This story takes place not long after the resolution to S2 (whatever that turns out to be, and whenever we get to see it). This is a sequel to "Religion". This can be archived at the main slash archive. Anyone else can ask by emailing the address at the end of the story. No warnings. Spoilers for S2. I don't own the characters, but that's okay, because this is not for profit. Since I believe that you might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, I've included a whole pile of outside quotations, and I don't own those either. Anyone entertaining thoughts of a lawsuit, say it with me: "You can't get blood from a stone."

Charm

*****
"It's getting late-- sounds like a departure. It's getting close-- sounds to me like a departure."
   -The Tragically Hip, Let's Stay Engaged
*****

   Jim had a pretty simple policy about Blair's second backpack. When he saw it out of storage, on Blair's bed, waiting to be filled, he wanted to know why.
   Actually, what he *really* wanted was to know the backpack was coming out before he even saw it. That would mean that Blair had discussed with Jim his plans to go away for more than just one or two nights.
   As he peeked into the bag to see what was already packed, he could hear Blair going through the bathroom, pulling things off shelves.
   "Don't forget to bring a first aid kit," Jim recommended. He had the satisfaction of hearing things fall, most of them landing in the sink. A few seconds later, Blair showed up in his room and dumped an armload into his pack.
   "You sacred me, man. I didn't hear you come in."
   "Planning a trip, Chief?"
   He tried to keep his tone light, but he quickly saw that Blair hadn't been fooled. Blair leaned against his desk and folded his arms across his chest.
   "Well, Jim, you know we're together *all the time*, and..."
   "Don't be childish. This is obviously not a weekend fishing trip."
   "No, but the principle is the same." Blair shook his head. "I'm sorry. We settled that a long time ago. You should've been up front with me, and I shouldn't have crowded you."
   "Don't change the subject. When were you planning on being up front with me about *this*?"
   "When you got home. I just got a phone call about half an hour ago."
   Blair began to pack as he spoke.
   "I have a friend talking to this tribe in Paraguay, and he wants me to come down there for a week."
   "You decided this half an hour ago?"
   "No. I decided this immediately." He stopped, staring at the contents of a drawer as though he'd never seen them before. Apparently giving up, he turned to Jim.
   "Look, it is *just* a *week*."
   "Why does he want you to come down there? And where the hell are you going to get the money to fly to Paraguay?"
   "His grant will cover it."
   Jim nodded.
   "And my first question?"
   Blair gave him a sheepish grin.
   "Uh...I'm the only person he knows who knows anything about sentinels."
   Jim didn't know if he was curious or nervous. Probably both.
   "What has he found?"
   Blair looked thoughtfully at his laptop, then opted for notebooks and pens instead. He tossed them to land on the bed beside the backpack.
   "The tribe he's talking to seems to know something about them. They may even had *had* one in recent history."
   "What? You said I was a throwback."
   "I know what I said. I'm talking *relatively* recent history. Besides, we know there could be others like you. Or," he added quickly, "I could've been wrong. I don't know everything."
   Jim picked up the mini-tape recorder which lay on the floor beside Blair's futon and turned it on.
   "Repeat that."
   Blair threw a pair of jeans at his head.
   "Seriously, Jim, I won't be gone that long, and I really do need to follow this up. Hell, these people may even have practical advice for you."
   Jim sighed. He was tired of the jungle.
   "In that case," he pointed out, "I should go along."
   Blair acquired a bad case of nerves the moment those words left Jim's mouth.
   "Uh...no, big guy. I don't..." he dropped the shirt he was folding, picked it up, and tried again. "I don't think you should."
   Jim took the shirt from him, and set it in the backpack.
   "Why is that?" he asked, trying to sound reasonable.
   "Because...well, you shouldn't take any more time off work."
   "You know I have a lot of time in lieu coming to me. Besides, Simon doesn't let me do anything important when you're not around, as you've said many times." He treated Blair to a nasty grin. "Try again."
   Blair swallowed hard.
   "Okay, look...for all I know there's a sentinel down there right now. Based on our experiences, you can't possibly think it's a good idea for you to enter his territory."
   "Or hers," Jim said absently. Blair waved his hand, at once conceding the point and declaring it irrelevant.
   "I'll just go down there, talk to these people and--"
   "I don't like it."
   "Jim, I'm sure that if there *is* a sentinel there, the tribe's shaman has things under control. You know, like me with you, except the bonus that this shaman probably knows what he's doing."
   "Okay," Jim said, "I won't come into the tribe's territory. I'll stay back a little, but I want to be there in case..."
   "In case what? You know perfectly well that I'm competent to do a field study, especially when it's just one week, and somebody else is leading it. There is no reason for you to come to Paraguay."
   Jim looked down at the pair of jeans which was lying across his lap. Blair sat beside him.
   "Except," he added gently, "that we haven't been apart for more than a few hours since I died."
   "Sandburg, you've always needed adult supervision. This has nothing to do with...what happened."
   "Did you know that most shamans are given the position only after going through a ritual death? It's a pretty consistent thing in shamanistic cultures."
   "What makes you think I want to hear about that?"
   "I'm just saying, maybe it was a rite of passage we needed to go through and now we can move on. I'm not going to... I'll be gone for six days, and then I'll come home with some insect bites and a sunburn. No worries."
   "My senses..."
   "You'll be fine. Just keep a low profile, let Simon chain you to a desk, and do all that meditation stuff I showed you. You only worry about your senses when you want me to stick around for other reasons."
   Jim opened his mouth, then realized that silence was his best response. He hadn't known that Blair saw through that maneuver, and he didn't have a back- up plan.
   He felt Blair's lips brush his cheek, and he didn't even know he was going to speak until the words came out of his mouth.
   "I won't sleep the whole time, Blair."
   Blair was studying his face, watching him with rare gravity.
   "No," he said finally, "Maybe not. I may have some trouble myself. But if we do this and survive, I think we'll break through the dependence. I mean, I *like* being around you, and I *want* to be around you most of the time, but we shouldn't *have* to be together. Not, you know, 24-7. We're just kinda broken right now, that's all. I think this will make it better."
   Jim pressed his face into the place where Blair's neck curved into his shoulder and took a deep breath.
   "When do you leave?"
   "Tomorrow afternoon."
   Jim slid his arms around Blair's waist.
   "Pack in the morning. I want to sleep tonight."
   Blair agreed to that easily, probably because it meant deferring work.
   "Upstairs or down?"
   When Blair said that, Jim could see his point. They'd always been close, but these little sleepovers...
   Well, it was practical. Sure, Jim could see a shrink about this, and he could explain it. You see, there's this person, he's attached to me in ways I don't completely understand, and I'm pretty sure he's the only person in the world who can keep me sane. He died a while back, and he came back to life, but it scared me so bad that I still have nightmares, and I get very nervous when I don't know exactly where he is. So, doctor, what do you recommend?
   He *could* do that, but the way Jim saw it, it was simpler just to invite Blair to sleep next to him from time to time. If touching Blair to make sure he was all right, and showing him a little affection to make sure he knew he was loved were enough to settle Jim's nerves, what the hell did he need a shrink for?
   Jim gestured at the mess beside them.
   "You really want to clean that up before going to sleep?"
   "True enough."
   Jim smiled. At least he'd spend tonight being vexed by wild curls constantly in his face, and that was the best he could salvage from this.

*****
I love you even when I don't know I'm doing it, and dismiss it out of hand 'cause I don't even know I'm doing it."
   -The Tragically Hip, Impossibilium
*****

   When Jim first started having trouble with his senses, one doctor had suggested that Jim might be having migraines. He'd explained that migraines could cause a number of sensory problems, including hypersensitivity to light and sound, hallucinations, even sporadic blindness. And in addition, for most people, a migraine meant a terrible headache.
   The week Blair was gone was what Jim privately thought of as one of his migraine times. His senses were shifting from out of control to practically non- existent, and his head ached constantly.
   It was the sixth day, Blair would be back in a few hours, and Jim was considering the pros and cons of handcuffing Blair to his arm when the headache suddenly went away. A second later Jim's senses snapped back in line and he heard a familiar voice coming from the break room one floor away.
   "H., did I ever tell you about the Darwin awards?"
   "No, Hairboy," Brown answered. "You give those out?"
   "No, not me. It's an annual award given posthumously to the person who did the most for the gene pool by removing themselves from it. Can I assume that machine took your money and stiffed you on your Snickers?"
   "Damn *right*."
   "Same thing happened to the Darwin award winner from a few years ago, except with him it was a can of Coke. You know what he did?"
   "No, Professor, what did he do?"
   "Same thing you're doing now, except eventually his arm got caught and he rocked the machine while he was trying to get it out. I should mention that this story is all conjecture, based on the janitor finding this guy's crushed body under a vending machine the next morning. Theory is he just pulled the machine right over onto himself."
   "So, you're saying I should get my arm out of here."
   "Yes, I am."
   Jim smiled to himself as he headed for the elevator. Blair never could resist an opportunity to lecture.
   "What about my chocolate bar?"
   "H., I am going to show you something now, and if you tell Simon or Jim that I did this I will call you a liar and make you regret it."
   "I understand."
   "Good. I need a wire coathanger."
   When the elevator reached his floor, Jim got out and stood beside it, out of sight of the break room. What good were sentinel senses if you couldn't at least choose your times to make an entrance?
   "Okay," Blair was saying, "you see this? There's usually a line of foam between the door and the interior, and it's just wide enough..." Jim heard the sound of metal against metal, and dialed his hearing down a bit. "... to put a coat hanger through."
   "And then you poke the bar down?"
   "Oh, sure, if you're an *amateur*," Blair said, and Jim could practically see the shit-eating grin on his face. "But watch this."
   Jim entered the break room in time to see Blair hook one of the metal coils with the end of the coat hanger and pull it up. Obediently, the coil rolled over, dropping H.'s Snickers bar and bringing the next one to the front.
   "Pretty slick," H. said approvingly.
   "I hope you aren't planning on committing a misdemeanor with that thing," Jim commented. "Here in the middle of a police station and all."
   Blair didn't look up, intent on extracting the coat hanger, but his smile grew. He was perched on top of the vending machine, hair falling down to hide his face, a dark tan visible on his arms.
   "Jim, c'mon," he said, "I can't believe you accused me of that. I use this power only for good."
   He freed the coat hanger and looked at Brown, who was already most of the way through his chocolate bar.
   "No need to thank me, H.," he teased, "It's all in a day's work."
   "Thanks Hairboy," Brown mumbled around his snack as he left the break room. Jim went to the vending machine as Blair swung his legs down to jump, and held out his hands. Blair put his hands on Jim's shoulders and let Jim lower him carefully. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he wrapped his arms around Jim and hugged him tight.
   "Your plane wasn't supposed to be in until tonight," Jim said, resisting the urge to nuzzle the soft curls, zone out on Blair's scent.
   "I know. I caught an earlier flight."
   Jim let him go.
   "You learn anything?"
   As soon as the words were out, the few inches between them might have been a mile.
   "I...I don't think so."
   Jim wanted to touch him, remind him that they were together in this, but this wasn't the place, and Blair didn't look welcoming.
   "All right, Chief, you can tell me about it over dinner. I'll even buy."
   Blair smiled--nervously.
   "I really hate to pass that up, but I'm kinda tired. I was thinking home and bed."
   Jim frowned.
   "Okay."
   Blair cocked his head, looking like a terrier puzzled by the vagaries of human beings.
   "You look pretty tired yourself."
   "Had a miserable week," Jim told him. He pressed Blair's shoulder, then went off to find his coat.

*****
The beautiful lull, the dangerous tug.
   -The Tragically Hip, Gift Shop.
*****

   Jim gave him plenty of time. Time to unpack, time to wind down, time to fall asleep. When eleven o'clock rolled around and Blair's breathing still hadn't evened out into sleep, Jim knocked on his door.
   "I know you're not sleeping, Chief. You might as well come out here and talk to me."
   After a moment's silence, Blair answered him, muffled by a pillow.
   "Jim, I'm really ti--"
   "You're wide awake, and you're avoiding me. Don't you even want to know how my senses were?"
   Another few minutes, then the door opened. Blair went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
   "How were they?"
   Jim looked his partner up and down. He did look kind of tired.
   "They were out of control."
   Blair rubbed his eyes.
   "Okay. We have to figure out how much of this dependence is a legitimate sentinel thing, and how much is just you having a temper tantrum and your senses joining in."
   "I do *not* have--"
   "Save it for someone who hasn't lived with you for years. How were you emotionally?"
   Jim went into the kitchen and set a mug beside Blair's.
   "Nightmares," he said. "I didn't sleep much."
   Blair nodded, then waved a hand at the faucet.
   "What is that thing?"
   "It's a filter," Jim told him, hoping that would be the end of it.
   "They're on every tap in the loft. Even the shower."
   "Yeah. The smell was bothering me."
   Blair removed the filter from the kitchen faucet and looked inside. Jim waited to be caught in his lie.
   "This is just carbon," Blair said, peering into the filter. "I guess if the water smelled off, this would do something for that ... but mostly what it does it remove chlorine."
   Jim shrugged, trying to look unbothered by this line of talk.
   "It was irritating me."
   Blair had the particular distant look he got when he was working on a problem and that problem was Jim.
   "I bet."
   Thankfully, he left it at that. Jim watched as Blair attended to the kettle, amazed by how quickly the sun had turned the hairs on his arms to something near blond. There were highlights in his hair, too, lightening the dark brown. A few strands were almost red. Jim shut his eyes before he zoned-out -- he was not in the mood for a scolding.
   The feel of heat near his arm coaxed his eyes open. There was a cup of tea waiting on the counter, a blend that Jim actually liked. He smiled at Blair, acknowledging the favour.
   "How was your week?" he asked. Blair took his tea to the couch and settled in before answering.
   "Missed you," he admitted. "I had nightmares. And I was worried about your senses."
   Jim sat next to him, aware that Blair still hadn't told him anything about the tribe he'd gone to meet. It didn't seem useful to push right now.
   "Is it true what you told Brown, about those Darwin awards?"
   Blair laughed.
   "Oh, yeah. I can't believe I never told you about them. I never told you about the JATO guy?"
   Jim shook his head, curious in spite of himself.
   "No. JATO guy?"
   Blair sipped tea.
   "This is a good one. Might be apocryphal, mind you, but it's a good story anyway. Some guy out in Arizona or Nevada got hold of a JATO and strapped it to the back of his car. I guess he wanted to beat all land speed records for a `78 Fairlane or whatever the hell he was driving. Some boat of a car."
   Jim stared at him.
   "What *happened*?"
   "Amazingly, it did work the way he intended. I mean, it propelled his car. They figure it was about three seconds ...or, several miles ... before he managed the hit the brakes."
   "What did he think that was going to do?"
   Blair grinned.
   "I guess he thought it was gonna stop the car. And in the long run -- the long run being about six seconds in total -- he was right. They found the car stuck in a cliff, a few miles up. When the highway patrol first saw it, they thought it was an airplane crash."
   "Jesus. Some people are stupid."
   Blair tucked his legs under him and turned to face Jim.
   "That's the part I don't get. He was smart enough to boost a JATO, which can't be easy. And then he managed to strap it to the back of his car so that it would move the car and not just fly off. I wouldn't have the first idea how to do that."
   "Good," Jim said simply. Blair shook his head.
   "That's not the point. He wasn't totally dumb. He was just possessed by this one terrible idea."
   Jim nodded.
   "A scientist." Blair laughed and set his tea down. He leaned against Jim, and Jim felt relaxed for the first time since he'd dropped Blair at the airport. He slid an arm around Blair's shoulders and hugged him.
   "You ready to sleep now?"
   Blair looked at him, and Jim saw something in Blair's eyes that he couldn't stand. Panic.
   "Yeah," Blair said quickly, moving away from Jim.
   "Chief ..."
   "I have an early class tomorrow," Blair said. "I really should go to bed. Good night."
   He disappeared into his room before Jim could say another word.

*****
I've been shaking all night long, but my hands are steady
   --the Tragically Hip, Three Pistols
*****

   It was the middle of the night when Jim woke, and he was being watched. Blair was in the yellow chair, shivering in a thin robe, his arms wrapped around his legs for warmth. Jim took the blanket he'd been sleeping under and held it out to Blair, who shook his head.
   "No, it's okay."
   He didn't look as if anything was okay. He was rocking a little, eyeing Jim the way he did spiders and significant drops.
   "I think," Jim commented, "that I sense another vision quest coming on."
   Blair laughed, without humour.
   "Uh, no. I don't think so."
   Jim stared right back at Blair until he spoke again.
   "Jim, I take it this," he indicated Jim's makeshift bed on the couch, the throw pillow still hugged to his chest, "is because I didn't come upstairs tonight."
   Jim couldn't say he understood the point of that question. Obviously he'd wanted to stay close. Blair had been gone for days.
   "I had a miserable week," Jim said again, since Blair clearly hadn't been listening the first time.
   Blair looked at the floor.
   "We're going to have to do something about this," he said softly. "I'm not sure what, but I'll think of something. It's ridiculous that I can't leave for one week without causing this kind of problem." He raised his eyes to Jim's. "Have we really not been apart for a week since we met?"
   He seemed puzzled, genuinely confused, and Jim thought about it. Hospital stays, undercover work, final exams ... there were times they didn't see much of each other, but they always managed to touch base. A phone call, at least.
   "No," he said finally. "I don't think we have."
   Blair nodded.
   "When you went on that weekend trip..."
   "Chief, how many times am I going to have to say this? I don't -- I like having you around. Just because I want a breather sometimes ..."
   "I know. It's the same when you're living with anybody, you need to have time to yourself. I get that. I mean, I have an office you're hardly ever at, but I'm in your office all the time. Where's your private space? You don't have any. And that's rough, because in a lot of ways you're a private guy. I totally see where you needed that weekend, and it was stupid of me not to see it at the time." He shook his head, frustrated. "I'm not talking about going off for the weekend. I'm saying, don't you find it *weird* that we haven't been apart for as much as a week in over three years?"
   When Blair said it that way, Jim could hardly deny it. He couldn't think of anyone, not friends or siblings or married couples he could say that of. Hell, even children went away to summer camp. He let it show on his face, just how lost he was.
   "I guess, maybe, it is a little strange. But..."
   He didn't know how to put it. It had seemed, pretty much from the day they met, that Blair should be with him. For the senses, to begin with, because they were out of control.
   And later, once the senses were easier to manage ... by then he'd already found out that Blair liked basketball games and camping trips and Chinese food. It had been so long since Jim had had anybody to do things with, to go places with, that the idea was nearly alien to him.
   Once he got used to having Blair at his side, the luxury of intimately known and undemanding company had worked its way into Jim's blood. Always someone to turn to with a joke or a question. Always two against the world, should the world become a problem. And yes, always someone else to worry about and accommodate, but Blair was pretty easy-going most of the time, and those occasions when he dragged Jim to ... well, monasteries or whatever ... those usually turned out to be interesting, if nothing else.
   Besides, it was important to keep learning new things. Jim half suspected that he might have been getting old before Blair forced him to rejoin life.
   He was absolutely certain that he'd been chronically lonely, so far gone that he hadn't even known what he was missing anymore.
   "I think ..." Jim tried again, "basically, it's never been a problem. Yeah, there are days when I don't want to see you. Usually on those days I don't want to see *anybody*. I know you're the same way, because when you are, if I'm around, you take it out on -- oh, close your mouth, Blair -- save it for someone who hasn't lived with you for years."
   Blair smiled and kept his mouth shut. Jim went on.
   "I'm more comfortable when you're around. Even before ... what happened. It's easy. I think we're both happier when ... look, Chief, if we didn't even notice how much we're together until a few minutes ago, it can't have been a problem. So why are we worrying about it?"
   "Jim, we've been sleeping in the same bed."
   Blair's voice was harsh, almost angry. Jim tried to disguise the hurt he felt before Blair could see it, but he doubted he was doing much of a job.
   "I didn't think," he said, pushing the words through his throat, "*that* was a problem, either."
   Jim wasn't oblivious. He knew what other people might say if they knew how often he and Blair held each other in the upstairs bed, if they saw the touches and in particular the casual kisses they gave each other for comfort. But other people were not an issue in the loft. Jim had thought Blair felt the same way, that they would do whatever it took to stay sane, and the hell with how outsiders might see it. What was Blair worried about?
   "I..." Blair paused to alter his approach, then went on. "It never occurred to me that it might be."
   There was a war going on in Jim's head, the trenches dug deep and nobody willing to budge. One side was screaming at him to close the distance between him and Blair, to remind him that their heartbeats were a call and response and this connection could not be ignored. The other told him firmly that Blair did not want to be touched, that there was more than one kind of distance, and that placing his hands on that shivering body was no way to make a bridge.
   Before he even knew he was going to speak, the words came out.
   "For god's sake, Blair, would you just tell me what happened in Paraguay?"
   Blair shut his eyes and curled into his chair as though he wanted to sink into it completely.
   "I don't want to talk about it."
   "Yeah, Chief, I got that," Jim said, his patience slipping. "I figured that out. I'm asking you to tell me anyway."
   "Jim, it's not import--"
   "You are the worst hypocrite I have ever met. You know that? What do you say when I decide not to tell you about my dreams? There is no *way* you would accept this behaviour from me."
   Blair didn't reply. In fact, he was silent for so long that Jim was startled when he finally did speak.
   "For as long as they can remember, they've had sentinels in their tribe. Not consistently, just whenever one happened to be born. And all their sentinels had partners. Sometimes it was the shaman, but usually ... someone had a knack for the job, and they'd get stuck with it." He smiled to soften his words. "Uh ... so to speak."
   Jim smiled back, easily. He knew Blair didn't feel stuck. Reassured, Blair continued.
   "Seems to have been the same sort of deal that we have, helping to keep the senses in line ... and the same sort of connection."
   "That sounds like confirmation that we're doing the right thing, Chief. I don't see what's got you so upset."
   Blair shifted uncomfortably.
   "When I heard that they had a history of sentinels in their tribe, I thought I'd try to find a pattern of inheritance. It's sometimes hard to pin that down with tribal societies, because they have more relaxed ideas about family relationships. You know, `brother' can mean an actual brother, or a cousin, or just a member of the same tribe."
   Jim nodded. That had confused him, at first, when he started living with the Chaopec.
   "Did you figure it out?"
   Blair made a face.
   "No, not really." He stopped, and was silent again. Jim could see him turning something over and over in his head, the way he did with his hands when he'd found something in a store and couldn't make up his mind about buying it.
   The moment of decision was obvious, Blair lifting his head to meet Jim's eyes in a way that was oddly defiant.
   "I *did* figure out what was giving me so much trouble."
   "And?"
   "I was looking for direct inheritance. You know, there'd be this sentinel, and he'd form a pair bond ... marriage ... and they'd have a bunch of kids and one of them would be the next sentinel."
   "It was more complicated than that?"
   Blair smiled. He didn't look happy.
   "Yeah, you could say that. It may actually have been direct inheritance, for all I know, but I couldn't trace it, because the sentinels never formed pair bonds."
   Jim considered his divorce, what Carolyn would think of this if she knew.
   "They were just too territorial and paranoid to marry?" he joked. Blair glared at him.
   "I *still* don't think that's funny." He shut his eyes and lay his head back. "No, I guess a few of them did marry. I mean, two or three out of *dozens* that this shaman told me about. They married their partners. But other that than, going down through hundreds of years ... nothing."
   "So you figure sentinels aren't the marrying kind?"
   That wasn't really news to Jim, who didn't date much and didn't tend to miss it. When he saw Sandburg getting ready for another in his endless series of Friday night excursions, he felt relieved that he didn't have to go anywhere. The women who inspired Jim to that kind of effort were becoming rarer as the years rolled by.
   "I don't know," Blair said edgily, and Jim was surprised. Something about this was under Blair's skin in bad way.
   "Well, if most the them didn't marry ... wait a minute. How did they pass the sentinel thing along?"
   "They had children. Apparently the tribe had an understanding that it was important for the sentinel to have descendants, so the women were ... accommodating. Or the men, if the sentinel was a woman, but unfortunately most of them weren't."
   "Unfortunately?"
   "Would've made lineage easier to trace. Anyway, the sentinel would have enough kids that, in most cases, one would turn up somewhere in the next generation."
   "Why didn't the sentinels just get married?"
   There was a look in Blair's eyes that Jim remembered from years earlier, when Blair and his violent fear of heights were about to be airlifted on a stretcher below a helicopter. Translated into words, it would come out something like, *Please, please tell me that you are not actually going to make me do this*.
   Jim answered it the way he had back then, with a look of his own. It said, *Yes, Sandburg, I am. Learn to live with it.*
   Blair moved in his chair again, and Jim realized that he would've been pacing if he weren't huddled against the night air.
   "They weren't allowed to."
   "What? I thought you said that a few of them married their partners."
   "Yeah. *That* was allowed."
   "So why..." Jim was stalled by an inability to phrase the question. Blair ignored him and went to the kitchen for a beer. He set a bottle down in front of Jim on his way back to the yellow chair.
   "Do you think it's bad to deliberately get falling down drunk at three in the morning when you have to work the next day?"
   Jim opened his beer.
   "Usually, but not always. If you're gonna start this late, though, you shouldn't waste time with" he held his bottle up "this stuff."
   Blair nodded.
   "That's true. I wasn't thinking." He took a swallow of beer. "They ... ... they were worried that if the sentinel formed a pair bond, he wouldn't do his job. You know, with the stress, the hours, the social detachment ... how well do most cop's marriages work out?"
   Jim shrugged.
   "It depends."
   "But the odds aren't good. A lot of cops quit the force to save their marriages." He was running his fingertips over the bottle, nervous energy tracing patterns in the condensation. "It's worse for a sentinel. You know how much trouble your senses can be."
   That went without saying, so Jim said nothing.
   "And you also know," Blair went on, "that a sentinel can choose to give up their senses. You did it when you were afraid of the responsibility, and when you were pissed off `cause you thought I was leaving."
   "And scared," Jim put in. "If you'd bailed on me at that point ..."
   Blair drained his beer.
   "Angry and scared are the same thing with you," he said as he set the bottle down. He looked at the fridge, speculating. Jim grinned.
   "Were you serious about--"
   "I don't know." Blair looked from the empty bottle to the fridge and back a few times before relaxing and shutting his eyes. "I guess not."
   Jim was tired of watching Blair shiver. He sat beside the chair, opening the wood stove, and started a fire. Once it was going, he shut the glass doors and asked his next question, careful not to look at Blair.
   "What if the sentinel met someone he wanted to marry? Couldn't he just quit?"
   "Sure. In theory."
   "What does that mean?"
   "One of them tried that -- this was quite a while ago. The tribe ... executed his partner."
   Jim turned to face him.
   "*What*? Why would they do that?"
   Blair took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
   "`Cause he wasn't doing his job. The sentinel wasn't supposed to want to quit, and he wasn't supposed to want to get married. He was supposed to be out there, on the perimeter of the territory, watching over the tribe."
   "With," Jim added softly, "one person to keep him sane."
   "And he was supposed to like it that way. Besides working with the senses, watching for allergies, they were supposed to make sure sentinels were ... content."
   Jim watched the fire.
   "Were they content?"
   After a long pause, Blair stood up.
   "How the hell should I know?"
   He went to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

*****
Violins and tambourines, this is what we think they mean. It's hard to say; it's sad but true -- I'm kinda dumb, and so are you.
   --the Tragically Hip, Last of the Unplucked Gems
*****

   Jim was not the most sensitive guy in the world, not socially speaking ... but even he could tell that this was no time to invite Blair upstairs. Which was a shame, because Jim was hit and miss with words. His best shot at comforting the kid was always touch.
   Jim didn't know if Blair was really going to sleep, but he figured that he would be up for awhile in any event. He finished his beer and considered the problem.
   When Blair got emotional about a sentinel thing, it was usually because their friendship was involved. In this case, he seemed to be drawing parallels between their partnership and the situation in Paraguay, though Jim couldn't see how. Their tribe didn't even know sentinels existed -- there was no way the city of Cascade was going to be interfering in their personal lives.
   He and Blair were free to get involved with anyone they liked, free to marry any woman they wanted, free to put up a fucking white picket fence if they so desired.
   Of course, arrangements would have to be made. This sentinel/shaman thing was a commitment. They had to stay close. And ever since Alex had taken it upon herself to give Jim an education, he had understood that his desire to have Blair around was pretty fierce.
   Still, if the situation came up, they'd work it out.
   Jim glanced up at his bed and hated the size of it, the endless empty space. He wished he knew someone he could call to come fill it, just for the night.
   Shaking his head, he got up to clear the bottles away. It had occurred to him that Blair was a sort of temporary spouse, in some ways ... someone to make the loft a home until a wife came along. He'd made a joke about courtship on that first morning, when he'd come downstairs and found Blair cooking breakfast for him.
   And it was possible that they shared Jim's bed out of more than a simple desire to prove that they were both still alive. It could be that, even in the middle of the night, even while he slept, Jim had lost all tolerance for loneliness.
   He was tired, suddenly, and shunned his bed for the couch. After all, the only person he felt comfortable disturbing at three in the morning had just shut a door in his face. And besides, even if he could find a woman at this hour, her hair wouldn't smell of chamomile, and she wouldn't whisper to spirits in her sleep.

*****
Eliminate the obvious and it's right here, right here in front of us.
   --the Tragically Hip, Apartment Song
*****

   It was 7:30AM. Sunlight was drifting down to the couch, Jim was covered by the blanket he'd left on the floor, and Sandburg was gone.
   On his way to the shower, Jim tripped over Blair's laptop. Cursing, he set it on the coffee table and pondered the wisdom of early morning university classes. Neither the students nor their professors seemed equipped to handle them.
   In spite of his lack of sleep, he made it out of the shower and through breakfast in good time -- thanks in part to the bagels and orange juice Blair had thought to set out for him.
   [He forgets his laptop, but this he remembers. Typical.]
   It *was* typical, and that thought convinced Jim that it wouldn't hurt to stop by Rainier on his way to the station.
   Not wanting to leave the computer in Blair's office unattended, Jim brought it down to the lecture hall where Blair's Anth 101 class was in progress. Jim peered in through a partly open set of doors and noted that the turn-out wasn't bad for an 8AM class. About fifty kids
   [Girls mostly. Big surprise there.] were gathered around the stage, some perched on the edge of it, while Blair sat cross-legged on a table and told them about the significance of cargo cults.
   It was familiar territory for Jim, who'd heard the whole story during a stake-out some months earlier. He suspected he'd heard most of Blair's lectures at one time or another, delivered in the guise of casual conversation. When finals next came around, Jim was planning on stealing a copy of the exam, writing it, and slipping his exam booklet in with the others to be marked. He was confident he'd do pretty well.
   What really struck Jim was how much Blair's actual lectures resembled conversation. As he met the students' eyes, laughing with them, telling half the story with his hands, he might have been in the truck with an audience of one.
   Of course that "audience", that was the point. It had taken months of living together before Jim had seen Blair when he wasn't performing. He'd been startled by the quiet, contemplative person who sometimes took over Blair's body. He'd been so pleased by the sound of Blair forgetting himself in laughter that he'd joined in. And he'd sensed something serious and old running through Blair, throwing the kid's affectations into relief as the smoke and mirrors they really were. A facade of eccentricity hiding something artlessly strange.
   Mostly Jim felt privileged to be given so much of the truth by someone who spent his life in disguise ... but a lot of the time, when he held Blair's thoughts and beliefs in his hands, he didn't have the first idea what to do with them.
   He considered all of this while standing very still with a computer over his shoulder, trying to get up the courage
   ["I'm really wishing you had your senses back."
   "All right, man, what's bugging you?"
   "What's *bugging* me?!"]
   to ask Blair was what wrong.

*****
The medicine man started seeing red. You think the snake just dreams up the poison in its head?
   --the Tragically Hip, Opiated
*****

   "Shouldn't you be at the station?"
   "That's not responsive," Jim answered, pleased with himself. He'd seen Blair write that on an exam once and filed it away for future use.
   "But..."
   "I asked you what was bothering you. I can see that you've got us all wrapped up with this tribe in Paraguay, but I can't figure out why."
   Blair glared at him.
   "I appreciate you bringing my laptop, but you could've left it with the department secretary."
   Jim leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. He enjoyed Blair's forays into surliness. They made him feel almost sociable by comparison.
   "Look around you, Sandburg. We're in the middle of a modern city in the United States of America. Not only do they not care who sentinels choose to date, if you told the citizens of Cascade what a sentinel *was*, most of them would laugh in your face. Nobody is going to execute you for not doing your job if I get involved with someone. Nobody will even notice."
   Blair's expression could not have been called friendly.
   "Jim, you are some piece of work."
   "Would you like to elaborate on that?"
   "No. I have a department meeting in ten minutes."
   Jim sat up and put his hands on his knees.
   "Okay. We'll talk later."
   "Gonna have to find me first," Blair muttered. Jim bit his tongue to keep from laughing. Apparently there was no point in that, because Blair saw the amusement in Jim's eyes.
   "It's not funny. I don't--" He stood, pulling a stack of papers into his arms. He made it as far as the door before turning to give Jim his final words on the topic.
   "You're the one who said it to me, Jim. Can we pick and choose what appeals to us in belief systems and just ignore the rest? I keep thinking about the spectacular results we've had, doing rituals that invoke pagan gods."

*****
It was handsome at the auction ... oh, but when we got it home, it grew up into something we could no longer contain.
   --the Tragically Hip, Pigeon Camera
*****

   Jim knew things had improved a little as soon as he entered the stairwell and smelled supper cooking upstairs. Granted, it was Blair's turn to cook, but he'd still expected to come home to a dark and silent loft.
   Blair was watching the door when Jim came in. Nervous. Jim hung up his coat, dropped his keys in the basket, and put his arms around Blair.
   It reminded Jim of stepping into water, the way Blair flowed into his arms. He held on tight and hid his face in Blair's hair. Years ago he'd teased Blair about it, told him he should cut it, but he hadn't known at the time how good it felt. He hadn't been familiar with the way it picked up the complicated scent of the loft.
   "I'm sorry," Blair said. "I shouldn't have taken this out on you."
   Jim let him go.
   "I turned into a wolf," Blair continued softly. "We both know that. I had a vision that came true. I fell thirty feet and walked away without a scratch. And I don't even *remember* most of it."
   "You have," Jim informed him, "about ten seconds to rescue that stir fry."
   Blair stared at him for a moment. Once he managed to process the words, he went to the store and concentrated on dinner. Jim set the table, keeping an eye on Blair.
   It was Jim's understanding that Nero Wolfe never discussed business at meals, regardless of how pressing the matter might be. Somewhere along the line, without it ever being discussed, he and Blair had adopted a similar rule. Not about police business, that they brought to the table without a second thought. But the sentinel business, and in particular the curious facts surrounding Blair's shamanhood ... it had been months since they'd tried to eat and discuss that at the same time.
   As he finally pushed back from the table, Jim was silently grateful for Blair's habit of cooking when upset. When he was waiting for the results of his qualifying exam, Blair had turned the loft into a bakery and asked Jim from beneath a coating of flour if he thought the behaviour was neurotic. Jim had mumbled around a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie that it was a fine way to deal with stress, and Blair should cook as much as he liked.
   They cleaned up efficiently, timing perfected by long practice. Jim was about as happy as Blair was anxious. He was enjoying a vivid awareness of how much he liked his home. He realized he was humming when Blair shot him a look, his thoughts
   ["You are some piece of work."]
   perfectly clear. Jim laughed. Blair leaned against the counter and pitched the dishcloth into the sink, still glaring. Jim picked it up and set it neatly over the spout.
   "I want you to think about who's saying this to you -- you need to relax."
   Blair went into the living room, rolled over the back of the couch, and landed with a "whuff" as air frantically escaped the cushions. Jim strolled over to the balcony doors.
   "Okay," he said. "Out with it."
   "The problem with us," Blair said, "is that really weird shit happens, we see unbelievable things ... and as soon as we can, we just forget about it. Like it never happened."
   Jim was studying the night sky.
   "That's the problem with *you*, Sandburg. I haven't forgotten anything."
   "Really. You seem pretty ... unconcerned."
   Jim came around to sit on the coffee table. Normally he didn't consider it a chair, he'd even given Blair a house rule to that effect, but it was the best way to look Blair in the eye.
   "What do you think I should be concerned about?"
   "Why we do things. How much choice we really have. And..." he took a deep breath and placed a hand on Jim's leg. "This. Us."
   Jim just looked at his weird partner, contemplating the intensity of those wide blue eyes, the ridiculous length of the lashes, and the sensation of for once having that brilliant but scattershot mind focused entirely on him.
   "I'm not concerned."
   Blair shook his head in impatience and disbelief.
   "We're finding out that, rather than having our destiny in our own hands, we may have everything laid out for us by some ancient Mexican fire god, and you're not concerned. This scares the hell out of me!"
   Jim wasn't sure how to explain it.
   "Blair, I..." he shrugged helplessly. "If I were in charge of my destiny, how would I be running it? Where would I be? I can tell you thing -- if it weren't for this sentinel business, if I'd had any choice at all, I would never have so much as spoken to you. That's what scares the hell out of me."
   Blair let his head fall. His hair tumbled forward. Jim carefully pushed it back to the nape of Blair's neck, caught it in one hand, and used the other to tilt Blair's face so that he could see Blair's eyes.
   "I'd feel better if you didn't look so unhappy about our having met, Sandburg."
   Blair smiled then, rewarding him, and Jim relaxed.
   "I'm not unhappy about it, Jim. You know I'm not."
   Jim moved his hands to hold Blair's face, thumbs resting against his cheekbones.
   "We have a good life here. Whatever happens, if one of us gets involved with someone, we'll figure it out. Don't buy trouble."
   Blair's eyes were suspiciously bright. He blinked and tears fell.
   "Sure. You'll have no trouble explaining to your wife why you invite me into your bed every time I have a bad dream.
   Jim ran his fingertips over the tears.
   "Okay," he said, keeping his voice light. "I admit, any woman either of us got serious about would have to be pretty understanding."
   "Jim, I grew up on communes and I can tell you, no matter what people say, *nobody* is that understanding."
   "We'll adjust if we have to." Jim monitored him carefully, his heartbeat, the way he breathed, the scent of his skin. Blair leaned back, away from Jim's hands, but Jim's senses followed him easily.
   [Why do you bother to lie?]
   "You're holding out on me, Sandburg. You still haven't told me what's really bothering you."
   "I can't believe you don't get it."
   "Tell me."
   Blair was as far back into the couch as he could get, an animal at bay. Jim knew he should move away, but he kept his ground. Blair's voice shook as he spoke.
   "Jim, that tribe makes the sentinel psychologically, maybe even physically dependent on another person. He is controlled through *addiction*, Jim, the same as if they were giving him heroin to keep him in line. I thought maybe it was just this tribe's custom, but then I remembered about us, how often you touch me, how we keep sleeping in the same bed, and when I got back here and found out we can't even be apart for a *week* ... it's happened to us, too."
   He was breathing hard, fighting back tears. Desperate to comfort, Jim reached for him. Blair scooted over the back of the couch and backed up against the kitchen island.
   "Don't touch me!"
   "Chief, settle down. I've stopped. I'm staying right here. Just calm down."
   He waited until Blair was sleepy-eyed, showing the exhaustion of someone ill-used by adrenaline.
   "Blair ... I just want to ask you two things. Okay?"
   "Yeah, okay. What?"
   Jim gestured at the loft, their home.
   "Before you went to Paraguay ... were you happy here?"
   "Yes."
   He answered without hesitation, too tired to fight.
   "Okay." Jim made his voice gentle. "And the way we've been with each other, did it feel right to you?"
   "Jim, that--"
   "Just answer me. Please."
   Blair shut his eyes.
   "Yes. But that's not the point."
   Jim spread his hands.
   "Okay, Chief. What do you think is the point?"
   Blair's eyes opened slowly.
   "Neither of us had any choice."
   Jim took a step toward him, and Blair held up a hand.
   "Don't. I have to go out for awhile."
   He was gone before Jim could think of what to say.

*****
Either it'll move me or it'll move right through me ... fully and completely.
   --the Tragically Hip, Fully Completely
*****

   Blair must have heard his approach long before Jim made it to his side, but he didn't give any sign until Jim was nearly even with him on the sand.
   "I thought it was understood that I wanted to be alone," he said, his voice almost hidden by the surf.
   "Oh, it was," Jim agreed. "I thought I'd go for a walk on the beach. Coincidence."
   Blair rolled his eyes, but he wasn't angry. Jim put an arm around him and Blair leaned back into the warmth. It was amazing what an hour in the cold could do for Blair's desire not to be touched.
   "I realize," Jim said, "that I didn't have the greatest upbringing in the world. But the way you were raised, I think there are some things you never had a chance to learn."
   Blair sighed.
   "Don't lay into Naomi again."
   "I'm not. How can I explain this to you?" He thought about it, rocking Blair absently. "Blair, do you know what I think when you ruin yet another toaster or use all the hot water or wake me up by rolling in at three in the morning and tripping over your own backpack?"
   "That you have a gun?"
   Jim smiled.
   "Only on my worst days. Mostly I think, `well, you can't choose your family.'"
   Blair looked down.
   "Jim, that's sweet, but--"
   Jim slid an arm around his waist and hugged him.
   "You know that cat Taggart found last week? Ordinary cat, as far as I can see, but he's crazy about the damn thing. Spent two hundred bucks at the vet's, calls home at least once a day to check on it ... can you explain that?"
   Blair shrugged.
   "He likes cats."
   "No, I don't think so. Just this cat. See, it's the same with people. You think our friendship is ... tainted or something, because we had no choice, but you're wrong. That's just how love *is*. You *can't* choose your family, and if I had understood that before I would never have married Carolyn."
   Blair was looking intently at the ocean.
   "This is different, Jim. If you have some kind of addiction ..."
   Jim laughed.
   "I shouldn't have to tell you this, Chief, but that's also how love is."
   When Blair spoke again, after a long silence, there was humour in his voice.
   "Did I mention the sentinels and their partners were almost always sleeping together?"
   Jim dropped his chin onto the top of Blair's head, for once amused by Blair's frustrating habit of handing out information a byte at a time.
   "Anything else you think I should know?"
   Blair laughed. He sounded as though a weight had lifted.
   "I'll keep you posted."
   Jim released him, then grabbed the sleeve of Blair's coat and tugged gently in the direction of the truck.
   "When *I'm* cold," he said, "it is definitely time for us to go."

*****
the big snake pit, we dance to the edge of it, and we laugh and we laugh `cause we ain't seen the half of it
   --the Tragically Hip, Everytime You Go
*****

   Jim knew something was coming. He knew it when he got home and found Blair staring at his laptop, not typing, not scrolling down the pages, just staring. Perfectly still.
   "You got one of those 3D pictures on there, Sandburg?"
   Blair looked up quickly, as though someone had poked him, and barely remembered to smile.
   "Um ... I'm ... reviewing something."
   "Riiiight." Jim let it go for the time being and busied himself with the groceries he'd brought home. Ten minutes later, Blair still hadn't moved. Jim wandered over to the couch.
   "Don't zone out on me, Chief."
   He glanced at the screen, but there was nothing to see -- Blair had blanked it with a series of keystrokes on Jim's approach. Jim sat down and looked at him. Blair closed his eyes.
   "We have to talk," he admitted. Jim shook his head at the tone.
   "This sounds like fun."
   Blair shut the laptop.
   "You have *no* idea."
   Jim put a hand on the computer's case. It was warm, almost hot. He'd be willing to bet that Blair had been using it all day.
   "What was it you didn't want me to see?"
   "My diss."
   Jim leaned back against the couch, exasperated.
   "For god's sake, I said I wouldn't--"
   "Jim ..." Blair cut him off. "It's finished."
   "Oh." Jim sent that to his brain for processing and waited for the results. "What happens now?"
   Blair barked out a laugh.
   "Good question."
   "No, I mean, what do you ... how does this go?"
   After a few deep breaths, Blair answered him.
   "I hand it in ... then I have to defend it."
   "What does that mean?"
   "A group of people will read it and figure out everything that's wrong with it--"
   "So," Jim teased, "this could take awhile."
   Blair was kind enough to smile.
   "Yeah. Anyway, they throw all this shit at me and I have to respond, you know, defend my paper. Then they'll either reject it out of hand or give me instructions for what I have to do to have it accepted."
   "Such as?"
   He shrugged.
   "More research, clearer explanations, patch up whatever they perceive as holes." He tapped the cover of the laptop, drumming on it nervously. "Since my topic is pretty unusual and my sample size is kind of small, there's a decent chance they will just reject it ... although, if that were the case, you'd think my advisor would have said something before now."
   "Advisor?"
   Blair set the laptop on the coffee table and stood. He moved toward the balcony, out of striking distance, and Jim did not doubt for a second there was a reason for that.
   "Everyone who's working on a thesis has an advisor they meet with every few weeks or so. The advisor checks on their progress, makes sure they're proceeding along acceptable lines ..."
   The thing that amazed Jim was how surprised he *always* was by Blair's extensive second life. He should have been ready for this sort of thing, but somehow he never was.
   "You've been working closely with some other person on this paper the whole time?"
   "Not that closely. Mostly I went in and fed him lines about why I hadn't started my diss yet."
   Jim felt a strange satisfaction, knowing that this mysterious advisor was also on the receiving end of Blair's lies.
   "You ever resort to the truth?" he asked mildly. A smile ran across Blair's mouth.
   "No. I was never that desperate." He leaned against the wall. "I didn't tell him much. He doesn't know who you are. He knows you're a cop, because I had to explain where I was all the time, not to mention why I kept winding up in the hospital."
   Jim looked away. After a moment, he felt Blair's hands on his shoulders.
   "Jim, if my thesis is accepted, we're going to have some problems to deal with."
   That was true. It had always been true, but Jim had enjoyed the luxury of not thinking about it.
   "What if your thesis isn't accepted?"
   Blair's hands moved gently against his skin, massaging the tense muscles.
   "Then *I'm* going to have some problems to deal with. Nothing for you to worry about."
   Jim let his head fall forward, and Blair ran his fingertips down the back of Jim's neck.
   "Seriously, Chief, what happens if they don't accept it?"
   Blair took a moment to answer.
   "Well ... I took longer on this than I should have. I'd be under some pressure to come up with a new thesis topic and turn in a dissertation, if I decided to do that."
   "You're not going to give up on getting a doctorate."
   Blair said nothing. Jim turned to face him.
   "You are *not* going to give up."
   "It would mean a lot of time. I'd have to really concentrate on it. And I'd have to do field work, which would mean going away for awhile. Maybe a long time." That odd little smile crossed his face again. "Unless I really *did* write about closed societies."
   Jim shrugged.
   "Write about whatever you want. We'll work something out." He turned around again and Blair continued taking the tension away. "They'll accept your thesis," Jim said drowsily. "If they don't, I'll go down there and show them my gun."
   Blair's hands stilled.
   "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not sure we want them to accept it."
   "Yeah," Jim said, moving his shoulders. "We do. You're trying to prove something here, and you've spent years of your life on it. No matter what you say I know how important this is to you. Nobody asked you to stop the neck rub, by the way."
   As the gentle movement started again, Jim felt a soft kiss brush the top of his head.
   "I don't want to make a mess of our lives."
   "Okay, okay. So I don't have to resort to reading it, why don't you tell me exactly what's in that dissertation."
   "That's a lot of ground to cover, big guy."
   "You didn't use my name, right?"
   "Of course I didn't use your name. I mean, I did have to file your identity with the university, but that's confidential. The thing is, Jim, as far as your identity goes, anyone who wants to know that just has to ask themselves where I've been for the past three years. I've been living in your house, for Christ's sake."
   "Maybe nobody will care. I mean, it's not as if a whole lot of people are following your work."
   Blair laughed. There was a definite edge to it.
   "Thank you, Jim. You always know just what to say."
   "You know what I mean. The CIA might care, but chances are good they already know about me. Other than that ..."
   Blair pressed Jim's shoulders.
   "I know I joked about a book and movie and everything, but I decided a long time ago that I wasn't going to do anything like that. You like your privacy. Hell, I like my privacy."
   "Blair, nobody is going to notice your dissertation."
   "Maybe," Blair said. "You could be right. But if anyone does ... if someone at the university mentions my diss to a friend who's into the paranormal, this could be all over the net within hours. And then, of course, there are the guys at the station."
   Jim laughed.
   "Doctoral dissertations are not high on their reading lists, Sandburg."
   "Not normally," Blair agreed. "But you forget, they think this is about their closed society. You'd be surprised the lengths people will go to read something they think is about them."
   Jim tensed, and Blair took his hands away.
   "Or," he amended, "maybe you wouldn't. Anyway, you see my point."
   Jim did see it, but it sounded far-fetched to him.
   "How are they supposed to get their hands on your thesis?"
   "It'll be available at the U. The library keeps copies of all master's and doctoral dissertations."
   Jim rubbed his temples.
   "They wouldn't have the first idea--"
   "Have a little respect for your colleagues," Blair cut in. "They may not have our arrest record, but they *are* detectives. They'll find it."
   "All right." Jim couldn't really argue with that. "I guess we'll have to live with it. I don't really think it'll be that much of a problem, once people get adjusted."
   Blair climbed over the back of the couch and sat beside Jim.
   "I think you're going to get hassled. But let's move on to another topic -- my ride-along."
   Jim looked at him.
   "Your ride-along is a joke. It expired after ninety days and you're still my partner. Why would that change now?"
   "Because whenever someone thinks to question it, Simon can come back at them with, `he's working on a dissertation'. He can't say that once I have my doctorate."
   "He can say you're doing research."
   "For how many years?"
   Jim put a hand on Blair's leg.
   "We'll deal with that when it happens."
   The sun was setting, and the loft was nearly dark when Jim spoke again.
   "You write about that tribe in Paraguay?"
   "Yes."
   "About Incacha?"
   "About what happened to you in Peru. And a few of the things he said here."
   "What he said to you?"
   Blair sighed.
   "No. I left all the shaman stuff out. I thought it would look a little weird."
   Jim nodded.
   "You write about her?"
   "Yeah."
   "*All* of it? What happened to you?"
   Blair's leg tensed as though he was about to stand up. Jim tightened his grip, keeping him still.
   "Blair?"
   "Yes, all of it. It was relevant."
   "So you've been writing about our ... partnership."
   Blair settled back against a throw pillow.
   "To some extent. I wrote about the sense work, and some things about the ... connection. But I didn't think it was anyone else's business that we're ... close."
   It probably was other people's business, as much as any of it was. It was likely that this eerie closeness was part of the sentinel picture, something Blair ought to include. But there was no way Jim was going to argue. If the kid finally believed there were some things he shouldn't compromise in the name of science, Jim could get behind that.
   "Is this gonna embarrass me?"
   Blair rested his head against Jim's shoulder.
   "Probably, but it shouldn't. You really did misunderstand what you read. Also, you weren't ready for how cold a scientific paper can sound. The difference between most anthropologists' papers and their personal journals ... *that's* what I should let you read."
   "Endless notebooks of you rambling? Yeah, Sandburg, next time I'm that hard up for entertainment, I'll let you know."
   Blair laughed and Jim held him close. This was what Blair wanted, they'd made a deal right from the beginning, and most importantly, life was too short to fight about it.
   "We knew this was gonna happen someday," Jim told him. "Hand it in. We'll take the rest as it comes."

*****
Born ready for you, armed with will and determination, and grace, too.
   --the Tragically Hip, Grace, Too
*****

   On the theory that Blair wouldn't be thinking too clearly the night before his defense, Jim had planned to cook supper and look after a few small chores, forestalling the disasters Blair would undoubtedly cause if he tried anything which required even a fraction of his attention.
   It didn't work out that way. When Blair got home from his office hours, Jim was in the middle of the living room floor with his head in his hands, trying to remember what he'd been doing on the floor in the first place.
   He was dimly aware of Blair's backpack sliding to the floor, of soft curses as Blair moved around the loft, drawing curtains and turning off lights. The next thing that reached him was fingers brushing coolly over his temples, and a voice turning from curses to a soft chant.
   The sound didn't hurt. It wasn't long before the pain fell away completely. Jim drifted for awhile, completely at peace, before the voice called him back.
   "Okay, big guy, that's enough."
   It took him a moment to focus on Blair, who was kneeling in front of him, pupils huge in the dark room. Jim doubted Blair could see him all that well.
   "You feeling better?"
   Jim moved his jaw and felt it pop.
   "You could make a good living curing headaches, Chief."
   Something made Blair smile. Jim resisted the urge to ask him to share the joke.
   "I don't think my technique would work for most people."
   "I've been meaning to ask you, Sandburg," Jim said, reaching back to turn on a lamp. "What exactly *is* your technique?"
   "We don't need to talk about that, do we?" Blair asked, blinking in the sudden light. "It worked, you feel better, everything is--
   "What the hell did you do?"
   Blair moved to sit beside Jim and rested his back against the couch.
   "When you get these headaches, it seems to be because you're so worried about something that you forget to manage your senses. All that input attacks you, and it builds up until you feel like your head is going to fly apart."
   "That doesn't answer my question."
   "I'm getting there."
   "Yeah, and I'm getting old."
   Blair grinned.
   "I didn't think it was polite to mention it. Okay. I'll try to make this fast." He slid down along the front of the couch, and Jim was jealous of the kid's flexibility. Apparently that was the advantage of not being a muscle-bound goon, as Sandburg would probably put it.
   Blair was looking at him, eyebrows raised. Jim shook his head in answer to the unspoken question.
   "Nothing. Keep talking."
   "I figured the key to the problem was getting you to focus on something, so that you'd automatically filter everything else out. So now when you get your headaches ... I make you zone."
   "You *WHAT*?"
   "It works, right? And I can bring you out, no problem. I wouldn't do it if I thought I'd have trouble bringing you out. Tru--"
   "Don't say it!"
   Blair's wounded puppy look was really something. Jim rolled his eyes, resigned.
   "I do. I trust you. Okay?"
   "You *should*. How often have I been wrong?"
   Jim would not have previously guessed that anything could reduce him to a childish fit of giggling, but he would have been wrong. He rolled on the floor, shaking, tears streaming from his eyes. After awhile, he heard Blair join in.
   "You have," Blair choked finally, "like, *no* respect for me."
   Jim got himself far enough under control to speak.
   "That's not true," he said, wiping at his eyes. "I think you're a very gifted comedian."
   Blair didn't say anything, just took a half- hearted swipe at Jim. It stung, and Jim was pleased. The kid was finally learning how to hit.
   It occurred to Jim suddenly that he'd been in terrible pain less than an hour ago. It seemed nearly impossible. He took a good long look at his witch doctor.
   "Bring me the phone and some menus," he said. "I'm buying you dinner."

*****
If you feel scared, a bit confused, I gotta say this sounds a little beyond anything I'm used to.
   --the Tragically Hip, Scared
*****

   "The question is, what was bothering you?"
   Blair was curled around a mug of tea, watching the fire while Jim put the leftover food into the fridge.
   "Nothing is bothering me, Chief."
   "I don't know about that. You got that headache for a reason. You always do."
   Jim shut the fridge door harder than was necessary.
   "People get headaches. There's no reason to make a big thing out of this. *Nothing* is BOTHERING me."
   Blair nodded.
   "Yeah, that was pretty convincing. You wouldn't happen to be worrying about my defense, would you?"
   Jim hadn't intended to bring that up.
   "I worry about you when you're in the middle of a shoot-out. I'm confident you can handle a roomful of academics. Don't confuse my distaste for some of your methods with a lack of respect for your ability."
   Blair's smile was wide and genuine, unreserved.
   "That's really nice, Jim. You should send that to Hallmark."
   "Damnit, Sandburg ..."
   Blair stopped smiling.
   "I didn't say you were worried about *me*"
   "What is that supposed to mean? If anything, I want to get this over with so we can *stop* worrying about what'll happen next. If you want the truth, my guess is that nothing will happen."
   "Like hell you're not worried. You're worried about all the things I am and a few more of your own, but you won't admit it because you think swallowing this is your penance for what happened with Alex."
   Jim slammed his hand down on the counter, and felt a numbness that told him there'd be a bruise later.
   "You are not a shrink, Sandburg -- and just because you wrote some fucking paper about me does not mean you know *any*thing about me! You think you can dissect me like some goddamned science project and--"
   Blair was crossing to him, slowly, not angry or even upset, and Jim was so surprised that he stopped speaking. He was silent as Blair took a bag of vegetables out of the freezer and came to him. Gently, carefully, Blair took Jim's hand and turned it over, set the bag in his palm.
   "My knowing you," he said calmly, "has nothing to do with the paper."
   He tilted his head back to meet Jim's eyes, and Jim could happily have bitten off his own tongue.
   "I'm sorry."
   Blair shook his head.
   "Don't be. This is an understandable response to being the subject of a scientific paper. At least you're being honest."
   Jim looked at his hand, tentatively closing it around the bag. It didn't feel too bad, not yet.
   "Jim ..." Blair pressed his shoulder. "Is it that other people are going to read what I wrote about you ... or that I wrote it in the first place?"
   He hadn't allowed himself to feel it, to even admit it existed, but all of the hurt and anger hadn't gone away. Since that first fight, he'd kept it. It was a deformed child from one of those cheap horror novels, locked in the attic and never acknowledged.
   He looked Blair in the eye and laid it out for him, finding his way unerringly to the heart of it.
   "I trusted you."
   ["I call it a violation of friendship and trust..."]
   Blair touched his face.
   "I know. I told you -- you *should* trust me. Whatever I wrote for this paper, I was just doing my job. I meant it when I said I would throw it away if that's what you wanted." Confusion clouded his eyes for a moment. "I actually love you more than I love my work." He shrugged, smiled nervously. "That's never happened to me before."
   Jim was a little paranoid, sure. It was down in black and white, in fact, part of that fucking dissertation. And he knew Blair to be a liar. The first thing the kid had ever said to him was a lie.
   He was also sore about the thesis, and who could blame him? Blair could talk about scientific terms and necessary detachment and how Jim just misunderstood `til the cows came home, but Jim knew what was in that paper. His flaws, detailed without compassion for anyone to see.
   But there was no way, even paranoid and raw and aware of Blair's dishonesty, that Jim could not recognize what Blair was offering him tonight for what it was -- the absolute truth.
   Jim put his hand over Blair's.
   [I actually love you more than I love my pride.]
   "This has nothing to do with Alex. You and I had a deal."
   Blair's smile became steadier.
   "A lot has happened since then. It's fair to renegotiate."
   Jim shook his head.
   "I don't want to. I want you to get your doctorate. That thesis, it's like ... training wheels. We needed it when we started out, but now it's in the way. I want it done with."
   Blair traced his fingers over Jim's hand.
   "What if they reject it?"
   Jim couldn't stop himself.
   "Would you be offended if I asked to burn it?"
   It was five long heartbeats before Blair started to laugh. Jim hugged him, running his hands over Blair's shoulders and back. It was easy to feel the tension, even while he laughed. When he stilled, Jim pushed him away enough to look at him.
   "You should calm down," he said. "And stop worrying. You'll be fine."
   Blair's eyes were scared and amused at once.
   "You know me better than that. I can't calm down."
   Jim ruffled his hair.
   "You should sleep."
   "I'm not gonna be able to sleep tonight."
   From the beginning, there had always been something about seeing Blair frightened that was intolerable to Jim. He felt a panther moving under his skin, the one that leapt for moving helicopters and always stepped between Blair and danger, the one that screamed like a banshee when Blair was in pain. It made Jim's decisions for him at times like these.
   "Yes," he said, placing his hands on Blair's face. "You are."

*****
Do I want to? With all that charm? Do I want you? Twist my arm.
   --the Tragically Hip, Twist My Arm
*****

   Jim ran his thumbs along Blair's jawbone as he pushed back the thick curls framing Blair's face. He grabbed a handful of that silk, not hiding how much he loved it, and tugged gently. Blair let his head fall against Jim's hands. His breathing deepened, and his eyes shut for a moment as Jim slid his fingertips along Blair's scalp.
   [Hedonist], Jim thought fondly. The painful tension was already beginning to fade from Blair's body, replaced by a fine tremor that had the feel of electricity. [Yeah ... no wonder you love my touch. You were made for me.]
   He ran his tongue along Blair's lower lip, and Blair opened his mouth with a gasp. Jim smiled.
   "You know what's going on here?" he asked, his mouth brushing against Blair's as he spoke. Blair sighed
   "Oh, yeah..."
   "Do you want this?"
   Blair's head fell back again, Jim's mouth sliding down his throat.
   "Oh, god, Jim, you could've asked me that thirty seconds ago." He brought his head up and met Jim's eyes. Jim thought there might have been real heat thrown by the clear intent in that look. Blair gave him a wonderfully feral smile. "Too late now."
   Jim wished he had a picture of Blair this way, something he could show to all the people who thought he and Blair were so different.
   [I'm not the only throwback in this room.]
   He leaned in again and breathed the words into Blair's mouth.
   "I love you."
   Blair drew the breath in, and Jim suddenly remembered the taste of chlorine, the unending nightmare of forcing air into Blair's lungs. As Blair kissed him fiercely, Jim caught him with a hand at his back and another curved around his thigh, roughly pulled him close.
   When the kiss broke they were nose to nose, Blair's eyes almost black with passion. Jim knew without question that none of Blair's strings of women had ever seen this. They all thought Blair was adorable -- angelically pretty, unfailingly sweet. Shallow and harmless.
   God, they were blind.
   One corner of Blair's mouth curved up, just a flash of a shameless grin before he returned the kiss. He wasn't shy about it. Jim felt his t-shirt being pulled out of his jeans, hands sliding up underneath. Somehow he managed to place his hands on Blair's arms and gently push him away.
   "Slow down," Jim whispered, leaning in to kiss Blair's cheek. "I said I was gonna make sure you could sleep. I don't intend for you to pass out on the kitchen floor."
   Blair laughed. He still looked wild.
   "You think you're gonna make me pass out?" Slowly, he slid an arm around Jim and ran his fingers down Jim's spine. Jim swayed forward, and Blair became serious. Jim could swear those dark blue eyes were glowing. Blair moved closer, tilting his head back, until his mouth was less than an inch from Jim's.
   "Do it," he said.
   Jim had Blair pinned to the kitchen island before he remembered that he'd wanted to do this slow. He backed away and offered Blair a hand.
   "Upstairs," he said. "Come on. You like my bed."
   Blair took Jim's hand and let Jim pull him upright. He had one of those expressions particular to him, this one a hybrid of irritated and entertained. Jim had the familiar feeling of wanting to kiss him, followed by an intense satisfaction. He could kiss Blair all he wanted now.
   "Never had you figured for a tease, Ellison," Blair told him. Jim ran a hand down Blair's hair.
   "I'm not teasing you, Chief. I promise." He kissed Blair's forehead. "Go upstairs."
   Blair considered that for a moment. Then, typically impulsive, he darted in to give Jim a sweet, chaste kiss.
   "Okay," he said. "Upstairs is good."
   He moved fast. Jim took his time, enjoying the sight of Blair waiting at the top of the stairs.
   Jim had seen a tv show once about a future where, in the interest of equality, people were forced to handicap themselves to cancel out their natural gifts. He hadn't enjoyed it. It reminded him of the way Blair tried so hard to take the edge off his intelligence and beauty and drive. He did it so that people would like him, not be intimidated by him.
   [If they're scared of the jungle], Jim thought as he stood on the last step and looked into Blair's eyes, [they should stay away].
   He studied Blair's features, sharply outlined in the faint light coming from the loft windows. [Stop acting, Blair.] He touched Blair's face. [You're too beautiful to hide].
   He slid his arms around Blair's waist. Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and Jim climbed the final step, closing the distance between them.
   "You're way too calm," Blair observed, leaning back almost lazily into Jim's arms. Jim smiled.
   "I'm not that calm."
   Blair was still studying him, passion forced to the background.
   "You've been thinking about this."
   [Every time you raised your head from your books and your glasses made you look so *smart*. Every time I got into the shower and smelled your shampoo. Every time you fell asleep on the couch. Every night. I've been hugging my extra pillow, but it's yours if you want it.]
   "You could say that."
   Blair's eyes softened. He kissed Jim, gently.
   "Love you," he whispered.
   Jim placed his hands on Blair's shoulders and slowly pushed away the flannel shirt. For the first time, Blair seemed nervous. He was shaking, just a little. Jim inclined his head and kissed Blair's shoulder through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
   "We don't have to do this."
   Blair placed a hand on Jim's face. Jim kissed his palm, and Blair smiled.
   "Yeah ... see, we're all *over* each other. I mean, who are you kidding?" He stroked Jim's cheek. "Don't worry about it. If I didn't want to do this, I wouldn't. I don't let you push me around."
   That was true. It was one of the reasons Jim loved him.
   Jim shrugged.
   "Okay, then. If you're sure."
   He tore Blair's t-shirt off. It was easier than he'd thought it would be. Blair stared at him.
   "Thank you *very* much. I liked that shirt."
   Jim grinned at him.
   "Would you feel better if you tore mine?"
   Blair started to laugh.
   "You're an animal, you know that?"
   "Sometimes," Jim admitted, sliding a hand down Blair's hair and pulling him close.
   Blair settled in against Jim's chest as Jim carded his hair and ran his hand farther down, to the soft skin of Blair's shoulders and back.
   They managed to undress each other without anything else being torn, and Blair hugged Jim tight. They stood very still, getting used to this, and Jim happily pressed his face into Blair's shoulder. Arousal blended nicely with Blair's scent.
   The sound of birds came to the loft, a whisper of movement in the canopy of a rainforest.
   "Do you hear that?" Jim breathed into Blair's ear.
   "Yeah."
   Jim leaned back to look at him.
   "Are they speaking?"
   Blair shut his eyes.
   "They say we have a covenant that ends tomorrow ... but if we want it, we can form a new one tonight."
   Jim ran kisses along Blair's jawline.
   "We want it."
   Blair tilted his head so Jim could reach his throat.
   "Yeah ... but I don't think this one has an expiry date."
   Jim touched his tongue to the hollow of Blair's throat.
   "Good."
   He straightened, and Blair lifted his head to meet Jim's eyes. Jim smiled.
   "Witch doctor punk," he said.
   "Throwback," Blair countered.
   Jim leaned in until Blair shut his eyes, carefully brushed his lips across those pretty lashes.
   "Blair, if you're supposed to be some kind of a bribe for me," he said, his breath catching as Blair's eyes opened again, "I am getting one hell of a sweet deal."

*****
It's been a long time running ... it's been a long time coming ... it's well worth the wait.
   --the Tragically Hip, Long Time Running
*****

   Jim could tell it was strange for Blair, being picked up and carried to the bed, being laid back against the pillows so carefully, as though he might shatter. Jim didn't know if Blair had ever slept with another man and he wasn't going to ask...but it was obvious that no one had ever taken care of him before, not the way they should.
   As he straddled Blair, careful to keep from crushing him, Blair smiled and took Jim's face in his hands.
   "I swear to you Jim, I'm not gonna break."
   Jim kissed him.
   "Indulge my protective instincts, all right?" When Blair returned the kiss, Jim gently nipped at Blair's tongue. "Remember," he said, looking into startled blue eyes, "I *did* say you'd be passing out at some point tonight."
   Dark red traced Blair's cheekbones, and Jim was stopped dead by the knowledge that he'd actually made the kid blush. It might have been the most erotic thing he had ever seen.
   "If you zone out right now, Jim..."
   "I'm trying not to," he said, "But if I do, you have to admit this is convenient."
   Jim was dismayed by the scientific curiousity in Blair's eyes.
   "You ever zone out during sex before?"
   "Funny...all of a sudden, I don't remember any of the other times I've had sex," Jim said absently. "They must not have been important. Now shut up."
   "I can do that."
   He didn't have any choice, because Jim kissed him. Hard.
   There was a part of Jim -- not a part he was proud of -- that wanted to make a point with all of this. He wanted to see just how far Blair would go to prove his loyalty. He wanted to make it impossible for Blair to claim he was objective.
   The cold words, the clinical appraisal of Jim's character, it all gave Blair too much power. Jim wanted some of his own back.
   It was those beautiful eyes, watching him with complete trust as Jim pulled back from the kiss, that kept Jim from playing rough. Even here Blair had all the power, and Jim couldn't even bring himself to care.
   As Blair reached up to run his hand over Jim's hair, it seemed perfectly natural that Blair would be able to transform into a wolf, talk with spirits, dream of the future. Jim could *see* magic as a soft glow tracing Blair's skin, and he understood how crazy it had been to think that he could control this.
   Nothing in Jim's past had prepared him. He had no experience with loving a frenetically intelligent grad student, or wanting a shaman so badly that his skin ached everywhere their bodies didn't touch.
   He couldn't make Blair behave, couldn't stop wanting him, couldn't walk away. All he could do was hang on and hope that Blair wouldn't hurt him.
   Blair must have seen something in Jim's expression change, because he became as careful as Jim had been. Jim moved closer, encouraging him to touch. After a long silence, Blair spoke so softly that Jim almost missed it.
   "Jim?"
   "Yeah?"
   "I know you don't want me to start running off at the mouth here, and believe me, I don't want to interrupt, but -- stop that, okay? J-just for a second ... I gotta ask you, do you have any idea what you're doing?"
   Jim stopped what he was doing and looked Blair in the eye.
   "Do I seem inexperienced to you?"
   Blair's eyes were huge.
   "Are you serious?"
   "Sandburg, this is not the time..."
   "Okay, okay. Just ... that's good, because I really, *really* have no clue. I mean, I have an *academic* understanding, but--"
   "Where were you when I told you to shut up?"
   Blair treated him to a sunny smile.
   "Anything else you'd like me to do?"
   "Yeah," Jim said, moving in on his prey. "Pay attention. I'm going to give you detailed instructions."

*****
Looked up to the Lord above and said, "Hey, man, thanks."
   --the Tragically Hip, New Orleans is Sinking
*****

   [This is intimacy,] Jim thought as he held Blair against his shoulder and brushed damp curls from his face. [This is passion. That paper means nothing next to this.] Blair was breathing deep, his lips slightly parted, and Jim decided that if anyone tried to ruin this moment, he'd shoot them.
   "Jim?" Blair murmured, more than half asleep.
   "What?"
   "You didn't make me pass out."
   Jim smiled and kissed Blair's forehead.
   "I'll get you next time. Go to sleep."

*****
Quickly, follow the unknown with something more familiar. Quickly, something familiar.
   --the Tragically Hip, Courage
*****

   The first thing Jim was aware of when he woke was the sound of Blair in the kitchen. The second thing made him laugh, so loud that Blair heard him and moved to the foot of the stairs.
   "If you're awake, you might as well come down here," he said. Jim could hear that he was smiling.
   He went downstairs shaking his head and saw that his sense of smell had been right. Down to the last detail, breakfast was the same as the one Blair had cooked after his first night in the loft.
   "You know, Chief," he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, "these courtship rituals..."
   Blair shrugged.
   "You can't argue with success."
   Jim sipped his coffee and said nothing. He knew enough about anthropology to see that an anthropologist might have a lot invested in that point of view, and he didn't have the resources to even begin talking Blair out of it.
   Instead, he went around the island, lifted Blair right off the ground, and kissed him.
   "Your defense is at ten?"
   Blair nodded. Jim stroked his hair.
   "Nervous?"
   Blair looked down.
   "Yeah. A little." He raised his eyes to Jim. "Not as bad as I was."
   "Be ready by nine-thirty and I'll give you a lift."
   Blair took Jim's hand and pressed it gently.
   "You don't have to. I can--"
   "Chief, I really don't like the idea of you driving this morning. Think about everybody else on the road."
   Blair grinned.
   "Yeah ... at least everyone in Cascade already knows to stay our of *your* way."
   Jim gave him a gentle shove toward the table.
   "Eat. It'll keep you from talking."
   They didn't say much for the rest of the meal ... even on the ride to the University, Jim listened to the news as Blair took deep breaths and looked out the window. When they stopped in the parking lot, Jim got out and stood beside Blair.
   "Want me to walk you in there?"
   Blair laughed.
   "It's not my first day of school." He put a hand on Jim's arm, a casual touch for a public place. "I'll be fine."
   Jim nodded.
   "That's what I keep telling you. Look, Blair..." He paused. He had trouble with words sometimes, and this was hard figure out. "Remember when you made me go talk to my father?"
   Blair smiled.
   "Jim, I didn't *make* you do anything."
   "We can discuss that some other time. The thing is ... all my life, I felt like a freak for having these senses. I covered them up because I thought they were something I should hide. My father made me feel that way, and I know now that he was just trying to protect me, but it always seemed like a dirty secret to me." He placed a hand on Blair's face. "When I saw him again, I looked him right in the eye and told him that my senses were a gift. I knew I didn't have anything to be ashamed of. See, Blair, *you* did that for me. I don't care what those people in there think of your thesis. What do they know about it? They can't possibly begin to understand the value of what you've done." He kissed Blair, not caring who saw. "That said," he added, "my offer to show those people my gun stands."
   Blair was looking at him with an expression that did nice things for Jim's heart.
   "I love you," he said.
   "Yeah," Jim said, smiling. "On my good days, I know that. It's not your fault I'm paranoid."
   He turned to get into the truck, paused after he'd opened the door.
   "Call me when you're ready," he told Blair, "and I'll take you home."
   Blair nodded, gave him a nervous smile, and went inside.
   Jim drove away, not nervous, not fretting, not worried about the future. What he was mainly thinking was that living with Blair was one new experience after another. In all his varied and interesting history, he didn't believe he'd ever made love to a PhD before.