Blair Sandburg sat contemplating the front door to the loft, imagining the hallway beyond.

The microwave's digital clock taunted him.

Eight Twenty.

If he picked up his backpack and coat, and walked out that door right now and got in his car, skipped the drive-through espresso - the cost was exorbitant anyway - and took the cut-off through the business section, he'd be on time.

Blair stood, resolved.

And felt a pebble in his left tennis shoe. Quickly sitting, he meticulously untied the shoe in question and removed it. A single finger rooting around proved the small stone to be a master at hide-and-seek. Somewhere they had a flashlight, a small little one Jim used when camping. Slightly limping to the closet, Blair hoped this wouldn't involve a trek to the basement where the bulk of the camping gear was stored.

He would if he needed too, though, because feet were important. And stone bruises hurt.

Jim had purchased a new fishing tackle box a few months ago, converting the old one into a receptacle for those odds and ends which could save a weekend camping trip from disaster. Waterproof matches, batteries, strong spools of waxed cord, and an impressive industrial sewing kit complete with an awl rested within. The mini-flashlight lay tucked inside the top tray slot. Blair couldn't help himself. He inventoried the box's contents, a fond smile on his face.

Jim was so... Jim.

Oh, yeah, the pebble.

Returning to the sofa, Blair sat and picked up the tennis shoe with his good left hand. The flashlight was the perfect size. He pulled back the shoe's tongue. "Say `ahh'." Snickering, he clamped the size eight and a half between his knees and looked. Where was it? He even lifted the corners of the padded cushion. Nothing. No stone.

Maybe it had been a crease in his sock.

He'd change socks.

Fifteen minutes later, Blair wore a new pair of socks, carefully smoothed out over both feet. He slowly slipped into his tennis shoes, standing for a minute to check for any sign of discomfort.

Perfect.

He sat and re-laced his shoes, clumsily working the lace ends into the eyelets with his bandage swathed right hand. When the final bow was tied to his satisfaction, Blair smiled, enjoying a moment of accomplishment.

See, he mentally argued with those who had patently told him the road back would be arduous, Blair Sandburg is fine.

Nine thirty-five.

"What?" Blair stared in disbelief. There was no way, no freaking way.

A sudden jingle of keys startled him out of his stunned daze. Blair retreated three steps, his eyes frantic for a weapon, anything within reach. Oh God, the lock was turning! They had keys to the loft! Just as he thought his heart had gathered enough momentum to self destruct like a stick of dynamite on a short fuse, Jim walked into his home.

"Blair?"

"Jim!" Blair collapsed sideways into the sofa, his left hand over his chest. "Give me a heart attack, man."

Jim wore his heavy coat, protection from the December weather. He casually lobbed his keys, not looking to see he'd bulls eyed the basket. "Forgot my wallet. What are you still doing here? Class canceled?" Tugging off his leather gloves, he looked around the loft, eyes pausing on the open closet door, the tackle box still resting on the floor.

"I... had a crease in my..." Blair faltered, his face suddenly hot. He closed his eyes, turned his head and hid his face against the sofa's back. Time to get out the human-sized trashcan. He was so pathetic, he stunk, an empty husk, worthless.

"Hey," Jim said, his tone soft as he sat beside him.

Blair flinched when Jim's hand cupped the back of his head, sliding down until cool fingers massaged his neck, finding each tight knot and diligently working them out. Blair knew they didn't have time for this. It was time for classes, lectures and office hours. Time to help Jim at the station and do all the stuff he did before...

Back before he had been strapped to that damn chair. Before he felt those jolts of pain rip through his body and shred his sense of security, his strength, the very core of his spine.

After a few minutes, Jim stood, the movement leaving a huge vacuum. Blair lifted his head to wearily track Jim's path to the cordless phone. The cop punched two buttons and lifted it to his ear, still red-tipped from the brisk weather. Blair let his head fall back, eyes closing again in despair. Two numbers, that meant Jim was calling the station, because it was too early for lunch and other than his office at Rainier and all their favorite takeout places, that only left the station.

"Hey, Simon, something's come up. Can I cash in some of that comp time you're always demanding I use?"

They'd been home for twelve hours, staying late yesterday at Dry Falls with Buck Stevens. Blair hadn't wanted to leave, but Jim had work and Blair had classes. Simon had driven them home on his way back from Spokane so they wouldn't have to return by train. Most of the trip had been a blur. Blair had commandeered the backseat and spent the entire time asleep. Once home, Blair entered the loft dubiously, afraid its comforting familiarity would be gone. It wasn't. His room was as he'd left it. His books, his bed, his desk, his pictures greeted him from their exact same location.

The loft was still safe. And feeling safe had become Blair's most favorite thing at the moment. He sank even further into the cushions, toeing off his sneakers and drawing both knees up to curl into a protective ball.

"Yeah, okay, then. Thanks... sure, I'll tell him."

Rustling sounds of a coat being removed and the clunk of a heavy handgun being set down on the side table precluded the sofa being jostled again and the warmth returned, this time behind him. Jim was so close he could hear the air rushing in and out of his lungs. Blair let his head fall forward, bumping his forehead against bony knees.

"It takes time," Jim offered reasonably.

Yeah, whatever.

"I promise, Chief, it gets better," Jim said after another moment of quiet.

No. It was too much. They took it all from him. A dismal future of hiding in the loft obsessed his thoughts. It wasn't reasonable, but he couldn't make the image go away. Who was he kidding? He wasn't strong like the man setting behind him.

Fiery tears bubbled up against his eyelids. A muscle in his chest shuddered, releasing a gust of air that sounded treacherously like a sob. He shoved the heel of his good palm into his mouth, forgetting for a minute that his roommate was a sentinel, a man who could smell tears and hear silent cries.

Another sob escaped just as Jim reached around, easily turning Blair one-eighty on the cushion with strength that never stopped amazing the younger man. Blair didn't know he was shivering until he felt the warmth offered. Curled next to his friend, socked feet resting on Docker-covered thighs, Blair felt stupid. He wanted to ask if the door was locked. He didn't want anyone to know how much he wanted this, how much resting his temple on Jim's shoulder helped to push back the fear.

Jim was speaking again, but Blair couldn't make out any of the words. It was weird, like the two of them had stopped communicating on one level, finding a more basic way to relate. Still biting his palm, hot tears christening both cheeks, torso twitching to fight back emotion, Blair wondered at the steady thudding of Jim's powerful heart against his ribs. Blair's shoulder exactly fit under Jim's armpit and the weight of Jim's left arm draped over his back was a solid anchor against the fierce winds of unknown.

Jim gently tugged on Blair's wrist, removing the makeshift gag and filling the loft with gasping noises. Blair tried to form words from the outpouring confusion, hoping Jim would understand him, but it was useless. He wasn't making any sense. Frustrated, he clutched his damaged fingers into a fist and pounded his leg.

Jim captured the bandaged hand and held it fast. The fierce pain of his burn injury dissolved the odd language barricade between them, allowing Blair to clearly hear Jim's words again.

"... to me, Partner. One step at a time, okay? There's no rushing some things. It's like this burn. You have to allow time for all the injuries to heal. You need this. You need to let your brain heal. You can't just jump back into the game like nothing happened. I'm not going to let you. No one's going to push, okay? You catching any of this yet, Sandburg?"

"Jim," Blair gasped with supreme effort between the wretched gasps.

"Hey... hey, enough." Jim tightened his arm, gently squeezing Blair closer. "Just relax, let go and relax. We'll talk when you calm down."

And Blair did.

Like a rubber plug pulled, the pent up emotions flowed. The tears fell. He didn't try and stop them. He might as well attempt halting the earth's rotation around the sun. Blair leaned on his sentinel and gave into the rollercoaster feelings within.

If Jim said this was important, then it must be.

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