Author: Daydreamer
Date: 29 October 2002

Past Tense - Part 2

"So you have no idea how long you were unconscious?"

"No, Simon," Jim snarled as he rose and began to pace again. "As I told you every other time you asked the question, I think it was about two hours, but I'm not sure."

"All right, Jim, calm down," Simon said softly as he looked at Sandburg, who nodded. "I know this is hard, but you know the drill. We go over it, then we go over it, then ..."

"We go over it again," Jim finished for him, drawing a deep breath. "Yeah, Simon, I know the drill." He lifted his good arm and ran his hand through his hair. "I'm just not used to being on this side of it."

"You seem to be a little on edge," Simon said as he reached out to touch the other man's shoulder.

Jim moved smoothly out of reach, keeping his eyes down and missing the look his Captain and his Guide exchanged. He pulled out the chair and sat again, forcing himself to stillness. "All right. What next, Simon?"

"You woke up and ...?"

"My hands were still cuffed behind my back. I was groggy; I'd been drugged. I was cold and I wasn't thinking real clearly. My legs had been taped together."

"Your senses, Jim?" Blair asked cautiously.

"Out of whack," he replied shortly. "And it doesn't matter, 'cause it can't go in the official report." He fixed Blair with a steely gaze.

"It matters to you," his Guide said softly, "and to me."

Jim turned away, staring at Simon, then dropping his eyes to the table. "Marie sat down next to me. She got the tape off, and then I had some mobility. I got up, examined the room, and determined there was no way out."

"But she was unharmed? Marie?"

Jim nodded. "As far as I could tell, yes. Scared and cold, but he hadn't roughed her up beyond the shallow cut on her abdomen." He swallowed hard. "She was actually very brave -- seemed to take all of it in stride which amazed me."

"And then Anderson came?"

Jim nodded again, slowly this time. He wasn't sure what Marie had said, didn't know what he should say. He didn't want to talk about it -- didn't want to think about it. He could feel the rage building inside. He had to get a grip! He clenched his fists as he felt his heart rate surge. He didn't want to talk about this!

"What did Anderson want?"

He slammed to his feet, throwing the chair to the floor and stormed to the wall. He stood there, shaking with barely suppressed violence and breathing hard. Once again, he missed the look of confusion that passed between the other two men. He turned around, staring first at Simon, then at Sandburg. "He wanted to talk, all right? He wanted to know where the weapons were." Jim breathed deeply and rolled his shoulders as the tension continued to mount. "Anderson wanted to talk," he repeated. "And I don't." With that, he moved swiftly to the door and was gone.

Simon rose and followed Jim's trail to the door, stopping only when Blair reached out to touch him. "What the hell was that all about, Sandburg?" he asked with an edge in his voice.

Blair shrugged. "He's really tense, Simon. I don't know exactly what happened yesterday, but I don't think we have the whole picture yet."

"He's been like that at home, too?"

Blair nodded. "Angry, hostile, distant. He seems like he's ready to explode all the time." His hand came up and he unconsciously stroked the bruise on his cheek.

Simon's eyes grew wide. "He did that to you? What the hell was he thinking ..." He started for the door again and was stopped by Blair's voice.

"No, Simon, he didn't mean to." Sandburg shifted uncomfortably. "He was dreaming -- last night. A nightmare, really."

"And he hit you?"

"Not deliberately, man. He, uh, musta thought I was someone else." Sandburg shrugged. "He didn't mean to," he repeated.

Simon paced back and forth, chewing on his cigar. "All right. Go find your partner. Tell him to take the rest of the day. Then tell him to get his shit together and be here first thing in the morning and let's get this damn statement done once and for all."

"I'll try, Simon," Blair responded. "But to be honest, I'm not sure what happened and Jim's not talking. This may be something he just can't do on his own."

"Isn't that what he has you for? To help him deal with this weird shit?"

"Well, yeah, that's essentially the Guide's function. Dealing with weird shit." Blair rolled his eyes at the older man. "I can just see that in my dissertation."

"Sandburg..." the Captain growled.

"Okay, Simon, chill out. I'm supposed to help Jim with his senses, all right? But I'm not convinced that this -- whatever this is -- is necessarily related to his senses."

"So find out."

"Easier said than done. Jim Ellison is not the easiest man to talk to in the best of times. Whatever went on with Anderson seems to have made it almost impossible for him to talk about anything."

"You have any ideas what went down?"

"You tell me. What would make Jim act this way, Simon? You're an alpha male. How would you feel if you'd been captured the way he was?"

"Humiliated." Simon stilled for a moment. "Like I should have been able to prevent it."

"Jim couldn't do that. We know Anderson had Marie from the beginning. He was threatening her life."

Simon nodded. "I'd still feel like there was something more I should have done. Moved faster, been stronger, something."

Blair narrowed his eyes as he studied the Captain. "You think Jim is feeling that?"

"Possibly." Simon shrugged. "Jim's got that whole protector of the tribe thing going. He takes a lot on himself. But he's still just a man."

"So the anger is really at himself, not at us."

Simon shrugged again. "Go find him. Ask him yourself. You're the observer, the student of human behavior." He walked to the door and paused, hand on the knob. "I suck at this sort of stuff, Sandburg. You know that."

Jim was standing in the snow outside the stationhouse when Blair walked up. This time, the observer was careful to speak first, and to keep his distance from the skittish man.

"Jim, buddy," he began.

"Don't start with me, Sandburg," the detective growled.

"No, man, it's all right." Blair kept his tone light, kept several feet of space between them as he spoke. "Simon's cool with calling it a day. Says you can come in in the morning and finish."

Jim turned and looked at Blair. "Simon's 'cool' with that?" Jim snorted. "Not my Captain Banks. What'd you say to him?"

Blair paused, unable to read his partner's tone, and wary of saying the wrong thing. "We, uh, talked about alpha males."

"Alpha males?" Jim's eyebrow rose as he spoke.

"Ah, shit, Jim!" Blair kicked the snow in frustration. "Something's not right -- everyone knows it." He kept his eyes averted -- he didn't want to evoke some primal instinct in Jim that made him feel threatened. But he also missed the Sentinel's shocked reaction to his words. "Simon told me if it had happened to him -- well, he'd feel like he should've done something more."

Jim's face twisted into a mask of rage. Blood raced through his veins and his muscles tightened. How the hell had they found out? Who told them what had happened?

Blair continued on, toeing the snow as he spoke, oblivious to Jim's reaction. "There wasn't anything you could do, Jim. You had to go with Anderson. He would have hurt Marie."

Jim swallowed. "I don't want to talk about this, Blair," he said, the warning in his voice clear.

"Look, man, I know you don't. But you better get your head on straight pretty damn quick! The next little tantrum you throw, Simon's gonna send you for a mandatory psych eval -- and the way you're acting, you aren't gonna pass!"

"I'm not talking to a shrink." Jim folded his arms across his chest.

"Then talk to me, please," Blair begged. "Tell me what's going on? Is it just that you feel you didn't fight hard enough to keep Anderson from taking you and Marie? Are you thinking you should have been able to find a way out? Are you worried about the baby being delivered out there? What is it?"

Jim looked at Blair. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe all Simon meant was fighting harder to prevent capture. Maybe his secret was still safe. He needed to get a grip on his rage or he was going to lose it completely and the whole story would come out. If he kept broadcasting 'something's wrong with Ellison' at top decibels, it wouldn't be long before some big cop was down at the ER threatening one scared young doctor, and his medical report would become police property. He took a deep breath, forced himself to smile at the younger man and sighed. "Sorry, Chief," he said softly, "I am feeling like I should have done something, and it makes me angry." He shook himself, then stepped back when Blair reached out to touch him. "I'm just not ..."

"Coping well?" the younger man offered quickly.

"No," Jim said. "I'm just not ready to talk about it."

Blair narrowed his eyes as he looked up at the bigger man. "And when do you think you'll be ready to talk about it?"

Jim shrugged. "Give me some time, Chief. Let me focus on the case -- let me work on catching Anderson. It'll work itself out."

"You know I'm here for you, man."

"I know. This is just something I have to do by myself."

"You gotta get a handle on the anger, Jim. Simon isn't gonna be Mr. Understanding forever."

"I know. I'm sorry." Jim reached out, almost touching the bruise on Blair's face, then drawing back and taking several steps backward. "Sorry 'bout that, Chief." He swallowed hard. "You know I didn't mean to."

Blair waved one hand dismissively. " 's all right. What's more important is what was going on with you when it happened."

Jim's jaw tightened and he struggled for control. "I told you I can't talk about that now."

Blair nodded. "What're you gonna do now?"

"Run."

"You coming to the game later?"

Jim looked at Blair blankly.

"Major Crimes versus Arson? Remember? You were supposed to start?"

Jim shook his head and lifted the cast. "I'm benched."

"Come anyway. You can cheer me on."

"They letting you play, smallfry?"

Blair smiled. Now that sounded like his Sentinel. "Someone's gotta cover for you, big guy."

Jim laughed and for a second things were normal and then he moved and a pain flared and reality crashed around him again. But he needed to keep up the front, keep things seeming normal. "I'll be there. You guys think you have a chance without me?"

"You ain't all that, hoss," Blair laughed. "Rafe's pretty damn good and H has got some serious moves."

"Jack Paulsen from Arson is six four," Jim reminded him.

"So's Simon."

Jim shrugged. "Paulsen's twenty years younger."

"So'm I." Blair smiled.

"All right, already," Jim grumbled. "I said I'd come."

Blair sobered as he looked at his friend. "You sure you're all right, Jim?"

"Don't start again, Sandburg," Jim warned.

Blair raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Sorry." He dropped his hands and looked at his Sentinel. "I suppose it's pointless to tell you you shouldn't be running at all, so I'll just say don't push too hard." He pointed to the arm. "And tie your sling down. Don't bounce your arm all over hell and back."

"Yes, Mom," Jim said as he headed back inside to change into running clothes.

"And don't be late for the game," Blair called, still not sure if he'd made any progress with his friend or not.

Running helped. After he left Sandburg, he had gone down to the locker room, scrupulously avoiding conversation with anyone. He'd changed into his sweats, zipped the jacket over his broken arm, pulled up his hood, and hit the street. The light dusting of snow from the previous day made the streets slightly wet, slightly slushy, slightly slick. He had to concentrate to maintain both his balance and his rhythm.

Concentration helped.

He was so focused on the run, so intent on where each foot was placed, there was no room for anything else. The wind was cold on his face, but the air was clear and he drew deep breaths, again in rhythm with the pounding of his feet on the sidewalk beneath the snow.

The route from the station over to the park, around and back was four miles. He ran it often. It usually took about half an hour. But today it wasn't enough. He needed more. He needed to stay focused on something other than what had happened at the warehouse. He needed to work off some of his rage.

He wanted nothing more than to come back to the station, too exhausted to think, throw himself in his truck and go home. Sandburg would be gone; he could take a long shower and then maybe sleep. Really sleep. Let himself sink into exhausted oblivion and never think again.

He finished his first circuit and started again. Feet pounding on the pavement, every movement designed to prevent thought, he pushed on hard. Little flurries of snow rose in his wake and his breath steamed the air.

He was at the park again -- halfway through his second loop. The snow was deeper here; it made him focus harder. The wind had picked up and the sky was darkening. Jim risked a look up. It was going to snow again. He pushed on.

The park was deserted today -- too cold and too wet for anyone but Jim Ellison to be out. His socks were wet now and the tingly numb feeling in his feet was welcome. It added to the distractions. He focused on his feet. They were cold. They were wet. They tingled with the threat of losing sensation. They pounded hard against the frozen ground.

He focused on the burn just beginning in his muscles. His calves were pulled tight, cells screaming for oxygen and still he pushed on.

His mind was blissfully free of anything beyond his body's immediate needs. Where to place his feet. How to keep his balance. When to breathe to maintain his rhythm. It was liberating. He wanted to run forever.

He flew past the stationhouse a second time, never seeing the two men who watched from the steps. He never heard Blair call to him. Didn't see the worry on his face, the tension in Simon's form. The world had been reduced to nothing but feet on ground, air in lungs. Balance. Form. Rhythm.

He pushed hard, ran faster, almost feeling he was flying. He reached the park again, and his steps began to falter. His rhythm stuttered and he slid on a patch of ice, hidden beneath the churned up snow. He floundered for a moment, trying to throw his arms out for balance, but handicapped by having only one arm free to throw. It was close. He managed to stay on his feet but when he caught the rhythm again, he was moving more slowly. He scanned the ground cautiously, not wanting to risk a real fall and another injury.

He pushed on. It was harder now. His lungs burned and his muscles cried in protest. He couldn't find the rhythm. His movements were ragged; an obscene parody of the grace and fluidity that had been his just moments ago. The light, soft snow flurries he'd left in his wake turned to muddy slush now.

He slowed more as he approached the station. Sandburg waited for him on the steps, a look of concern on his face. He drew to a stop on the sidewalk out front, and stared up at his Guide. The anger came rushing back in. He had no words to spare for the man -- not now, and he wondered if there would ever be words again.

He missed the feeling of flying. He was back on the earth -- grounded again. And he wanted to fly.

He turned away from Blair and trudged to his truck, his limbs slightly unsteady as he climbed in. It never occurred to him to ask the anthropologist if he wanted a ride home.

He showered and slipped into bed again, but sleep would not come. Somehow, he couldn't find the blessed relief of oblivion. He tossed and turned for over an hour, then rose in disgust.

It was a short drive back to the station, and he was pleased to see that Sandburg's battered Volvo was gone. At least he wouldn't have to deal with his Guide and his incessant questions. What happened, Jim? Are you okay, Jim? Do you want to talk, Jim? Ellison felt the rage swirl in his gut again and forced himself to clamp down hard on it. He had to keep it under control.

Anyone who dared speak to him inside was answered with a noncommittal grunt, and the smart ones didn't push it. Those who did push, got the growl, and that seemed to be sufficient to grant him peaceful passage through to his desk.

He sat, booted up his computer, and began to read his mail. There were several responses to the inquiries Sandburg had sent out yesterday. He pulled out a desk drawer and grabbed three folders, labeling them Mitchell, Tucker, and Anderson. As the printer began to spew forth paper, he placed each sheet in the appropriate folder. Some of the printouts had to be copied, as there was information on each man on the one email. He wanted each folder complete, so he made duplicates and filed in triplicate. It was a mindless task, and in doing it, he felt calm for the first time since he had entered the station.

It was cop work and he was a good cop.

Tucker had been released and returned to Alabama. Records show he registered an old Ford pickup several months ago and he was working for a local business. A few phone calls and he had confirmed that the man hadn't missed work since he started. Of course, someone could be covering for him, but for now, he crossed Tucker off the list.

Mitchell was more of an enigma. No records of a car, employment, or anything else he could track. It was as if the man had been released and vanished. Jim shook his head and closed the folder.

He knew Anderson was in the area, or at least he had been yesterday, but records confirmed that he had registered the 1999 Ford Taurus in Seattle. Anderson had secured a job as a dishwasher in a bar in the seedy part of town and Jim placed a call, hoping it would be open this early in the afternoon.

He was talking to the owner, a former New Yorker with a strong accent and a whisky voice that hinted at sampling the merchandise, when Simon walked out of his office and froze. He stared at Jim, then stepped briskly to his desk, waiting for him to finish his call.

"What are you doing here, Ellison?" he barked.

"Last time I looked, I worked here, Captain." Jim tried to keep his voice calm, to hide the anger that was beginning to bubble again.

"I told Sandburg to get you out of here for the day."

Jim shrugged. "I've got work to do."

"I saw you run, Ellison. You did twelve miles. You've got to be tired. And Sandburg said you didn't sleep last night."

"My sleeping habits are my own business, Captain," Jim said with ice in his voice. Take the hint, Simon, he begged. Let it drop. The rage was churning upwards, threatening to spill out.

"All right, Detective," Simon responded in the same tone, "if you're so damn hot to be here ..."

Jim's face blanked. Those were the words. He'd heard those words before.

"And you so damn hot for it ..."

Memory crashed around him. The words echoed in the squadroom. Simon stood before him, mouth moving but no sound coming out. All Jim heard was Anderson.

"And you so damn hot for it ..."

"And you so damn hot for it ..."

"And you so damn hot for it ..."

He felt the blood rush to his face. He'd asked for it. He'd gone willingly with Anderson, and he'd asked for it. Even his rapist had known ...

"And you so damn hot for it ..."

There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and he reared back. He knocked the hand away with a snarl and backed away, half-crouching against another attack. The fog in his brain cleared slowly and he saw Simon, looming over him, worry etched in the lines on his face.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Jim?" the older man whispered.

Ellison drew himself erect and stood. The room was silent. The few people present stared for a moment, then pointedly looked away when Jim glared at them.

"My office," Simon said. "Now."

Jim shook his head. "No time. I've got an address for Anderson," he said as he headed for the door. "I'm going to Seattle."

The trip to Seattle had been a bust. Nothing at Anderson's address of record but a vacant lot. The only good to come from it was at least, for a few hours, he'd felt like he was doing something, felt something other than the rage and the shame that threatened to consume him now. He'd felt like a cop again.

He'd stopped at the loft and changed into sweats before heading back to the station for the game. Last thing he wanted to do was sit with the others, laughing and joking. But he needed the normal front. He needed everyone to think that everything was fine.

It had come to him as he drove back from Seattle. Somehow, he just knew if he could catch Anderson, put the man back inside, make him pay for what he'd done, then the rage would subside and the shame would be washed away. He had a plan now -- focus on the case. Find the perpetrator. If he could just do that, then the rest of this nightmare would go away. He'd be able to heal.

He got to the station and parked. The snow was deeper now; more had fallen from the dark clouds he'd seen on his morning run. Thinking of the run reminded him of the sense of freedom he'd felt, the brief escape from the rage, the temporary respite from fear of being found out.

He wanted that feeling again.

Without another thought for the game he was supposed to attend, or for the need to present a normal front, he took off once again for the park.

The run didn't go as well this time. He was stiff from all the driving and he couldn't find his rhythm. He was plagued by a nagging feeling that he shouldn't be out here, that he needed to be somewhere else, doing something else.

Every step jarred his back, his buttocks, his insides. Each movement, instead of being an escape from his ordeal, only seemed to remind him of it.

Phrases danced through his mind.

"And you so hot for it ..."

He ran, screaming denial in his mind. I didn't want it! It wasn't my fault! I didn't ask for it!

"Oh yeah ... This'll be even better."

NO! Not better! I didn't want it!

His breath was ragged, his steps uneven. Where was the flying rhythm of the morning?

"Save those sweet sounds for later."

He was at the park when he fell. Dark ice beneath the snow, a twist of ankle, and down he went. He lay on his side, the snow soaking wetly into the thick cotton of his sweatsuit. The broken arm was up -- at least he hadn't injured that again. But he knew there'd be a livid bruise on his hip, and the ankle was throbbing as well. He moaned as he struggled to rise.

"Save those sweet sounds for later."

Oh, God! He gagged as nausea overwhelmed him and he was sick. He finished, climbing to his feet as he groaned loudly.

"Save those sweet sounds for later."

Bile filled his mouth and he spat harshly on the snow. It lay there, a sickly green against the white, a testament to his internal turmoil.

He turned away, staring up at the dark sky. No stars tonight -- the clouds still hung heavy over Cascade. There was no freedom in running tonight. There was no escape to be found.

He turned and began to limp back to the station, his head down and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The locker room boiled with activity. Full of the exuberant, sweaty winners from Major Crimes, and the less exuberant, but still sweaty losers from Arson, comments flew, high fives were exchanged, and clothing was being shed rapidly as steam began to rise from the showers.

Simon shook Paulsen's hand, accepting the congratulations on the game, then turned to speak to Blair as Arson's center headed for the showers.

"You still haven't heard from him?" he asked in concern.

Blair shook his head. "When did you say he left for Seattle?"

"Before 2:00." Simon scratched his head, then tugged his shirt off. "He should have been back by now."

"His truck wasn't here when I got here for the game, so we have to assume he isn't back yet." Blair stripped out of his shirt, opened a locker and pulled out his cell phone. Simon waited as he dialed and listened briefly, then hung up. "It's not turned on."

"God damn it! He knows better than that! What if he ran into trouble ..." The thought hung unfinished between the two men.

"Maybe he just needs some time alone, Simon," Blair offered hesitantly. "Maybe he's still processing things."

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden flurry of activity and loud voices.

"Jim! Where you been?" Rafe's voice echoed loudly in the large tiled room.

Henri Brown chimed in. "We were looking for you! You were supposed to cheer us on."

"Hey, Ellison, what's wrong with you?" Rafe again. "You don't look so good."

Blair and Simon exchanged a look, then hurried over to the others. Ellison stood unsteadily by the end of the row of lockers, his gray sweatsuit soaked through and his teeth chattering. He looked at the men he worked with as if they were strangers, and when Blair approached, he took a step back, limping.

"Hey, man," the Guide said softly, "it's all right." He grabbed a towel from Rafe and passed it to Jim. "Looks like you could use a shower. Maybe some clean clothes?"

Jim clenched his jaw, biting down hard on the anger and confusion that filled him. Why was it like this? Why couldn't he just relax and talk to these people? They were his friends. Normal. Be normal.

" 'm okay," he mumbled to Blair, dabbing at his wet pants with the clean towel. He looked up, forcing a smile and added, "So, who won?"

"MC all the way, my man!" He lifted his hand for a triumphant smack and was left holding it aloft as Jim stared at him. "We won, Jim," he tried again, and this time Jim raised his hand and smacked the other's.

"Congrats," he said, watching warily as worried expressions bloomed on Simon and Blair's faces.

"You want that shower, Jim?" Simon asked as the Sentinel shuddered in his wet clothes.

"No, Simon," Jim paused as he was wracked with another violent shiver. "I'm okay, really."

He turned and was walking slowly out when Rafe bounced forward and said, "What? You too good to shower with the rest of us now?" and smacked him on the ass with a towel. "Saving yourself for someone else?"

Jim roared, whirling around and pouncing forward, the cast held up menacingly and his other hand fisted in anger. "Get the fuck away from me!" He reached out, grabbed Rafe's T-shirt in his fist and yanked the man forward. "Just keep your fucking hands to yourself!"

The room was silent. All activity stopped and all eyes were fixed on Ellison. Rafe raised his hands in surrender, dropped his eyes and muttered, "Sorry, Jim. I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything."

Simon moved forward, separating the two men and nodding toward the showers, relieved when the rest of the people still hovering began to move away. The tall man kept a hand on Jim's shoulder and Blair could see his friend's struggle to be still, to not push it away.

What the hell had happened to his Sentinel?

It was Blair who moved up smoothly and dislodged Simon's hand, watching with interest as Jim's tension eased and he relaxed marginally. "You want to go home now, Jim?" he asked quietly, shaking his head to quiet Simon.

Ellison stood silent for a moment, then looked up at his Captain. "I'm sorry, Simon. It's just ..." He raised his hand in frustration. "I had a bad day."

Simon studied him critically. The man looked exhausted. Wet, cold, dirty. His face was pale and etched with pain. "You taking anything for that arm?" he asked.

It was Blair who answered. "You know he can't," he said in a low voice.

"You may need to take some more time, Jim, if the pain is making you like this."

Ellison shook his head. "I need to work, Simon. I've got to find this guy."

"You're not going to be working if you can't control that temper of yours." Simon sighed and looked around. "For God's sake, Jim, it was Rafe."

Jim dropped his head. "I know. I'm sorry. Tell him I'm sorry."

"Home, Jim," Blair urged, increasingly concerned at the beaten tone in his partner's voice, the worn down stance of his body. "You need to rest." He looked up at Simon. "Can't we do this tomorrow? Please? He needs to go home." Sandburg was trying to slide back into his shirt and still keep one hand on the exhausted man before him. It was the first time Jim had allowed a touch of any kind and he wasn't letting go.

Simon nodded. "Get some sleep, Ellison," he ordered as he headed for the showers. "And get in here tomorrow and finish that statement."

Jim stood still, swaying slightly. He was confused, embarrassed, ashamed. He didn't feel like himself, didn't feel like he had any control over his actions. Words flew from his mouth, his body moved, and it was as if he were disconnected from it all. And he was so tired ...

There was a weight on his arm, warm and comforting, and he looked down to see it was a hand. He followed the hand up an arm and over to a face and saw his Guide looking at him warily. Sandburg -- afraid of him? Afraid of what he'd do. Was that what that bastard Anderson had done to him? Changed him so that even his partner was afraid of him? He swallowed hard and shuddered. " 's all right, Sandburg," he said softly, "I'm not going to hit you again."

"You gonna let me take you home?"

Jim nodded and began to move as Blair tugged him gently toward the door.

"We're taking the truck," Blair said firmly, "and you're letting me drive."

Ellison reached into his jacket pocket and produced keys, passing them over without a word.

"And you're going to let me look at your ankle when we get home? See if we need to wrap it?"

Again, Jim nodded, and when he stumbled slightly and the younger man first tightened his grip, and then placed an arm around his waist, he leaned into the support. This was a touch that didn't threaten him. He could bear this. Sandburg was safety, and warmth, and security, and right now, Jim Ellison needed all of that he could get.

Jim had been quiet in the car, not answering his questions, but not flaring up at him either. He'd pulled an old blanket from behind the seat and wrapped it around his partner, then cranked the heater up as high as it would go. And still Jim had shivered.

The touch Jim had allowed at the station was refused when he tried to help the older man from the truck. Having learned his lesson, Blair backed off immediately and let Jim make his own slow and painful way into the building and up to the loft.

He headed straight for the bathroom and when Blair offered to run upstairs and get clean clothes for him, Jim accepted. The water was running when he came back down and Jim answered his knock, still fully clothed. He took the clothes with a curt, "Thanks," and Blair mentally prepared himself for a return of Volatile Man. He reminded himself he wasn't going to push this time. Something had happened and Jim obviously needed some space to deal with it. His job, as both Guide and friend, was to give the man his space, and still be there when it was time to talk.

He went back to the kitchen, emptying and refilling the kettle, then turning on the stove to heat the water. Within minutes, it was whistling and he turned the burner down to simmer. He pulled down his selection of teas, choosing something soothing that might help Jim sleep. If he could get him to drink it.

The water in the shower ran for a long time. Blair was sure there would be no hot water left when it finally stopped. He listened for any sign that Jim might want some help with his ankle and then resigned himself to another rejection when the big man finally appeared.

He was dressed in another sweatsuit, this one navy, and he had the damp towel slung around his neck. His feet were bare and he still moved with a slight limp as he made his way slowly toward the stairs.

"Jim?" Blair called cautiously.

The older man looked up and stopped, but did not speak.

"Can I look at your foot now?" He busied himself with the tea while he awaited a response.

Fully expecting to be rebuffed, he was pleasantly surprised when his Sentinel moved to the table and sat down. Blair placed the tea on the table, then knelt at Jim's feet. He reached out slowly, watching to make sure his action didn't surprise the other man, then gently lifted the injured leg and studied it.

"Know what you're looking at, Chief?" Jim asked quietly.

Blair was pleased to see that the tea he'd offered was being sipped. He shook his head. "Not really. You're the one with the medical training."

"It's strained. Not too bad." Jim wiggled his foot loosely, then winced. "I fell."

"Where were you?"

"In the park." Jim took another sip of the tea and sighed. "This is good, Chief."

"Do I need to do anything for it?"

"Nah -- it'll be fine in a couple of days."

"Do I need to do anything for you?" He lifted his eyes and looked at the older man as he spoke, Jim's foot still cradled in his hands.

Jim drank the last of the tea, placed the cup on the table and gently withdrew his foot from his Guide's grasp. "I'm okay, Blair," he said softly. "Just give me some time to find Anderson, and things will be back to normal."

He rose and headed for the stairs, his steps slow but steady. He climbed halfway up, then stopped, and looked back. "If I dream again tonight, it's probably better if you stay downstairs." He gestured at Blair's face. "I don't want a repeat of -- that."

Yeah, like that's gonna happen, Blair thought to himself, but he nodded obediently which seemed to satisfy the Sentinel. Jim turned and disappeared up the stairs and into his room. Blair heard the bed covers being pulled back, and the gentle ruffling of sheets as Jim slipped into the bed. The white noise generator began to hum and the Guide knew that his Sentinel was unsure of his control over his senses, and in serious need of sleep. Nowadays, his control had improved to the point that he only used the generator on rare occasions.

Blair rinsed the teacup and placed it to dry. Another oddity to Jim's behavior. The man never left anything out of place. It made the younger man think. He moved to the bathroom and was surprised to find all of Jim's dirty clothes still lying on the floor. He began to pick up, first turning the shirt right side out and setting it to one side, then unwadding the two little balls that were really socks. This was all so unlike Jim. He never left his clothes on the floor. He picked up the pants next, pulled out the boxers and gasped. There in the seat of the white cotton shorts was a vivid streak of red blood.

Blair's head rose and he stared unseeing up through the ceiling, thinking furiously. Suddenly Jim's moodiness began to make sense. His sudden aversion to anyone's touch. The anger and violent displays. How the hell had the man managed to keep this a secret at the hospital?

He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. He'd been so wrong. Here he thought it was an alpha male thing, and in a way, of course, it was. But not the way he'd been thinking. Not what Simon had described. Jim wasn't feeling responsible for the attack, the kidnapping, the baby's birth.

No. It wasn't that at all.

Jim had been raped.

Jim slept that night -- no nightmares. And Blair knew because he had spent the night standing watch. Well, sitting watch really. He'd stayed on the couch, working on a paper he hoped to publish, correcting tests, and making out lesson plans. He yawned hugely, then smiled as he heard Jim's quiet morning ritual. Rise, make the bed, grab clean clothes, head for the shower. This morning there was the added step of turning off the white noise generator. Blair smiled as the quiet hum died. The machine had done its job.

Footsteps on the stairs told him Jim was coming down and his stomach tensed as he waited to see how the man would be today. Angry? Violent? Depressed? Moody? All the changes made sense in light of what he had discovered last night. Now he just needed to figure out how to best help his friend. And do it without betraying the confidence the older man didn't know he had shared.

"Morning, Chief." The words were warm and welcome. They hinted at routine and a return to normalcy but Blair knew that however genuine Jim's feelings were at that moment, they could change in an instant.

"Hey, Jim. You sleep okay, man?"

The Sentinel nodded. "Gonna shower," he mumbled as he padded barefoot to the bathroom.

"You want breakfast?" Blair called to the retreating form.

Jim waved over his shoulder. "I'll get something later," he replied as he disappeared behind the bathroom door.

Blair puttered in the kitchen. Even more so than yesterday, he felt he was walking on eggshells. How to care for his Sentinel without telling him he knew what had really happened? What to say, what to do to keep the calm and rational man that had come down the stairs and not trigger the angry, violent man who had been such a regular visitor in their lives these past two days?

He wanted to fix a huge breakfast, with all the high carb, high fat things he knew Jim liked. Pancakes and eggs, bacon and biscuits. But he knew that alone would raise suspicions. He didn't want to just put out cold cereal either. He compromised and fixed scrambled eggs and toast -- Jim could slide the eggs onto the toast and eat the sandwich on the run. It should do.

The eggs were ready by the time the water turned off and when Blair heard the door to the bathroom open, he dropped the bread into the toaster. He could hear Jim cleaning up the bathroom and by the time he stepped out, the toast was done.

"Eggs, Jim?" he asked, holding out the paper plate with the sandwich on it.

"Hmmm? Yeah, thanks." Jim stood in the living room, looking around cautiously. "Just a minute."

"What're you looking for?" Blair asked.

"Last night." Jim walked back to the bathroom, then quickly returned. "I didn't clean up last night." He looked at Blair.

"Nope. I did."

Jim's eyes narrowed and Blair turned away to fuss with the frying pan in the sink.

"My clothes?"

Jim's voice was low and dangerous-sounding, and Blair felt his heart rate increase. He was sure Jim heard it as well, but he struggled gamely on. "I just, uh, put 'em in the hamper, Jim. It was no big deal, man." He finished washing the frying pan, and began to wipe the counter.

"You're awfully clean all of a sudden, Chief." The words were normal, average, routine, but the tone was cold and harsh.

"I, uh, know you've been a little stressed, Jim," he responded calmly. "I just thought I'd try and help out." Don't push. Don't push. Give the man some space.

There was a long silence, then Jim nodded and sat at the table. He ate quickly and efficiently, downed the cup of coffee Sandburg set before him, then rose to do his own cleaning up. The plate went into the garbage. The table was wiped down again. The cup was washed and placed in the drainer to dry.

Blair didn't speak, didn't interfere, but he didn't leave the room, either.

When Jim was done, there was an awkward silence. "Thanks for breakfast, Chief," the older man said. He reached out and lightly touched Blair's face. "This still hurt?"

Blair shook his head and Jim withdrew his hand.

"I'm sorry, Blair," he said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you." He turned and stared into space then moved to the windows to look out over the snow-covered streets. "I hate seeing you afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid, Jim," the Guide responded.

"You were last night. I saw it in your face."

Blair shrugged. "I know you'd never deliberately hurt me."

"No -- not deliberately. But my control hasn't been the best lately." Jim reached out and laid a hand on the icy window, letting the cold seep into his body, letting it help him stay calm.

Blair took a few steps towards him, then stopped. "You been thinking about getting some help with that?"

The hand on the window fisted, and Jim's body went rigid. "Don't, Sandburg," he growled as the rage came churning to the surface. "Just -- don't."

Blair immediately backed away, hands raised before him. "Look, man, I'm sorry. I promised myself I wasn't going to go there." He shook his head in frustration, then ran one hand through his long curls, fingers raking the snarls clear. "Change of subject?"

There was no response and at first Blair thought Jim hadn't heard him. The tension in the other man's form, and the tight stance he held seemed to indicate he was still lost in thought over Blair's last comment.

"Jim? Subject change, okay? Can you talk to me a minute?"

Jim turned slowly. His eyes were hard and cold and he kept his distance as he looked at the anthropologist. "What?"

"Adam's bringing Marie and the baby home today. They want us to come over tonight. You wanna?"

Jim relaxed, the tension slowly seeping from his form. "I'd like to see the baby," he said, nodding, "but I don't know what time I'll be finished for the day."

"How's seven-ish? I'm covering Frank Dorson's four o'clock class and it's a lab, so I'll be six at the earliest getting out of there." He looked at the Sentinel. "You wanna pick me up on campus and we can go together?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't think so, Chief. I've got a lot to do today and I'm not sure I'll be done by then."

"But you are coming, right?" Blair watched as the tension built again in the older man, and he could see the internal struggle to control it.

"I'll try," Jim said shortly. "That's the best I can do."

"I told them we'd bring dinner. Chinese." Please say you'll come, Jim. Please say you'll be there.

Jim started for the front door. "I'll do the best I can, but don't wait on me," he said as he disappeared into the hall.

He finished the rest of his statement without incident. That was one point in his favor. Simon had been tense throughout, his heart rate fast and his skin slightly flushed, both reactions that were visible only to Jim's heightened Sentinel sense. The Captain had breathed a sigh of relief when it was over and Jim felt the familiar pang of shame that seemed to haunt his every waking moment now. He wanted to apologize, to say something, but he wasn't sure he could control himself if Simon started to push him on his behavior of late. So he walked out without a word and missed the look of frustrated concern on his Captain's face.

He headed out to his desk, whispering, "Focus on the case," to himself as he moved. He sat at his desk and lifted the small stack of phone memos, paging through them quickly. There was one from Wetumpka, Alabama -- the town Andre Tucker had returned home to. Why would Royce Jessup, Tucker's boss and the man who had vouched for his regular attendance at work, be calling him? He picked up the phone and dialed quickly.

"Jessup Furniture."

"Royce Jessup, please. This is Detective Jim Ellison of the Cascade Police Department returning his call."

"Just a minute, Sir." Despite himself, Jim had to smile. It sounded like "Jussa minute, Suh."

"Detective Ellison?" The voice was deep and had the same southern rhythms as the woman who had answered the phone.

"You called me, Mr. Jessup? Is this about Andre Tucker?"

"You know, Detective, Andre is my wife's sister's husband's second cousin's boy. Family."

Jim's head was already reeling as he tried to figure out the family connection. He wrote it on a notepad. Wife's sister's husband's second cousin's boy. He shook his head. In most parts of the world, that was an acquaintance. Apparently in Alabama, that was family. "Has something happened?"

"Yes," the man sounded annoyed, as if Jim were behaving in a particularly slow-witted way. "The boy is dead."

Jim grinned again, unconsciously as he thought of Tucker, a man his own age, being referred to as a 'boy.' And then the reality of Jessup's words sunk in. Tucker was dead. Jim's voice was clipped as he asked, "How?"

"That's why I'm callin' you, Detective. The po-lice say Andre killed himself, but I know that ain't so."

"Why do the police think Andre killed himself?"

"He was hung. Hung out in the barn on my nephew's wife's uncle's place."

Again, Jim jotted on his pad. Nephew's wife's uncle. "Is this your wife's sister's son?" he asked, still trying to get the relationships straight.

"No," replied Jessup. "My sister's boy."

"Why was Tucker at the barn on ..." Jim looked at the pad again, "your nephew's wife's uncle's place?"

"He was staying there, of course. With family. While he got back on his feet."

Jim shook his head again. "You know, Mr. Jessup, it's not unusual for someone who has been incarcerated to have difficulty adjusting to life outside. They get depressed, feel they don't fit in. Suicides do happen."

"Not with this boy. Haven't you heard a word I been saying? This boy had family. People who cared for him. I gave him a job and he was doing right good. Went on back to church and even met up with a right nice young woman. Andre was getting his life straight." Jessup paused as if considering the man he called family. "He wouldn't have killed himself."

Jim sighed. "What do you think I can do about it, Mr. Jessup?"

"Well, suh, you seemed to be right interested in Andre. Figured you might know something about the troubles."

"The troubles?" Jim's head began to spin again.

"Yes, suh. The troubles what landed that boy in jail to begin with. I figured this boy dying all sudden like this -- well, it might be related to the troubles."

"Do you have any contacts with the local police, Sir?"

"My son's wife's sister's husband is a deputy with the county. Would that help?"

Jim wrote again. Son's wife's sister's husband. Deputy. "Possibly. If he can get a police report on the death, and fax it to me, I'll take a look." He dropped his note in the folder labeled Tucker and closed it. "That's the best I can do."

Jessup thanked him and he gave the man -- Tucker's mother or father's second cousin's wife's sister's husband -- the fax number. He hung up shaking his head yet again. He couldn't believe he'd actually worked out the relationship.

He smiled to himself as he worked. This felt good. It felt right. He wasn't raging out of control, he wasn't thinking about ... his mind skittered away from the thought and he forced himself back to the case. This was what he needed. He needed to work. He needed to be a cop. He needed to find Anderson and figure out what the hell was going on. As long as he could focus on that, he would be okay.

As he waited for the information on Tucker, he pulled the file on Mitchell and Anderson and began to read. He needed to make some calls to Mitchell's family -- see if he could find the man. If Tucker really hadn't committed suicide, then there was a good chance Mitchell was involved in his death. And if he wasn't, then Mitchell could be the next target.

It was 7:10. He'd been here, sitting in his car with the food getting cold, for twenty minutes. He was hoping Jim would show up. The blinds moved for the third time as he looked at the apartment again, and he decided he should go on in. Hands full of paper bags, he scrambled out of the car and headed up the walk to the Degnan's new home. A quick rap with his elbow brought Adam to the door.

"No Jim?" Adam asked as he reached out to help with the bags.

Blair shook his head. "Sorry, man. I know he really wanted to see the baby."

"It's all right, Blair," Marie called from the couch where she sat with the newborn. "We're glad you decided to come in. I was afraid you were going to freeze waiting out there."

Sandburg shivered as he shed his coat and passed it to Adam. " 's cold all right." He looked back toward the door. "I was just hoping he'd show."

"I'm sure he's got a lot on his mind right now. A lot of things he's dealing with." The baby mewed softly and Marie shifted her to a shoulder and began to jiggle her softly. She watched Blair carefully as she spoke and noticed the flush that crept across his face at her words.

"Did he say what he was doing?" Adam asked from the small kitchenette. He was busy laying out plates and scooping food onto them. He looked up at Marie. "I'm just gonna put a little of everything on for you, then heat it in the microwave, okay babe?"

"Nothing spicy," Marie cautioned, tapping the baby gently. "I don't think her royal highness will take too well to spicy foods."

"Wow," Blair said as he rose to go help Adam, "that eating for two thing just keeps on, doesn't it?"

"It's worth it," Marie said with a smile as she tilted her head and inhaled the scent of her baby's neck. "She's wonderful!"

The microwave beeped and Blair took the plate Adam held out and carried it to Marie. She moved the baby to the crook of her arm, took her plate, and then passed the baby to Blair who found himself holding the tiny little bundle without even realizing he was accepting her. "Oh, man!" He looked down in awe at the wriggling warm mass in his arms, and grinned as the little one yawned. "She's like, so small!"

Adam appeared with two more plates, setting them on the coffee table. He reached out to take the baby, saying, "Here. Let me. I'll put her in her crib."

Blair shook his head. "No way, man. You guys eat. I'll just hold the princess here. She's -- incredible!" He looked up at the couple. "Jim is gonna be so sorry he missed this. What'd you name her?"

Adam looked at Marie, then shrugged. "We haven't decided. Marie wants to wait a bit -- get to know her."

"That's so cool, Marie," Blair enthused. "The naming ceremony is sacred to so many Native American tribes. In many of their traditions, the child's name is determined by a respected elder. Sometimes, it can take months for the elder to come up with a name. And among the hill people of Vietnam, a child is frequently not named until he or she is two or three years old -- to protect from evil spirits. And in Africa ..."

"Whoa!" Adam held up his hands. "Anthropology, right? Didn't you say you were an anthropology student?"

Blair laughed. "Yeah, well, that's like the official title. But I'm really a student of the world." He looked down at the baby again and cooed softly to her. "Whatever the reason, I think it is totally cool that you want to get to know her before you name her. Names are just really powerful things -- in any culture."

Marie finished her dinner and rose. She grabbed Blair's plate on her way back to the kitchen. "I'm just going to heat this back up for you, and I'll take our little lady now and put her to bed." She popped the plate in the microwave, hit the timer and returned to scoop the sleeping baby from Blair's arms. "Then I want to talk about another one of your study projects -- Jim Ellison."

Blair swallowed hard but nodded and when Marie returned from laying the baby down, he accepted his reheated dinner and began to eat.

"How is he?" Marie asked as she sat next to her husband on the couch. "I've been worried about him."

"Marie," Blair began tentatively, "can you tell me what happened when Anderson had you two?"

She dropped her eyes and even Adam looked at her strangely.

"Marie ..." he prompted, "did something happen?"

She looked up, first at Adam, then at Blair. "Didn't you read my statement?"

"Yeah, I read it." Blair looked uncomfortable. "And I was there when Jim gave his."

"And what did Jim say?"

Blair rose and began to pace. "It's not what he said. It's what he didn't say that's causing the problems." He stopped and stared at Marie. "You know, don't you?"

She shrugged. "I have strong suspicions. Anderson took him, instead of me. But when he came back, his arm was so badly injured and I was in labor. Then the baby arrived and then you and the police got there and everything else just happened so fast ..."

"What?" Adam was totally confused. "What the hell happened that I'm missing."

Marie shook her head and snuggled closer to her husband, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs beneath her. "It's not for me to say," she said finally. "Or for you," she cautioned Blair.

"I don't think silence is going to work." Blair began to move again, one hand running through his hair. "You haven't seen him. He's angry -- violent even." He touched his cheek without thinking.

"Ellison hit you?" Degnan's voice was outraged.

Blair shook his head. "Didn't mean to. He was dreaming."

"So what is he doing tonight?" Degnan asking, struggling to break the rising tension in the room.

"Working on the case. I called the station before my class, and Simon said he'd gotten something on Tucker, the guy who went to Alabama. Jim was looking into it, and trying to run down Mitchell as well."

"None of which explains where he is tonight," Adam said plainly.

Blair apologized again. "He's just so not himself right now. Not even Simon knows for sure where he is, and to be honest, none of us feel really sure that pushing him on anything is the right thing to do." Blair rubbed his neck. "He just keeps blowing up. I've got to figure out how to help him."

"You can't help someone who doesn't want your help, Blair," Marie said quietly. "When he's ready, he'll come to you."

"What if he's never ready? What if this hangs there forever?"

"No." She shook her head. "It won't."

Blair's eyes were pained as he met her gaze. "What if it isn't me he turns to?"

"Blair," she chided gently, "who else would he go to?"

It was after 10:00 when he pulled up outside the Degnan's apartment. He still wasn't sure why he had even come. He was too uncomfortable to consider going in, despite the invitation he'd been given. Sandburg's car was still outside so at least his visit had gone well. Or was going well. Jim thought back to the moment the red- faced, wrinkled little mass of life had made her appearance, dropping right into his one good hand and scaring the daylights out of him. He really wanted to see what she looked like all cleaned up and sweet-smelling.

He was tempted to go in anyway, just for a minute, and take a quick peek. See Marie and assure himself that she really had emerged unscathed from the whole incident with Anderson. Jim tensed; the mere thought of the man's name turned his stomach and the rage began to rise. As much as he wanted to go in and see Marie and the baby, he didn't want to risk another burst of his uncontrolled anger.

He looked longingly over at the window. Three days ago he'd have been in there -- part of the group, belonging. He'd be laughing with friends, fussing over the new baby, enjoying himself. And now -- he clenched his teeth -- now everything had changed. Anderson had changed it all. He'd done so much more than just physically assault him. Jim shook his head at himself. Even here, in the privacy of his mind, he shied away from the word rape. Assault just sounded so much -- cleaner. And when Anderson had assaulted him, it wasn't just a physical injury. There were so many more injuries that Jim couldn't begin to count. Didn't want to count. Couldn't bear to think about counting. His self-confidence. His self-assurance. His trust in himself to make the right decision. His ability to protect others. Hell, if he couldn't even protect himself, what could he possibly do for anyone else? His sense of worth. His image of himself. His manhood. It had been less than 72 hours since the assault, but Jim couldn't imagine ever thinking of sex again. And if that didn't constitute an injury -- what did?

He stretched out his hearing slightly, heard Blair laugh and then coo at the baby. He wanted to go in. He was still listening to the baby, focused on the little snuffles and whuffs she made as she breathed, the soft rustling her little arms made as they waved in the air, the crinkly sound of her diaper against the blanket she was wrapped in. He was in awe. He'd never realized how totally enchanting a baby could be.

The baby mewed -- that was the only word for it -- and he heard Marie take her and lift her to a breast. He was pulling back, giving mother and child their privacy when he heard something else. Something that didn't belong. He listened again, wishing Sandburg were out here instead of in there, so he could safely reach out and listen fully. He began to focus -- tuning out the heartbeats in the other apartments, inside the Degnan's apartment, his own, until he was left with just one. A familiar beat.

He pulled back like he'd been burned. He knew that heart. He'd listened to it -- counted it for six hundred and seventy three seconds -- felt it race and then slow as Anderson had ... Jim closed his eyes, refusing to be drawn into that black place again. Anderson was here -- he had to find him. Rage surged up in him and he sprang lightly from the car, zeroed in on his target. He moved silently around to the side of the building, focused on Anderson who still did not move. What was the man waiting for? For Blair to leave? For Adam and his family to be alone?

He sniffed the air. Anderson's scent wafted on the breeze, mingling with cheap whiskey and cigarettes. A quick peek around the corner showed the man standing by the back hallway entrance, smoking. The red tip of the cigarette shone like a day-glo target, and without another sound, another thought, Jim roared and launched himself forward. He ran straight at the man, catching him totally unawares and tackling him to the ground. The air was filled with the sound of maddened howling, and bones breaking. His casted left arm pushed hard against Anderson's throat as he straddled the man's torso. His right fist rose and fell, rose and fell, slowly turning the man's face to pulp.

He heard his name, an inconsequential buzzing sound that fluttered around him and pushed the bothersome intrusion away. There were hands pushing him, a familiar body pressed against his side, but he had no time for any of it -- that could come later. Anderson was here. If he could just take care of Anderson, the rest of it would go away. He could make it all go away.

He lifted his left arm and brought it down, not even aware that the cast cracked until the pain of his broken bone jarring at his movement slowed his crazed attack. Sound and vision returned to normal and he heard Blair screaming for him to stop, felt him plucking futilely at this shirt as he tried to unseat him from the unconscious man he knelt above.

"Sandburg?" he croaked, looking up into worried blue eyes.

"Yeah, Jim, man, it's okay." His Guide reached down again and slowly pulled him to his feet. There was blood on Sandburg's face and his shirt was torn in several places.

He looked over at the hallway and saw Degnan on the phone. He finished his call, closed the phone and reported, "I called your Captain like you said, Blair. He's sending a car and he's on his way as well."

Jim looked down at the bloody heap that was Anderson, not knowing if he should be relieved or disappointed when the man's chest rose and fell with steady breaths. "Anderson needs medical attention."

Degnan nodded. "Your Captain said he was sending the EMTs as well." He cocked his head as he looked at Jim and Blair. "For some reason, he seemed to feel if you two were involved, there'd be a need for medical services."

Jim laughed hoarsely. "Guess he knows us pretty well, eh, Chief?"

Blair was examining the cracked cast as he held Jim's arm as still as possible. "Better plan on going with the ambulance, Jim," he said. "You need to get this arm looked at again."

Ellison shook his head. "No ambulance." He reached out and wiped blood from Blair's face, then pulled the man's shirt closed as he began to shiver. "Adam," he called, his eyes never leaving his Guide's face, "can you bring out Blair's jacket? He's cold."

Degnan nodded, ran into the apartment and was back in a minute. He passed the jacket to Jim, then said, "I need to be with Marie. She won't bring the baby out, but she wants to tell you thank you."

He watched as Jim helped Blair into his coat, fussing softly at the younger man to do up the buttons, then extended his hand. "I want to thank you, too. I have no idea how you knew he was here, but I'm sure it wouldn't have been pretty if you hadn't caught him."

Jim shook the other man's hand, nodding.

"I owe you my life again, Ellison," Degnan said. "And my family's lives. That's a debt I can never repay."

Jim studied Degnan for a moment, then asked, "Do you know where the weapons are, Adam?"

The man shook his head. "I heard Holcombe and Jenkins talking about it -- that was when I turned them in. But I never knew what they did with them, or who their contact was."

Jim nodded. "We're going to have to talk about this some more. There may be more you know and you don't even realize it. Names, people you saw, places they talked about." He turned back to Blair, using his thumb to wipe a trickle of blood from his forehead. "Go on in to your wife, Adam. We can do all that tomorrow."

The man left and it was just Jim and Blair, waiting for the police and ambulance to arrive. "You going to give the EMTs a hard time, Jim?" Blair asked as he reached out and lifted Jim's casted arm. He cradled the weight in his hands, then pressed the injured limb against the other man's chest. "You gotta keep it still, man. I know it hurts."

"I just want to go home, Blair," Jim said wearily.

The sirens wailed in the distance and as they listened, they grew closer. Within moments, the back of the apartment was swarming with cops and EMTs and then Simon was there as well. Jim gave a brief statement, allowed a paramedic to secure his arm in a sling, and then stepped away. A second EMT was cleaning the cut on Blair's face, wiping away the blood and bandaging the wound.

Simon watched critically. "How the hell did you get hit, Sandburg?" he asked.

Jim dropped his head. "I did it." He nodded at the gurney that held Anderson's unconscious form. "I was going to kill him, and Sandburg tried to stop me. I hit him."

"That so, Sandburg?" Simon asked, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Blair shook his head. "I don't know, Simon. I suppose it's possible. I just saw Jim fighting with Anderson and I jumped in." He shrugged again. "I don't know who hit me."

"That what really happened?" Simon watched the two men closely.

"No," said Jim.

"Yes," Blair replied at the same time.

Simon sighed. "We'll sort it out tomorrow." He looked pointedly at Jim's arm. "Go get that looked at, then get some rest. I want to see you first thing in the morning."

A paramedic reached out and touched him lightly. "If you'll just come with us, Detective, we'll get you to the hospital and they'll fix you up in no time."

Blair's lowered his eyes, staring at the ground. "I'll pick you up at the hospital," he murmured as he began to trudge to his car.

"I don't think so, Chief," Jim said. He waited until his partner turned to look at him, question in his eyes. "I'm coming with you." He strode over to the younger man, threw an arm over his shoulder and gently tugged him into motion. "You'd think these idiots would know I don't ride in ambulances by now."

Blair couldn't hide the grin that blossomed on his face. "Yeah, well, if I have to take you to the hospital, we're going in your truck."

"Damn straight we are. I'm not riding in that piece of junk you call a car."

"And I'm driving."

"Like hell you are. My truck. I drive."

"But you're hurt. You shouldn't be driving."

"I'm not the one with a head wound, Chief. I think I can drive just fine."

The voices faded as the men turned the corner of the building and disappeared from sight. Simon smiled.

Things were looking up at last.

"You need help?" Blair asked cautiously. It had been a tense drive home. Angry Jim was back and Blair couldn't figure out what had set him off. Maybe just being in the hospital again -- seeing the same ER doctor from two days ago. The man had to know what had happened to Jim. Maybe he had pushed Jim again to report the rape.

"I think I can figure out how to shower by myself, Sandburg," Jim said sarcastically. "I've only been doing it since I was four. But I assure you, if I run into any problems, you'll be the first to know."

Blair bit down a caustic remark of his own, counseling himself to patience. He pulled out a couple of the bran muffins he'd gotten, then opened the freezer and got out the special fruit paste he'd made that afternoon. It was an old folk remedy -- a cure for constipation. Figs, prunes, raisins, and senna tea. The senna was a natural laxative. The bran would increase Jim's fiber, helping keep his stool soft.

And all of it appearing on the table for a late night snack would make it perfectly clear to Jim that Blair knew what had happened.

He braced himself; odds were, his next discussion with his Sentinel wasn't going to be pleasant.

The shower turned off and Jim appeared. His sweatpants hung low on his hips and Blair watched as he struggled into a gray T-shirt. Bare feet padded softly across the hardwood floor as Jim entered the kitchen and sank down wearily into a chair. He seemed calm enough at the moment.

"That tea, Chief?"

Blair nodded, pouring out a cup and passing it over.

"Chamomile? For sleeping, right?" Jim took a sip and made a slight face. "Tastes different."

"Well, the chamomile is a soother, you're right there, Jim. But this is not chamomile. This is senna." Blair took the muffins out of the microwave and smeared one with the fruit paste, passing it to his partner.

"Senna? What's that for?" Jim looked at the muffin in his hand. "And what is this?"

"Bran muffin with fruit paste."

"Bran?" Jim dropped the muffin and narrowed his eyes as he stared at Blair. "What's senna for, Chief?" he asked coldly.

"It's a natural laxative, Jim. The bran and the fruit promote soft stool." Blair kept his voice as calm and non-emotional as possible.

Jim's body went rigid. "And just why would you assume that was something I need?"

Blair walked to the counter and produced Jim's underwear, the stain of blood still visible in the crotch. "You didn't report everything that happened when you were with Anderson, did you, Jim?"

Ellison rose, kicking the chair over in the process. It slammed to the floor with a loud crash and he winced as his hearing threatened to spike. Fury flooded through him. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he hissed, backing away from his Guide. He had an overwhelming desire to just start hitting something -- or someone -- and never stop. The violence in him terrified him.

He looked back at Blair. The anthropologist was moving toward him slowly. "Stay away from me, Blair," he warned.

"Jim," Blair spoke soothingly, "try to think of this like a sensory spike. Instead of your hearing or your vision, it's your emotions that are spiking." He took another step forward.

"I'm warning you, Sandburg, back off!" Jim was crouched by the door to the balcony, hands fisted, face flushed as he struggled not to lose control.

"You need to talk about this, Jim."

"Leave me the fuck alone!" The words were ripped from Jim's throat, an anguished cry that echoed in the loft.

"Focus on me, Jim. Listen to me." Blair edged forward again. "It wasn't your fault."

"It's none of your business, Sandburg."

"I'm your Guide, Jim. Your friend. You were hurt. Of course it's my business."

"I can't talk about this, Blair." Jim choked back a sob. "Please don't make me talk about this."

Jim's pain was tangible and Blair wanted nothing more than to back down, to let it go, to let Jim keep running if the running would end his torment -- even for a little while. But it didn't. The memories just kept rearing up -- different times, different places. Hell, he was willing to bet Jim didn't have a clue what triggered his rages.

"You have to talk about it, Jim." Blair paused, not moving. "If not to me, then to someone." He lifted a hand and pushed at his hair. "You can't go on like this."

"I just need some time." Jim shifted from the awkward crouch, to a full sit on the floor. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his chin rested on them. "It's only been a couple of days."

"And look at what's happened in those two days." Blair pushed on relentlessly. "You hit me. You attacked Rafe. You threw over a chair and stormed out of Simon's office. You nearly killed a suspect." He blew out hard. "You don't have time, Jim. If you don't start dealing with this -- you're going to hurt someone seriously. Or you're going to hurt yourself."

"You don't know how I feel ..." The words trailed away into a tense silence.

Blair took one step closer. "Tell me."

"Like I'm useless. Like I have nothing to give to anyone. Like he took something from me -- something I can never get back. My confidence. My strength. Who I am."

"He did take something from you, Jim, and you're right, you can't ever get it back." Blair inched forward again. "But it wasn't anything that makes you who you are. Your abilities, your strength, your personality -- he didn't touch those things. Your sense of justice, your commitment to protect the innocent, your knowledge of who you are -- he could never touch those things."

Jim closed his eyes, his good hand came up and covered them for a moment, then he dragged it down to press against his mouth, before wrapping the arm around his knees again. "I feel lost -- like everything's spinning out of control."

"Then focus on me, Jim. Just on me." Blair took the last few steps forward and dropped to his knees before the Sentinel. He reached out one hand, laying it tentatively upon Jim's arm. "When you feel lost, listen for me. When thing's spin out of control, hold on to me." He tightened his grip and was rewarded when Jim's arm twisted in his grasp, and he found his own arm being clung to by his partner.

"I can't think about it, Chief," Jim whispered. "I try to, and my mind just runs from it. I can't even think the word, let alone say it." He gave a bitter laugh. "I keep telling myself I was assaulted."

"You were raped, Jim. Raped. Anderson took you from your home -- a place you have every right to expect to be safe in -- and he tried to destroy something vital in you." Blair stared at Jim, forcing him to meet his eyes. "He tried to destroy something, but he didn't succeed. You survived, Jim. And you not only survived, you saved two other lives." He slipped forward again, turning to sit beside the older man. "Anderson raped you, Jim, but he never defeated you."

"I wanted to kill him tonight." Jim shuddered as the memory of the killing rage swept over him again.

"I know."

"You shouldn't have jumped in like that. I could have really hurt you." Jim released his grip on Blair's arm and gently pushed back the long hair to touch the stark white bandage that adorned the Guide's forehead.

"I wasn't going to let Anderson take anything else from you. If you had killed him, it could have meant the end of your career. I wasn't going to let that bastard do that."

Jim smiled. "My hero."

Blair grinned back and rose, pulling the Sentinel up with him. "Damn straight," he replied, "and don't you forget it."

Jim stood still, looking at his friend. "Seriously, Chief, you saved me tonight."

"You saved yourself, Jim. I just nudged you in the right direction."

"Gonna keep nudging?"

Blair nodded. "This isn't going to go away because you talked about it one time, Jim. It's going to take time. You may need some help."

Jim shrugged. "I've got help." He moved to the table and nibbled at his muffin. "I've got you."

"Always. You know that." Blair joined him by the table. "I just may not be enough." He took the mug of tea and placed it in the microwave, pushing the button to reheat it. "You may need someone professional."

"There isn't someone professional who can help me, Blair." Jim tilted his head to one side as he looked at his Guide. "You know that. There's too much I can't talk about."

Blair nodded slowly, then pulled the mug from the oven and handed it to Jim. "Just know that you're bound to have more times when you feel out of control, when you feel lost. You suffered a serious trauma, Jim. Physically and psychologically. You don't get over it with one good talk."

Jim sipped slowly, then looked up at Blair. "So, in addition to the bran muffins, senna tea, and fruit crap, I guess I have any number of these enlightening little moments to look forward to."

Blair laughed. "You've got to process it, man. Channel the negative energy out."

"Yeah, well, while I'm processing, how do I keep from smacking the people I care about?"

"Hey, your dietary needs are about the only thing I've got a firm grip on right now." He shrugged and broke off a piece of muffin, popping it into his mouth. "The rest we figure out as we go."

"Jim!" Marie opened the door, the baby nestled against her shoulder. "I wasn't expecting you!"

Ellison dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I should have called first."

"Nonsense!" Strong hands reached out to him and he was pleased to see he didn't flinch as she grabbed his arm and pulled him in. "Come into the living room," she said as she led the way. "Can I get you a drink? Tea? Juice? Water?" she offered as she looked inside the refrigerator.

"Juice is fine," Jim responded. He watched as she deftly pulled out the juice, opened a cabinet and took out glasses, then poured -- all with one hand. The other hand still held the baby pressed against her. "You're good at that," he commented.

"Hmmmm? Good at what?" she asked as she returned the juice to the fridge.

"The whole one-handed thing." He raised his left arm triumphantly. "I didn't realize how much I used my left hand until I didn't have it."

She handed him a glass, then went back for her own and joined him on the couch. "When did the cast come off?"

"Two days ago." He stretched the arm out again. "It was wonderful. The cast was heavy, it was hot, it itched, and it was beginning to reek."

"Arm's okay now?" she asked as she laid the baby on her lap and fiddled with the receiving blanket.

"Oh, yeah. Full recovery." He flexed it again and frowned. "Well, maybe not at full strength yet, but it's getting there."

"And what about you, Jim Ellison?" She stared at him over the rim of her glass. "Are you getting there, too?"

Jim flushed, and though his mind wanted him to play dumb and pretend he didn't understand, he was grateful that at least he wasn't overwhelmed with uncontrollable rage at her question. "I'm working on it." He paused, studying the empty glass before he set it on the table. "I got Anderson, and that helped."

"And you've got Blair."

Jim smiled. "And I've got Blair." The baby squirmed in her mother's lap and Jim watched her quietly, focusing on the little heartbeat, the tiny little breaths -- in and out -- the miniscule sounds she made as she turned her head, waved an arm, wriggled inside her blanket. The scent of clean baby -- lotion and powder and brand new baby -- perfumed the air here, and he drank it in greedily. The child was just as enchanting in her mother's lap as she'd been in her mother's womb. He listened some more, losing himself in the miracle of this new life, and had no idea how long it was until he heard his name.

"Jim?"

He looked up slowly, blinking to clear his eyes.

"Are you all right?"

He nodded once, then tilted his head toward the baby. "She's -- amazing."

"We like to think so." Marie smiled at the baby, then lifted her and placed her in Jim's arms. She tugged one arm down, then pushed on the other until the baby was firmly seated. "There," she said, as Jim looked down at the baby. "You look at her the way Adam does -- like she's a miracle."

Jim nodded, fighting to hold back the tears that threatened to fill his eyes. "She is."

"You gave us that miracle. What you did. What you were willing to do -- to go through. For me. And for her." She waited until he lifted his eyes to look at her. "There are no words to say thank you."

Jim touched the baby's satiny cheek, watched as she turned her head in natural response to the motion and her little mouth began to seek a nipple. "This is thanks enough." He cleared his throat and looked up again. "Adam at work?"

Marie nodded. "It's good for him to have a work routine again, and he likes it." She tilted her head and studied Jim. "He likes not having to worry about us anymore even better. You saved us twice, you know. If you hadn't caught Anderson that night, who knows what he would have done."

"He's going away for the rest of his life now. You don't have to worry about him again."

"And what about you, Jim?" Her words were soft. "Do I have to worry about you?"

The baby began to wave one arm, and without thinking, he offered her his pinky. She captured it tight in a tiny little fist, wide brown eyes staring up at him. "No," he said at last. "You don't have to worry about me." He looked up and met her eyes. "I'm going to be all right." The baby made a fussy sound, and Jim lifted her, settling her against his shoulder. From this position, he could bury his nose in her neck, sniffing the intoxicating baby scent found there. "Have you named her yet? Sandburg said you were waiting to get to know her." Jim shook his head at the unconventionality of it.

Marie laughed. "Not yet. But I think it's about time." She looked at Jim. "Has Blair ever talked to you about the power of names?"

Jim shook his head. "Not that I remember, but I'm sure it's come up in something he's gone on about. Tribal customs, naming rituals, something. That kind of thing would be right up his alley."

"Do you know what your name means, Jim?"

He shook his head.

"James -- it means supplanter. One who takes the place of another."

There was a long silence as the power of the name stretched between them, then Marie reached out and took the baby. She held her loosely in her lap, then reached out and took Jim's hand, placing it gently on the baby's belly. "And this little one," Marie said fondly as she gazed at her daughter, "she is just enchanting. She enchanted us all."

"She certainly did me," Jim said softly as he offered the infant his finger again.

"Then we shall call her Sidonie. It means 'enchanter.'"

"I like it," Jim said with a smile. "It fits her."

"I want her to have something of yours, too, Jim."

"Please don't say you're calling her James," he said with a crooked grin.

"No, not James," Marie said.

"Not Jamie?" Jim looked up in horror. "Sidonie Jamie?" He groaned. "Please, don't do that to her."

"No, not Jamie either."

"Well, I know you aren't calling her Ellison, so what's left?"

"Blair."

"Blair?"

Marie nodded.

"Something of mine?"

Marie nodded again, waiting.

At length, Jim nodded. "Sidonie Blair. I like it." He smiled again and tickled the baby under her chin. "He'll be so pleased." Jim looked up. "And just for the record, what does Blair mean? I'm sure you know."

"It's a field or a plain. It's Celtic."

"That's it? A field or a plain?"

Marie laughed. "It's fitting, though, don't you think? Blair is so -- connected -- to the earth, in tune with the world. I think it's perfect for him."

"And for her?"

"For her too. She's an enchantress who weaves her magic around us all, but I want her grounded in the earth as well. A realist who knows how to dream."

"It's beautiful, Marie. I'm honored to be part of it."

"You are what made it all possible. She wouldn't be here without you, James Ellison. Don't you ever, ever forget that." She reached out and took his hand, staring hard into his eyes. "When you struggle with what Anderson did, when you have doubts and you feel the rage, you remember us. Remember her." She took his hand and placed it gently over the baby's heart. "You remember this, Jim. Always remember that this little heart still beats because of you and your sacrifice. This tiny miracle exists because of what you did. This beautiful, enchanting, magical person is here today -- because of you. Can you remember that, Jim? Will you remember?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

Soft silence stretched between them and then she asked, "Are you all right, Jim?"

And this time, when he answered, he really and truly meant it.

"I will be."