervently, "Can you imagine how much worse things would be with Hairboy here? He and Ellison have bested Kincaid twice now - and you and the Captain weren't exactly on his Christmas card list either."

"Neither will you two be - he's a racist asshole on a mild day. And in his books Jim's a traitor to the Aryan ideal anyway - he works with us and actually likes it," Taggert reminded them, "Major Crimes is practically a poster for the original Rainbow Family."

"Yeah well, he can kiss my rainbow butt," Rafe growled, "Sandburg will get us out - he won't wait for the Feds to muck this up. All we have to do is survive until then."

Simon nodded quietly, trying not to disturb his detective who had finally succumbed and put his head down on Simon's shoulder, his face pressed to the warm skin of his boss's neck. Simon had seen the Sentinel do this with his Guide and only hoped that his scent would provide a suitable substitute.

Forty-eight hours after the attack, Blair entered the loft alone. They'd found their people - or rather they'd found out what had happened to them. It was not good news. The Feds were all over this like white on rice and Blair had been ordered home to rest. He stripped out of his suit mechanically, putting it back into its bag to go to the cleaners.

Kincaid had escaped from prison. The notification to Major Crimes had got lost in the system. The Sunrise Patriots had somehow managed to get their hands on enough gas to knock out two floors of the Central precinct, and then gone in under cover as medics to kidnap five members of the Cascade PD in a daring act of vengeance. Blair thought it might have been six, but he'd been in court all day.

He dressed carefully and dug out his phone book. According to the FBI, the Patriots had a compound deep in the middle of some serious wilderness. They were talking rocky terrain, mountains, cliffs, steep valleys and dense forest. The terrain totally ruled out a quick insertion and rescue effort by the PD or the Feds. They were also talking about trying to get in touch with the Patriots to start hostage negotiations. Blair knew it would be a waste of time. Kincaid would jerk them along until he had killed them all off - maybe shelling out a body at a time and meanwhile torturing the survivors.

Sitting by the phone, Blair opened his address book. He really could have used Jim's Covert ops contacts right about now, in fact if he had been taken instead of Jim there was a good chance they'd be out by now. Ellison didn't hang around. He jumped when it rang under his hand and then cursed himself for a twitchy idiot.

"Sandburg," he identified himself, picking up the receiver and not in the mood for telemarketing right this minute.

"It's me," Daryl Banks voice was choked and Blair's gut tightened in sympathy, "Blair? Have you heard anything?"

"Hey Daryl," his voice was as gentle as he could make it, "No, I haven't heard anything. The Feds are trying to contact the Patriots and they sent me home."

"You won't give up, right?" Daryl begged, "Please, Blair. The Feds don't care like we do. Those Patriots are nuts...you gotta help my dad!"

In the background Joan's voice didn't sound happy as she evidently interrupted Daryl's unsanctioned phone call.

"I promise," Blair said firmly just as Joan's voice rose and the teen turned away to try and placate her. The phone cut out in mid word and Blair sighed. He hung up then called out on the line. He'd been around the block, and though his contacts weren't as impressive as Jim's he had enough to get the job done. He wasn't going to wait for the Feds. Not when his tribe needed him.

No one came near the captives until Wednesday night. They'd huddled close together for warmth - the autumn air was very cold - and during the day only a few men were seen, walking from one building to another at irregular intervals. The lack of food was starting to tell, as they'd last eaten the morning of their capture, and so was the lack of water. Kincaid obviously wasn't too interested in humanitarian rights.

They had some warning that they were about to be visited when three heavily armed men walked a fourth over towards the hut. The walls had gaps and knot holes that let them see out, and the five men spread out silently at Jim's command. He'd woken with his senses mostly back on line, though touch was still a little off.

Two of the gunmen entered first and stood with their backs to the wall, out of reach of the cops and safe from sneak attacks. The third gunman stayed outside while the fourth man stepped in, dumped two buckets on the floor silently and then walked straight back out. The gunmen backed out and the door was slammed and locked again.

"Cooked rice and water," Jim's voice was quiet, "Both free of contaminants."

"I see," Simon sighed. Jim had been able to locate anti-personnel mines around the compound, the sentries that watched over them and a TV tuned to the Cascade news - and the reports of their kidnapping. His senses were as balanced as they could get without his Guide and he wouldn't let his friends touch anything that he wasn't sure was safe.

They divided the rice up and ate it quickly - the cold congealing mess tasteless and unappetising. The water bucket was also visited, though they rationed that out a little, in case Kincaid decided not to water or feed them regularly. The rice wouldn't have kept, but the water would.

When the meagre meal was finished they moved back to their posts along the walls to keep watch on their captors. By unspoken agreement, Jim had tried sensing to the north, south and west for possible escape routes, now Simon acted as a temporary guide while he canvassed the east. After long tense minutes, Jim slumped and shook his head.

"No good," he reported, "There's a cliff there - we'd need proper gear and time to climb down it. We won't get either with them shooting at us."

"Ok, plan b," Taggert spoke up, "We don't sneak out - we bust out, grab ourselves some weapons and transport and make a run for it."

"That's gonna be pretty hard to do," Jim turned and slid down the wall, uncharacteristically depressed. His clothes were chafing and his skin burned from the cool touch of the late autumn air. The touch dial was acting up with a vengeance and threatening to take all his other dials with it.

"Take it easy, Jim, just turn it all down for now. Those drugs are still messing with your system. We'll take the watch for now," Simon advised him and Jim closed his eyes in defeat. What a paradox. He needed - hell he wanted - his Guide there to help put everything back together properly, and at the same time he wanted the man as far away from the danger as possible. Pity they couldn't just phone it in. Realising that he was making no sense, even in his own head, Jim let sleep claim him.

Blair looked across the lofts dining table at the ex marine. He might have left the service to become a merc, but he still had an inside line with the Feds. What they knew about Kincaid's compound the marine knew.

"Mines?" he asked in disbelief, "Hell, he's probably got air to ground missiles as well!"

"There is a possibility, you're right," the other man nodded, "I don't know what to tell you, Burg. We can't get in there quietly, but in a running battle your people might get killed. That's what's holding the feebs back from simply storming the place. Too high a body count. That and the damn rules that say these idiots still have rights. In my opinion a good offence and a bulldozer to level the place is the only way to go. Only problem is I can't see how to ensure your people aren't killed."

"Hendricks, that is not an option," Blair said coldly, "What about this cliff? Could your people climb it?"

"Yeah," Hendricks nodded, "I suppose we could. It would be difficult at night, but there's no point. We can't get back down it again with your people - there's no telling what condition they'll be in."

"You wouldn't need to climb down it," Blair told him, thinking hard, "You'd just need to jump from the cliff to a bird. You've done it before, I've seen you."

Hendricks looked up, rubbing the scar on his cheek that had been a permanent reminder of his one and only flight with the pilot he'd known as Burg. The CIA had been running some kind of op, using his team as cannon fodder. Burg had defied orders to pick them up, got shot and still flown the badly damaged bird to a MASH unit safely. He'd been discharged after a failed court-martial. How the hell he'd ended up a cop with long hair and an attitude must be a wild story, and Hendricks would make it a point to ask one day.

"Yeah, that would work," he agreed slowly, "I could get you a bird."

He'd made sure that the pilot had his number in case he ever needed anything. He owed Burg his life, and Hendricks was a man who paid his debts. Beside, it was always a good idea to know a pilot - you never knew when you might need one, especially one that was out of the mercenaries loop. Most merc pilots were well known among the game - knowing an outsider was a handy back up. This would be Burg's initiation into the world of merc's.

"I haven't flown since I picked you guys up," Blair frowned. He wanted to be free to get to Jim and the others, not stuck in a cockpit.

"You're the only pilot we've got," Hendricks replied a little untruthfully, "It's you or a battle."

Blair sighed and hung his head for a moment. He wasn't too worried about his ability to pilot a chopper again - he'd been one of the best once, and the skills were good anytime. The faceless casualties he'd ferried back to base hadn't been as precious as the cargo he'd be flying home if everything went according to plan.

Hendricks watched Burg lift his head and nod.

"Right, lets do it," the man said calmly, "How long until we're good to go?"

They'd come for Simon the next morning, taking him out of the hut quite easily. The door had been opened, a stun grenade thrown in and then in the aftermath Simon was simply gone. Jim had tried to focus reeling senses on his temporary guide, but it had been no good. The tension among the cops was high as they waited for some sign of Simon's fate.

By noon Jim had alerted them to their captors approach. Simon was being dragged between two men and the cops stood back on command as their leader was dumped unconscious just inside the door. A quick examination showed that he'd been beaten hard and then knocked out. Jim could detect no internal injuries, or broken bones- whoever had done this was an expert.

They were gassed again that night, a lighter dose this time, and woke with Rafe missing. He was returned at dawn. Simon was awake by then - he'd told the others that the beating was taped. Kincaid was there, posturing and spouting rhetoric like the loser he was. Rafe's arm was broken, and Brown had to be restrained from attacking the walls of their cage in anger. They might not have the Sentinel/Guide bond that Jim and Blair shared, but the people in Major Crimes were closer than family.

Jim's senses were once more acting up - the second dose of gas had wiped out his control. One minute they were spiking, the next they shut down. He went blind for an hour and spent the morning completely deaf. Simon was doing his best to help control the spikes, but his scent was marred with pain and blood, which threw Jim's abilities into Protector Overdrive. Towards sun down his hearing spiked and drew him to the eastern wall.

"There's someone on the cliff," he whispered softly, "I think I can hear them climbing."

"Jim, are you sure?" Simon whispered back, "Is it the Feds?"

"No, I don't think so," Jim frowned, "I...damn, it's gone again."

"Let's just be ready to go," Simon sat up carefully, "Taggert, you and Brown take Rafe."

The sharply dressed detective was still out - they figured he had a pretty significant concussion. Jim's sense of touch had deserted him so they couldn't be sure.

"What about you, Simon?" Taggert frowned. The tall man was still moving stiffly - the cold and lack of medical treatment hadn't helped the bruising from his beating.

"I'll take care of Simon," Jim didn't look away from the wall, where he was trying to send errant senses back over the cliff to confirm what he'd heard.

"Heads up," Taggert hissed suddenly, "Buckets approaching."

The cops moved back as they were once more fed and watered with a bucket of rice and water. Simon moved over to the offering stiffly, peering inside the food bucket.

"Oatmeal," he announced, "And the usual water. Jim? Do you think it's safe?"

Jim moved away from the wall and bent over to sniff. Chemicals made his eyes water and his nose burn and he reeled back, gasping and choking.

"No!" he coughed and Simon gave a panicked shout, pulling the Sentinel away and trying to block the odour from the oatmeal. Brown shoved the bucket over into the far corner and dropped his jacket over it.

"What is it Jim?" Simon held the trembling man in his arms and rocked them both gently, the only comfort he could offer. Jim was becoming more and more diminished as his wild senses attacked him at the slightest provocation.

"Drugged," Jim choked out, "Don't eat it, bad."

"We won't, now dial it back down. Come on, Jim, find the dial and turn it down. You can do this, I've seen you," Simon urged. Jim buried his face in Simon's neck again and the two men rocked quietly for a while, the men climbing the cliff forgotten.

Burg checked his watch again and then went back to stripping down the tail assembly. It had given him a few little hiccups on the way to the insertion point and he'd decided to give it another once over. Hendricks was good at `procuring' things on the quiet. He had no idea where this bird had come from and quite frankly didn't care as long as it did its job.

He'd flown the three-man team into the valley and dropped them into a clearing out of sight of the compound under the cover of darkness. He had his radio set up and ready to receive confirmation as the pick up time drew closer - but he'd be in the air by then. Things would be tight and there was no room for mistakes. They were going to do this at sunset - the lower sun giving Burg some cover to hide in, and the noise the merc's would be making would also disguise the sound of the rotors.

Putting the cover back in place Burg stowed the toolkit and checked the interior of the bird. The first aid kit was well stocked and strapped in place, as were the emergency blankets and rations. He had no idea what the hostage's condition would be, so they planned for as wide a range of possibilities as they could.

The pilot sat on the edge of the cargo bay and ate a couple of ration bars while reviewing the map one more time. He checked his watch again and nodded, folding everything away and securing the door open for the flight. The added drag would increase fuel consumption but they had a fuel dump they could get to nearby, and there was no guarantee that he'd be able to land and let someone open the door for him.

He got into the cockpit and started the pre-flight, then powered up and let the bird rise gently from the ground. His old skill had come flowing back on the first flight, now the lightest of touches were used to steer the bird high in the sky and around to where he wanted it. He headed for the distant cliffs, hearing the radio crackle and then burst to life as the extraction team made their move.

"Burg! Three minutes!"

"Got it," he replied calmly, adding a touch of speed to arrive precisely thirty seconds before the deadline. There was some small arms fire and the team and hostages were heading for him at a dead run - one hostage was down, the others mobile. He drifted the skids over the edge of the cliff in a dangerous move and listened as they all piled in while Hendricks used the grenade launcher on his gun to suppress the Patriots and the second merc added suppressing fire. Then Hendricks was in and he was climbing fast, straight up, listening as a few slugs impacted the belly of the bird.

Then they were out of range and headed straight into the sun, obscuring their departure.

"Have they got air support?" Burg yelled over the wind still rushing through the bird, "Shut the damn door!"

"No air support that we could see - it's possible they've got a strip elsewhere though," Hendricks replied, climbing into the other seat up front, "No casualties on our part, a few on theirs."

Burg didn't really give a shit about the Patriots, though he welcomed the news about the hostages. He dropped to the deck once they were out of direct sight of the Patriots and changed course, heading for the fuel dump. The extra weight was slowing them down, but he wasn't about to tell anyone to get out and walk.

"ETA to dump, twenty minutes!" he informed Hendricks and the man nodded, turning to tell the people in the belly of the bird. Burg just grinned and concentrated on his flying. They'd done it - and nothing would stop them now. The tribe was reunited.

Simon leaned back against the wall and watched the two mercenaries reload and secure the helicopter's interior for normal flight. For a moment it had been like world war three in the compound, and then the leader had broken the out of the hut, telling them to make for the chopper while he covered them. They hadn't waited for introductions or reunions, just grabbed Rafe and moved.

"Damn Ellison, you've got good contacts," he said to the man slumped beside him. Jim's head shook quietly, a very wary and slightly hostile look on his face.

"They're not mine, Simon - I've got no idea who these people are. Hell, for all I know we've just been kidnapped again," he confessed wearily.

"How are...you know?" Simon asked quietly and Jim grimaced. Beside them Taggert and Brown were settling Rafe on the floor, checking that they hadn't hurt him worse in the sudden run to the chopper.

"I'm turned down to absolute normal - I just can't take any more spikes," he confessed reluctantly. Simon nodded and gave his people a little `heads up' gesture. The Sentinel was off line - that still left Jim's rather formidable talents as a Ranger and cop. And he wasn't without a trick or two either.

The flight lasted twenty minutes and then they were landing in a clearing, the rotors slowing as the engines were switched off. The pilot and the merc up front jumped out and Jim opened the rear door to watch what was going on.

"Refuelling," one of the men still inside told him as he slid past Jim to go help, "Stay in the chopper. We're moving out again the minute we're done. Snake - shake a leg."

Snake was evidently the third merc, he got out too and started helping under strict instructions from the pilot, who jogged over to the belly of the chopper once the refuelling was under way.

"Blair?" Jim breathed in astonishment and his Guide nodded. His hair was scraped back and there was something in the way he moved...

"You guys ok? What happened to Rafe?" he looked them over but didn't climb inside. His Sentinel had a pretty firm grip on him by now, which was going to make flying difficult. He waited out the storm of exclamations and speculation, relieved to hear that they thought Rafe would be all right. Jim looked like shit, but a few words from Simon explained that.

"Here," Blair stripped off the jacket he wore, the body armour underneath readily apparent, "Wear this Jim and relax. We've got another hour to go before we make it to the hangar. We'll have you guys back in Cascade in no time."

"Burg! Ready to go!" Hendricks called and Blair slipped away from them, replaced with the man they'd only ever seen once - in a recording. He moved away to double check everything and then they loaded up again and the chopper lifted off as gently as a feather on the breeze.

Jim settled down to lean hard against the pilot's seat, his Guide's jacket draped over him like a blanket. The longed for scent soon sent him off to sleep despite the danger that still shadowed their escape.

Epilogue

Jim looked up as Blair entered the loft. Their return had been rather a sensation among the Feds. Blair had tipped them off to the intended rescue along with some faked information from a non existent informant that Kincaid intended to kill his hostages sooner rather than later. The Feds were mopping up now and the people from Major Crimes were on leave for another week to `recover from their ordeal' - as the Commissioner had put it in his interview with Don Haas.

Blair had worked very solidly with Jim to get the rampant senses under control, ruthlessly testing and demanding until Jim could go for twelve hours without the need to touch or ground himself in his Guide. Jim knew that his endurance would increase again over time - he wasn't as worried about this loss of control as he would have been a year or so ago.

They'd run out of food in the loft and Blair had gone out for more - grocery shopping and take out as neither man felt in the mood to really cook lately. Once the senses were behaving they'd declared a holiday and turned into real couch potatoes - watching hours of sport and movies and generally goofing off. Neither felt like going outside - the press was still interested in interviewing the `brave hostages' and Jim didn't really want to get busted down to traffic duty for slugging a reporter.

There was something - or rather someone - he'd much rather grapple with. His partner had once again risen magnificently to the occasion and performed above and beyond the call of duty. And not, unfortunately, in the bedroom where that sentence could take on a whole new meaning. Ever since the thesis mess, Jim had been contemplating his partner and exactly how the man fit into his life. After a year he'd come up with a one-word answer to that question that fit the bill: perfectly.

He knew about the senses - hell he understood, accepted and was comfortable with them. He knew about Jim's family and so called childhood. He knew that Jim's past wasn't all hearts and roses, and he accepted the demons that went with it. He knew all about the ex - Jim's wife and girlfriends, criminal or otherwise. He knew all of Jim's little personality quirks - nine thousand, four hundred and thirty one on a good day and counting. He knew about the pressures of Jim's job - hell, he shared them.

Jim knew his roommate was bi - Blair had confessed it while cleaning up the loft after Larry trashed it all those years ago. He'd occasionally smelt men on his friend after a night out - or on several occasions an afternoon in. Jim hadn't done much more than experiment in high school and a few locker room fumbles later on. Despite his time in Vice, Jim wasn't all that experienced with men - with most of them his mind just didn't go there. With Blair it did. He wanted to know his Guide in a much more intimate manner, but at the same time didn't want to just become his bed warmer.

Given the ordeal with Kincaid and the fact that either one of them could `buy the farm' in the course of their duties, Jim had decided this week that he was going to come clean to Sandburg and then hope they could get down and dirty. He knew that he loved the guy - and he was ninety nine percent sure he was loved back - you don't let even a good friend throw up on you and then complain bitterly about the smell for two days in a row without some serious emotions behind it all. Not to mention the tender care lavished on said whining friend with patience a saint would admire.

"Hey big guy, you in there?" Blair called from the kitchen where he was unpacking the last bag, "Dinner's at the door - you want to give me a hand and take care of that?"

"Sorry Chief, my mind wandered," Jim heard the knock again and got up, fishing the money out of the communal pouch they kept in the basket by the door for just such an occasion. He took the delivery of Thai food and started dishing up while Blair washed his hands and fished out beers for them both.

Dinner was consumed in companionable silence, and the clean up let that silence stretch on. Blair glanced at him a few times, but evidently decided to let Jim say whatever was on his mind when he was good and ready.

"I love you," Jim muttered as Blair went to wipe the table down. "I love you too, Jim," Blair smiled over at him, some freak echo telling him what the Sentinel had muttered, "Is that what's been bothering you?"

"Not bothering," Jim confessed, a little off balance, "Just...didn't want you to misunderstand me."

"I would never misunderstand those words, Jim. I love you."

Jim went and put his arms around his Guide, inhaling the spicy scent and bending for a taste. Blair opened to him happily and they spent long minutes necking lightly.

"So, wanna go somewhere comfortable and teach me how to love a man?" Jim suggested and Blair's smile warmed him right through.

"Sure, would."

They made it as far as the couch...but that's another story...

mwahahahahahahahaha

End Apache 2 by shedoc: [email protected]

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