Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 21 February 2003

For Love of the Man

"Naomi!" Sandburg said as he threw himself into his mother's arms. He was ecstatic.

Me? I was less than thrilled. The way I'd been feeling about Naomi lately, I'm not sure having her so close at hand was a safe thing -- for any of us.

But I pasted on a smile and went forward to welcome her, because, well, she is Sandburg's mother, and I do love him, and I think I remember reading somewhere that this is the kind of thing you do for the person you love.

"Hey, Naomi," I said, leaning down to graze her cheek with a kiss. "What brings you by?"

She laughed and I had to smile for real then. I knew where Sandburg got that laugh of his from, the one that went straight to your gut and made you happy whether you wanted to feel that way or not. That was something good he'd gotten from his mom, and I needed to focus on all the good things about Naomi that I could.

And I needed to remember -- Sandburg loved his mother.

"I'm on my way to Alaska for an environmental thing. We're trying to increase awareness of the rapidly diminishing natural lands and raise funds for education and preservation."

"Oh," I said. I mean, what else was there to say?

"Oh, man, I read about some of that stuff," Sandburg said, leading his mom into the loft and leaving me to collect her things.

I shoulder the bags and sneeze -- sage clings to everything -- then haul the lot of them into the living room and look around, trying to decide where to put them.

"Put them in my old room, Jim," Sandburg says, and I tense, but Naomi seems to have missed the full import of his instruction.

I nod and head for the room under the stairs, opening the French doors and stowing Naomi's three bags by the bed. I'm wondering if I should change the sheets when Sandburg starts in again. I should have known my partner would know the issues. I can come up with 'Oh,' but he can cite chapter and verse on what's happening. Is this guy smart, or what? I turn to watch him and grin. It's then that I realize I am positively sappy when I'm in love. No wonder I've avoided it for so long.

"There're timber issues and ATVs tearing up the terrain ..." he says, his arms waving as he seeks me out and gestures for me to rejoin them.

"And the roadless rule is up for reconsideration," Naomi interjects. "Don't forget that."

"Roadless rule?" I ask as I move into the living room and try to decide where to sit. Naomi is snuggled next to Blair in my usual spot on the couch and I'm not sure what he wants, so I finally settle on sitting in the chair.

"Clinton administration passed it -- loggers can't go cutting roads throughout all the forests they're destroying."

"Doesn't that make it hard to get the timber out?" I ask innocently.

"Exactly." Blair and Naomi speak simultaneously and then look at each other and burst out laughing.

All right. I admit it. I'm jealous. She's sitting in my spot, with her arm around my partner, and now they're laughing together and talking about things I don't even think about and, well, I feel left out. Blair and I haven't been lovers all that long, and I'm just now realizing, I don't want to share. Not even with his mother.

Maybe especially not with his mother.

"Bush's people have been trying to overturn the law since they got in," Sandburg says by way of explanation as he looks up and smiles at me. He turns back to his mother and asks, "Are you dealing with the cruise ship dumping?"

"You know it, sweetie," she says. "That's one of the biggies.

I don't want to do it -- I hate to do it, but I can't help myself. "Cruise ship dumping?"

"Oh, yeah," Sandburg starts in enthusiastically. "There's like, tons of waste just dumped off cruise ships every week."

"I can't remember all the numbers," Naomi pipes in, "but I do remember that there's a million gallons of graywater dumped every week, by every ship."

"Graywater." I don't want to ask. I really don't want to know this. I don't know why I keep feeding them lines, but then I look at Sandburg, his hands flying as he talks, his hair crackling around his face as he turns his head and I know I can't not encourage him. He enjoys it too much.

And I enjoy watching him.

"Graywater -- it has solvents and detergents and pesticides in it," he says, frowning. "Not as bad as the raw sewage they dump, but there's just so much more of it." He sighs and gets up. "You want tea, Naomi?" he asks as he moves to the kitchen. She nods and follows, presumably to see what kind of tea he has and I can't resist the urge anymore. I follow as well, and when Sandburg is standing at the sink, holding the kettle under the running water, I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. He leans against me without thinking, then looks over to see his mother giving us a contemplative look. He smiles and shrugs, then settles into my arms for a minute more before moving away to put the kettle on the stove. I step out of his way and stand in the living room again.

"Your old room?" she asks quietly and Blair blushes, but nods.

I can hear the disapproval in her voice and somehow I know it's not because I'm a man. Naomi wouldn't care about gender. No, her disapproval is because it's me. The cop. Blair can hear her disapproval as well, and I see that fear of abandonment look flit across his face before he smoothes his features.

I want to gather him to me again, but I refrain and wait. I need to see how he wants to handle this.

"Oh, sweetie," she says softly, fixing him in place with a look. "Are you sure about this?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair says firmly. "Absolutely positive." He looks at me and gives a big smile and I can actually feel my toes curl as I grin back. I don't know how he does that, but I love it.

"I mean," she says again, "have you processed it, baby? Really worked through everything?" She's moving forward now, her hand outstretched and Blair reaches for her, pulling her into a hug.

"I processed, Naomi," he reassures her. "Seems like lately all I've done is process." He sighs and lets his head fall to her shoulder, but I can see the way her body stiffens, the subtle rejection of his need. He doesn't seem to notice. "There's been a lot of stuff I've had to process," he adds to my shock.

Could it be he is actually going to talk to her about the things that happened?

"Have you really thought about what life with a -- a cop will be like?" she asks and I see that he is beginning to notice how stiffly she holds her body, how she has kept a sliver of space between them.

He pulls back and looks at her, a frown on his face. "Why would it be any different than it has been since I moved in?" he asks. "We already lived together, ate together, worked together. We shared rides and expenses and house responsibilities. Jim's had my power of attorney for over a year now, and I have his." He looks at his mother again, and I can see the naked need on his face. He needs her understanding, needs her acceptance, needs her love.

"But -- Jim," she says, her hands fluttering helplessly in the air as if that explains all her reservations.

I'm trying not to, but I can't help it. I bristle at her tone. What the hell does she think is wrong with me? I mean, I know I'm not good enough for Sandburg -- too many dark areas of my own, too controlling, too repressed, too many fear-based responses that cause me to hurt him without thinking.

But he thinks I'm good enough and that works for me.

Sandburg has completely pulled away from his mother now and he's pacing in the small kitchen, one hand running through his unruly curls. "And just what's wrong with Jim?" he asks, and I cheer silently. My defender. "He's a cop -- we've established that. But he's been a cop ever since I met him. Why would you think that would make a difference now?"

She shakes her head and reaches out to him, but he ignores the gesture.

"Is it because he's a guy? I thought you were more open-minded than that, Naomi," he says, accusation ringing in his voice.

"Of course it's not that!" she snaps back. "You know me better than that!"

"I thought I did," he says sadly, "but I'm beginning to wonder. What is it exactly that worries you about Jim?" Sandburg stops beside me, not touching but close enough for reassurance. I force my hands to stay at my side and wait to hear why Jim Ellison is not good enough for Naomi Sandburg's little boy.

She sizes me up, her eyes raking over me and I know in her estimation I come up wanting. Well, fuck her! I don't come up lacking in Sandburg's eyes, and that's all that matters to me. I can feel the emotion rolling off him -- fear, anger, confusion, pain -- and it all just makes me want to smack her. But I contain myself and wait to see what she has to say.

"What does he get out of this, Blair?" she asks, her tone suddenly cold and almost clinical. "You have a place to stay, help with your thesis, an in at the police station. But what does Jim get?" She stops before me, then circles me as if she were a buyer appraising the merchandise. It's -- annoying -- and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself still. "He's older than you," she says.

"Some," Sandburg admits. "So?"

"He's a cop," she says again.

"Been there, done that."

"Blair," she says, her voice dropping as if that would exclude me, "he kills people."

"Only when I have to," I growl, unable to restrain myself. My hands flex at my side. Sandburg moves to stand in front of me, between his mother and me. He faces me and his hand comes out to rest on my chest, over my heart.

"Easy, big guy," he says, his voice Sentinel-soft. "She doesn't mean it like that."

I snort. The hell she doesn't. That's exactly what she means. I am a killer and her baby is an innocent and I will corrupt him. I'm struggling for control and I think it is only Sandburg's hand on my chest that keeps me still, holds me in my place. I look up to see Naomi with a half- frightened, half-smug look on her face. It's almost as if she planned to evoke this reaction from me, and is satisfied, but perhaps she wasn't really aware of how frightening it could be to have a killer staring you in the eyes.

"He'll change you, Blair," she says, reaching out to touch his back.

He flinches, but she steps closer and wraps an arm around him. He lets her, but when she tries to pull him back with her, he remains rooted in front of me, his hand still touching my heart.

"You're an innocent, Blair," she whispers, "incorrupt. You have a purity that comes from always being protected, always being loved. He'll take that and destroy it. And then," she glares my way, "when he loses interest, he'll abandon you."

"Innocent?" Blair exclaims. "I'm innocent?" His hand falls as he steps away from me, away from his mother and he looks at her in shock. "Are you shitting me?"

She has this wounded look on her face now, and I find myself hoping he'll go in for the kill, but I know he won't. He loves her too much, and besides, he's not that type. Now me ...

"Do you really think I was always protected? Always loved?" His voice is rising and the agitation that pours from him makes my skin hurt and sets my teeth on edge. "How the hell would you know if I was loved and protected?" He turns his back on her, literally shaking with emotion, his hands fisted at his side, then whirls back and yells, "How the hell would you know? YOU WERE NEVER THERE!"

Naomi takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. I watch in fascination as she seems to withdraw into herself, the deep breathing continuing as she shuts us out -- shuts her son out.

"Let me tell you about loved and protected," Blair says in a deadly quiet voice. "I was so well-loved that you left me in a park when I was four. You just forgot about me. And you left me on the beach when I was seven. Do you even remember that? And what about the time you just drove off and left me in the rest stop on the highway? I was eleven, Naomi, eleven. I was scared shitless. I hid in the men's room all day -- terrified any time someone came in. Let me tell you -- I did not feel loved or protected any of those times."

I reach for him but he avoids my touch, wrapping his arms around himself and hunching over in a vain attempt to hug himself, to ease his own pain. It's a position I've become all too familiar with. He assumes it every time I wake him from a nightmare. It always takes me a while to break through his walls, to get him to let me give him comfort.

"Jim is always there, Naomi. He doesn't forget about me, or leave me on my own. He's steady and dependable and predictable. He's given me a home -- a real home -- where I feel safe and secure, and HE WOULD NEVER ABANDON ME!"

She opens her eyes then and sighs. "I can see you're too emotional to deal with this now, sweetie" she says. She turns and heads for the room under the stairs. "I'll just get my stuff and get out of here. I can see you need your space."

"Right, Mom," Sandburg says, sarcasm dripping from his lips. "By all means, get your shit and run. It's what you do best. But you'll excuse me if I don't wait around this time to watch the big departure. I think I have enough paper kisses to last a lifetime!"

He stalks to the front door, opens it and slams out, and I erupt.

"STOP!" I bellow, and Naomi freezes. "You are not going anywhere."

"Blair needs some time to process this," she says weakly.

"Like hell he does," I respond. "He's been processing for months now, and I think he needs a little closure at this point -- and you're going to give it to him. Sit," I order, pointing to the couch.

She doesn't move and I step forward, grasping her arm. I keep my touch deliberately gentle -- I will not hurt her -- but she is going to sit.

For a minute I think she's going to argue, but there must have been something in my face to convince her otherwise because she moves across the floor and drops gracelessly onto the couch.

"Stay there," I growl and move to the room under the stairs. I keep one eye on her in case she decides to bolt, and I've got one ear trained on Sandburg, making sure he doesn't leave. If I split my attention like this for too long, I'll get a headache. But for now, Sandburg's sitting on the bottom of the stairs, and I know he's waiting for me. I'm not going to make him wait long. I root around under the desk and find Blair's box -- the one filled with his paper kisses. Carrying it as if it really were treasure, as his childish scrawl has so inscribed, I take the battered cardboard back to the living room and offer it to Naomi.

"What's this?" she asks, accepting it gingerly.

"Pieces of your son's past," I say. "And we're going to talk about it."

"I don't have anything to say to you," she murmurs, but she's opened the box and her brow is furrowed as she examines the contents.

"I have to go talk to Blair," I say simply. "He's my priority right now. But you," I wait until she looks up and meets my eye, "I want to talk to you as well. So you're going to wait here for me, do you understand?"

"I don't have to let you talk to me that way," she says, attempting to rise.

I simply put out my hand and refuse to move.

"You can't keep me here."

"No," I agree, "I can't. But Blair can. And despite everything you did to him, all that you let happen to him, I think you love him."

"I do," she whispers.

"Well, you know what? So do I. So you're going to sit right here on your ass and wait for me, while I go and check on him and make sure he's all right."

"I can't deal with this right now," she says. "I need to keep my energy positive for the upcoming journey."

I put my hands on my hips and stare down at her. "Naomi, I believe you when you say you love him, but you are one selfish, self-centered, egotistical bitch. It's always about you, isn't it?"

She leaps to her feet and shoves against my chest, startling me into taking a few steps backwards. "How dare you?" she demands. "You say you love Blair but then you speak to me like that. How dare you?"

I shrug. "One doesn't have anything to do with the other in my book."

"And what about my son's book? Do you think he would feel the same way?"

"Not really," I admit, "and frankly, that's the only reason I haven't knocked you into the middle of next week for the way you treat him." My eyes narrow at the incensed and offended look on her face. "For the things you let happen to him when he was young and defenseless and totally dependent on you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demands. "I love him. I've always loved him. He's always come first." She plants her hands on her hips, mirroring me, and stares defiantly. Oh yeah, Sandburg is definitely his mother's kid. "Why do you think I'm not in a long-term, committed relationship?" she asks.

"Don't start that crap," I say, taking a few paces to put some distance between us. "Blair doesn't have anything to do with your inability to commit. If anything, he's the first victim of it."

She steps forward and her hand comes up to slap me, but I catch it in midair and for just a moment she struggles against me before twisting loose and moving away.

"I always had to put Blair first."

I snort in disgust. "Like you put him first when you lived with Don?"

The blood drains from her face and in that moment I can see the truth -- she knew. She knew and she did nothing.

"I took him and we left," she says, and I listen to her heart rate. She's telling the truth. Could she really have been so blind that she didn't know what was going on for an entire year?

"It went on the whole time, Naomi. The whole time. He used to hide in the closet under the stairs. He lived in terror and he hated it there."

"He was just a baby," she says as if that explains everything. "I'd always given him a lot of freedom and Don insisted on more rules. It was a difficult adjustment for Blair."

"The man beat him, Naomi!" I can't believe she would dare to try to explain this away to me.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "I would never let anyone hurt Blair."

"How would you know? You were never there!" I start to pace again, trying to channel my rage into movement. "You left him in parks and on beaches and at rest stops on the highway. You left him with people you didn't even know and never even called to check on him while you were off chasing the obsession of the month. How the hell would you know if someone hurt him?"

"I -- I was careful. I only left him with people I could trust. He was my child!"

"Exactly!" I say as if she has finally understood me. "He was your child and you were responsible for him. And you abdicated your responsibility any time you damn well felt like it. You dare say I would abandon him? You abandoned him all the time -- his whole childhood is one long series of abandonments!"

"I made sure he was safe. I would never let anyone hurt him." She tries to speak firmly, but a hint of uncertainty has crept into her voice.

"Don beat him," I repeat. "He was four fucking years old and that bastard beat him!" I slam my fist against the wall and, after the fact, I remember why I went into the hall the last time I did this. Brick is hard. "He has scars, Naomi," I say, my voice a mere whisper. "Scars. On his back, on his buttocks, on his legs."

Her hand comes up and covers her mouth and she gives this little gasp of pain. "No ..." she breathes. "No ..."

"Yes."

The word hangs between us and I see her eyes dart toward her bags in Blair's old room.

"Don't even think about it," I say. "You may run from me now, but I swear to you, Naomi, if you do, I will hunt you down and drag you back, kicking and screaming if need be, but you will come back. You weren't there for him then, but you are going to be here for him now. He loves you. He needs you. And for just this little while, just this once, you will be the kind of mother that he needs."

She nods, her head down. "I hear you."

"No, I don't think you do," I say, my voice cold and my eyes even colder. "But by God, you will."

I'm at the door when my name stops me.

"Jim?" she says, and I recognize the tone as one Sandburg uses when he's feeling overwhelmed and a little lost. I can't help myself. I turn and wait. She swallows hard and says, "I never knew you were gay."

This woman infuriates me. She seems to consistently miss the important things, focusing on the trivial. "Oh, for God's sake, Naomi," I retort, looking at her. She's on the couch again, holding Blair's box. She sits with her head down, as if she is afraid to look at me. One hand fingers gently through the tissues in the box and she studies them with the same look of intensity my partner gets when he is studying some new and interesting artifact that has come into his possession. "This is not a gay thing," I say, striving for patience. "It's not even a bi thing." I pause for a moment, trying to think of how to explain this connection I have to her son, the attraction that was sparked because of it. "It's a Blair thing," I finally say. "Just Blair." That's what it is, but it doesn't even make sense to me, and I'm the one in the relationship. But then, who said love had to make sense?

She nods as if she does understand and I have to grant a few points for the open-minded liberal lifestyle that makes the incomprehensible comprehensible by its very existence.

"Stay here, Naomi," I say in a softer tone. "I really need to check on him."

She nods again and I see tears on her cheek. I step back in the living room and grab a few Kleenex for my skinned knuckles then pass her the box. "Don't get his kisses wet," I say, but I keep my voice gentle and she takes the tissues gratefully.

I head out the door, my hearing focusing totally on my partner. He's still sitting on the steps and I bound down the first flight, then slow for the next one. I don't want to startle him.

"Hey, Chief," I say softly, "can I sit down?"

He nods and scootches over and I sit.

"She's gone, isn't she?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No. Why would you think that?"

"It's what she does." He shrugs. "She runs when things get too intense." He leans against me, just his head on my arm, and I reach over and take his hand. He lets me, then looks at the scraped places on my knuckles. He dabs at the blood with the tissue, then lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.

I swallow. "She's still there," I say. "She's waiting for you to come back up."

"What did you do to her?" he asks, but there's a ghost of a smile at his lips.

"She's still in one piece, if that's what you mean," I answer, my lips quirking as well. "But she did push me hard enough I had to check out the walls." He kisses my hand again.

"That's my mom, man," he says, his voice gaining a little strength with the gentle teasing.

"I know." I reach out and pull him into a hug, then lean forward and kiss him, my lips grazing his. "She knows you need to talk about this stuff. She's willing to wait."

Well, willing might be a bit strong for what Naomi is feeling, but as Sandburg seems to relax into my arms at my words, I let it stand.

"This is a first. Naomi's here, ready to talk, and I don't know if I can do it." He shudders and I tighten my grip on him, then kiss his head where it nestles against my chest.

"I'm sorry, Blair," I whisper. "I don't know what to do."

"You got her to stay, Jim. Major accomplishment there."

"I could make tea," I say, and he laughs. It's become a joke between us, this need I have to do something. He gets upset and I can't fix it, but I have to do something, so I make tea. He always says the tea makes him feel better, but we both know it just gives me something to do -- and I'm the one who feels better. That's the give and take of our relationship -- our love. He hurts and I make tea and he lets me. Nothing can ever repair his past, but our simple routines seem to help us both heal.

"I could do tea," he says simply.

"Good." We sit in silence and he snuggles closer, almost clinging to me. He gets this way. When the pain rears up, he needs to be held, he needs to be touched. It's what led to us crossing that final line in our relationship.

The nightmares had been so bad, I'd had to start having him sleep with me. He'd resisted at first, but when he saw how exhausted I was getting from being up and down all night, he finally gave in. And at first it was just sleeping. And there weren't as many nightmares. He'd start on his side on the bed; I'd be on mine. But like a heat-seeking missile, as soon as he was asleep, he'd be moving steadily toward me and before I knew it I would be enfolded in his octopus-like grasp. His leg thrown over mine. His arm across my abdomen. His head pillowed on my shoulder. His fingers entwined with mine.

And because it was more comfortable, and because he needed it, I would wrap my arms around him and hold on through the night. And most of the time, he'd sleep. It seemed to keep the nightmares away.

But he moved in his sleep.

His hand stroked my chest, my belly. His leg lay across my groin, the hairs tickling sensitive skin that nestled there. He'd kiss my shoulder where his head lay, his tongue darting out as if he wanted to taste me. His hair tickled my cheek, and when he stretched, he'd blow into my ear and the sensation went straight to my cock.

I'd been mortified -- but unable to control my reactions.

Not even dialing down helped. Something about this man went straight to my gut and I was helpless to control my reactions.

So I slept with him with my raging hormones and raging hard-on, and he graciously never commented. Mornings would come and I would extricate myself from his tentacle-like grip and almost run for the shower and the relief of jacking off in the warm water to thoughts of that hard body, that silky hair, that lost soul who trusted me so completely.

It was like I told Naomi. I never thought of it as a gay thing. Just a Blair thing. It was always just about Blair.

I began to think about taking that step, moving the relationship just a little further, crossing that last line. We were already as married as any couple I knew. Our lives were hopelessly mixed. We shared expenses, each of us contributing what we could. We shared the loft -- hell, by then we shared a bedroom and a bed. We cooked for each other, took care of each other when we were sick or injured. We worked together and we played together -- poker with the guys, Jags games, camping trips. I hadn't had a date in months, and didn't miss it.

Even Sandburg had slowed down.

And when he did date, he no longer came home reeking of sex.

I began to wonder if he was thinking the same thing I was.

And I wanted to do something about it, but he was so fragile then -- so vulnerable. All this stuff from his past -- Don and the beatings, being left behind by Naomi so many times, being forgotten by Naomi as if he were a piece of luggage that was lost at the airport. Even finding his NanaKat, while a good thing, was still emotionally charged, and I couldn't push him sexually, not when he was so vulnerable.

But as so often happens with my Blair, he took the decision out of my hands.

He woke screaming one night, and I pulled away, as I'd learned to do. He needed the distance at first, the space to know he was safe, to recognize me and to realize where he was. And when the fog cleared from his eyes, he lunged for me, wrapping his arms around me. He clung to me for a long time, not crying, just clinging, and I stroked his back and rubbed his head and dropped little kisses there.

And then he tilted his head up.

And stared at me with vivid blue eyes.

Aware eyes.

Alert eyes. Aroused eyes.

And I realized I was hard.

And then I realized he was hard too.

And before I could process that new information, he was kissing me, and I was responding, and by the time we awoke the next morning, we were lovers.

It had been as simple -- and as complex -- as that.

It had been like finding a piece of myself that had been missing all my life.

It had been like suddenly being whole, without ever knowing I hadn't been before.

It had been like completion.

It had been like finally coming home -- and being welcome there.

Blair welcomed me into every aspect of his life, the good and the bad, and then he gave me the ultimate gift and welcomed me into his body.

I rise and pull him to his feet. I'm standing on the step below him and so I have to lift my head just the slightest bit to kiss him. He opens at my touch, welcoming me as he always does, his arms coming around me to hold me close.

"I love you," I say, the words choked out through the emotion that is clogging my throat.

"I know," he says serenely. "That's the only reason I can even think about going back upstairs." He grins then and brushes his hand against my crotch. His touch is electric and my cock jumps as it always does. "Well," he amends, "maybe not the only reason."

"Tease," I say hoarsely, kissing him again.

He leans against me, his demeanor shifting mercurially as is his wont. The hints of sexuality fade and all that is left is pain and fear. "Need you," he whispers.

" 'm here. Always. I'll be with you every step of the way."

He nods against my chest. "I can do this."

"Yes, you can." I hold him a minute longer then push him upright so I can look at him. "You are the strongest person I know, Blair. The strongest." I stare into his eyes, willing him to believe. "You absolutely can do this."

"Don't leave me," he whispers. "Please?"

"Never." It was our oath, our vow. Denied society's acceptance of who we were to each other, it was the only commitment we'd ever be able to make. "You ready?"

He nods and takes my hand and together we walk back up the stairs.