Disclaimer: The Sentinel belongs to Paramount, ect., no copyright infringement is intended and so on. You know that by heart already so let's cut the crap, right?

Summary: Jim receives another "Cop of the Year" honor...and it goes uphill from there; m/m, h/c, violence, angst, betrayal

// indicate thoughts

Montserrat's warning: It's gonna be a dark story, maybe disturbing to a few people. I received a lovely comment on my last story that I shouldn't dare to go "soft" again. I won't, promise!! Jim's bad, Blair's bad, the bad guys are bad. Need more encouragement to run away? Oh, of course, Jim and Blair are in love, too.

Feedback? Uhhm, yeah, sure, I'm prepared ;-). All kidding aside, it would be really appreciated.

A bunch of thanks and bear hugs to Ula for the terrific beta job! That was cool, very cool. You were always there when I asked for help. Also a heartfelt thank you to Dr. Kimura <g for the medical details, Linda S. for the strange questions I asked at times, Silke for telling me honestly part 14 sucked (and Ula for saying it was okay <g), Leila for always finding new words of encouragement for me, Rike for NOT reading until it was finished, Manu for not EVEN thinking of starting to read it before 'The End' was typed and so on. I can be a pain in the a**, kids. Be glad you don't have to put up with me every day ?.

This story is special to me because it's longer than any story I've ever written. It was fun, it was a struggle, too. Finally, it's finished, I'm happy. Like most stories I wrote it for myself, for the pleasure writing brings. Jim and Blair are such wonderful characters to play with and it's a blast for every author to take them out of the closet and watch what they do.

However, I would like to dedicate it to a friend of mine who I've never met and I know will never meet. A great part of him is in this story, made it 'vivid' in my head and helped that it turned out on paper as well.

For Christopher Leeds ~ You'll never be completely gone.
 

Cop of the Year

by Montserrat
 

The man hadn't uttered a word, hadn't screamed or cried out in pain as they started the 'lesson in evil'. His lower lip oozed with blood, the raw flesh making every intake of breath unbearable. The blood ran over his chin or, when his lower body was elevated like now, the red thick mass trickled over his face and into his nose.

He had no recollections about what day it was. His conscious mind had simply forgotten about the date, the year, the name of the current President, whatever. Nothing mattered anymore. There was nothing left worth fighting for; he'd lost everything, his humanity, his love, and, even his dignity.

Suddenly though, he remembered a name. His memory struggled against the pain. Just a name. If it was his own, a friend's, or his tormenter's, the captive couldn't tell. He finally screamed, his voice reaching a high piercing sound, as a gleaming cigar burned his anus.

Who was... Jim Ellison?

****

One week earlier...

//Medieval torture was a good thing.// The gruesome thought crossed Simon Banks' mind as he watched the interrogation proceeding behind the one-way mirror. His frustration at their suspect's stubbornness grew from minute to minute, probably inducing the odd thought.

"Too bad we can't use thumb-screws anymore." Banks chewed on his lower lip, his concern increasing. Jim Ellison, no doubt the best detective he'd ever met, was running out of patience. The dark-skinned police captain could hear it in Ellison's voice, which became more dangerous as seconds passed. Being the leading investigator in the kidnapping, Jim had been under a lot of stress lately; stress that Simon, as his superior officer,  put on him. Then, there was the public. The press, and probably the kidnappers, watched Ellison's every step.  An arrest, or at least some lead, was terribly overdue and, with every passing day, the thread of the victim's life was cut shorter.

"Excuse me?" The voice, coloured with absolute shock, belonged to Blair Sandburg.  He stood  beside Banks, witnessing the on-going interrogation.

Simon flinched as he realized he must have spoken the last thought out loud. "Forget it, Sandburg, I'm just doing some wishful thinking," he dismissed with a shrug.

The young police observer stared at him. Disbelief, disgust and terror washed over his face; his eyes darkened, and the pleasant voice with the deep timbre that could magically captivate a whole lecture hall spoke with rising anger. "I can't believe you really said that. How can a human being in his right mind,  as educated as you,  even think of that?" //Watch your tongue next time, Banks.// Simon sighed and divided his attention between the interrogation and Blair. "Will you relax, Sandburg?" The captain raised his voice a bit, towering over the smaller man as he continued. "I was just wishing we could make Coburn talk somehow."

" Make him talk?" Not one bit intimidated by Banks' posture Blair shot back. "We are on the edge of entering a new millenium and it's sad enough that there are still torture methods being practiced in some parts of the modern world. It has to stop with us. If we don't make a difference and banish those thoughts from our minds, who ever will? There are dictators who imprison people just because they steal fruit in a market place because they're hungry. Innocent people are tortured for their believes; Amnesty International...."

Blair was ranting at light speed now, and Banks concentrated his attention on the more serious matter at hand – in his opinion, of course. Behind the one-way mirror Jim Ellison continued to lose his temper with the same energy Blair gave his one-sided lecture.

"Listen, Coburn, " Ellison smashed his right hand onto the table, the sound of flesh hitting the surface echoing through the small room. "I want answers, and I want them now. Do you---?"

Coburn, a 35-year old man with already sparse hair and cold green eyes, grinned up at the raging figure. "What's the matter with you? Your loverboy didn't fuck you hard enough last night, fag?" A smug smile followed the insult.

"....so you should really consider your thoughts before they leave your mouth, Simon," Blair kept at the captain, as the tall figure practically stormed out of the room, crashing through the other door before they would have to justify an act of police brutality known as 'murder'.

"DETECTIVE!" The bark reverberated through the room. For a moment the world in Cascade stood still.

Jim Ellison's eyes shone with peril, rage, and the unleashing desire to kill the man with his bare hands. Coburn's silence tore at his tender nerves, and the deliberate low-blow regarding the Sentinel's love life would have been the proverbial last drop to make the vessel run over. Jim hadn't moved; he just shot an angry glance at his Captain  who hovered at the door. Coburn had startled at Banks' sudden appearance, his gaze shifting from the tall captain to Ellison.

"I'll take over from here, Detective Ellison," Simon ordered, his dark brown eyes daring the other man to protest.

"I can handle the situation, sir," Jim did protest, however, he walked over to Banks. The two friends stared at each other, both of them aware of the other's feelings and motives.

"I'll see you tonight, Jim," Simon murmured, referring to the ceremony the Mayor had them invited to.

"Tell your sweetheart I said 'hi'," Coburn sneered from his place at the table.

In a reflex Simon Banks' caught the clenched fist; tremors ran through Jim's arm as the captain used all his strength to prevent disaster.

***

The moist tongue dance down Blair's chest, dipping, nibbling, and leaving passionate love marks, he feared would shine through the white shirt he had intended to wear with his tuxedo tonight. A moan, originating from deep inside him, escaped his throat, as Jim's warm, wet mouth bathed his left nipple, sucking greedily and gently scratching teeth over the hardening little peak. Rewarding its right counterpart with the same sensual treatment, Blair's torso arched into Jim's touch, his legs winding around the older man's waist. Their groins met, rubbing together in a increasing rhythm. Blair tightened the hold on his lover, causing Jim to groan, the man's hot breath caressing the nipple he was working on.

"You're a devil, my little guppy," Jim moaned, stopping his ministrations for a second.

Blair giggled and threw his head back on his pillow as the moist instrument of torture returned. "Now that's a description for a tiny fish," he gasped. The anthropologist loosened the embrace of his legs as Jim's hand moved between them, tenderly demanding a little space to pleasure Blair's cock. The strong hand grasped his erection, rubbing and stroking. The organ jerked slightly under his touch, growing to its impressive beauty.

"You like that, huh?" The Sentinel grinned, his eyes locking with Blair's blue pearls as he slowly opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue, the motion elegant and erotic at the same time.

Watching his lover Blair sucked in a breath, not daring to break the visual contact. It felt like playing voyeurism to his own shadow-play of love. The younger man's eyes widened with delight, and a moan ripped from his lips when Jim's tongue darted out and licked around the head of his cock. Finding the little opening, Jim tenderly pushed his tongue forward, then back, and forward again. He steadied Blair's buckling hips with his hands, the moist, dexterous tongue flickering back and forth, whirling around the shaft in a wild hurricane of passion. Finally, the detective took Blair's cock into his mouth entirely. The sucking caress continued, until he felt his lover's approaching climax.

Jim ceased his movements, his lips closing around the shaft, teasingly waiting for Blair to calm down a bit.

"God....Jim...do s'mthi'g," Blair panted, trying to raise his pelvis to bury his cock deeper into Jim's mouth. However, the older man gripped his hips gently but firmly, extending the sweet sensation of hot breath and burning saliva on his cock.

Cold air sent a wave of shivers over Blair's naked body as Jim released the organ.

"Turn over for me?" Jim asked lovingly, the hand on Blair's hip nudging him slightly.

Comprehending the certain invitation, Blair shook his head and raised his legs instead.

"Take me like this," he whispered, his hands moving down to expose his ass cheeks and the gateway to paradise hidden between them.

Jim's own cock twitched painfully at the most vulnerable and yet most trusting position Blair offered him. Groping for the lube, Jim bent forward and placed a prolonged kiss on those full, pulsing with blood, sensual lips. "Are you sure?" he breathed into Blair's ear, his tongue swirling around the earring, tugging gently. "This is always a bit uncomfortable. You know that."

Surprised by his own strength to manage a coherent thought in this late state of arousal, Blair nodded. "I—want to ..." the rest of the sentence exhaled in a delicious purr as nimble fingers prepared his anus, the internal massage almost sending him over the edge. Courtesy of the Sentinel's keen awareness to still his ministrations anytime Blair's heart rate sped up and his muscles contracted, the stretching continued, leading to an extended foreplay.

"I—can't wait any longer," Blair eventually panted, lifting his legs even more to give Jim's complete access to his orifice.

"Relax and enjoy, love," Jim smiled as he slid his cock through the outer ring of muscle. He could see the fruits of his actions in Blair's eyes, which grew wider with each  inch he thrust into his lover.

Blair's legs encircled the older man's middle again, pulling him impossibly closer as the penetration completed.

"You're so gorgeous," Jim murmured, kissing the flat, well-muscled stomach in front of him. He started a subtle rocking when he felt Blair's hand reach around him and gently grab his ass cheeks.

"If you could only see what I'm seeing right now, " Blair smiled sweetly, then groaned passionately, as deep inside him he felt his prostate stimulated, each stroke gaining speed and power. The police observer parted Jim's cheeks and dipped his fingertip into the abandoned little hole. With satisfaction, he noticed the rhythmic dance inside him increase. Blair again stroked Jim's anus, his finger only minutely penetrating the opening before it was withdrawn again. Above him Jim panted heavily. Suddenly, the Sentinel bowed his head and took Blair's cock into mouth.

Their screams of delight echoed through the bedroom as both men reached a ravaging climax.

For a several minutes the silence of love was only penetrated by occasional sighs and essential struggles for breath. Still buried deep inside his younger lover, Jim rested his head Blair's chest, the gorgeous sight of his lover's magnificent cock obscuring his range of vision.

"I don't wanna go tonight," the detective managed after a while.

Although his limbs felt like lead, Blair couldn't resist teasing Jim's ass, one finger slipping inside him again. "It's an important event, love. 'The cop of the Year' award is only given out once a year—hence the name." Blair smiled as his finger was sucked in by Jim's deliberate clenching.

"Yeah, and they didn't find another idiot to receive it," Jim complained tiredly.

The stroking stopped. "How did you know?" Blair asked, trying to meet Jim's eyes. The Sentinel had his eyes closed, his head still enjoying the human pillow.

"Now I do," Jim mumbled.

"YOU!" Blair shouted laughingly, pushing his long finger all the way into Jim's rectum. Much to his delight his lover squirmed comfortably, his limp cock moving inside of Blair.

"I don't wanna get up," Blair sighed.

The Sentinel grew serious. "I can't make it without you," he confessed, his voice hoarse.

Blair chuckled. "Hey, man, I'm not leaving. I just need to get up for now."

"Don't ever leave me."

The seriousness of Jim's voice startled Blair. He didn't know where it came from, but for some reason, it frightened the anthropologist. With his other hand he reached up and brushed over Jim's short hair. "Don't worry, big guy, there's nothing you could do to make me leave this...bed."

Both men burst into laughter, none of them aware of the lie that hung in the air, hidden, and about to strike... soon.

***

If applied properly, torture usually proved a very effective tool to obtain access to secret information or push forward an interrogation. A Q & A of horror, whereas the poor victim faced his execution as soon as the goal of breaking the suspect was achieved. Thus it could be slow and tremendously painful or fast and... tremendously painful. It was all part of a gruesome game of power, dominance and humiliation.

Irrational thoughts raced through the man's mind as he slowly drifted towards consciousness. His captors hadn't asked any questions yet, hadn't pressed for top-secret governmental information he might give away if the pain warranted. Still hovering under the surface of awareness, the man knew the ordeal had just begun; the questions would come eventually, sooner or later he would be broken, crawling on all fours and begging for mercy. He'd seen prisoners of war do that. Hopefully he would die first.

Or maybe they simply enjoyed watching a human being writhing in agony? He had no way of knowing, foreboding shadowed his mind when a brutal slap to his face fully brought him back to consciousness. His body throbbed. The odor of sulfur <matches and tobacco <cigars lingered in the air, tickling his nose. The man coughed, the sound turning into an anguished moan as the heat on his inner thighs became unbearable. Hot ashes seared tender skin, heavy rain drops of fire pouring down on his groin.

He probably deserved all this, didn't he?

***

One week earlier...

"They probably executed the guy right after he invented this THING!" Tearing and pulling at the uncooperative bow-tie, Jim Ellison cursed. The reflection in the mirror showed a man enraged, fighting with an innocent piece of cloth.

Ducking swiftly and re-appearing between Jim's arms, Blair laughed and stared at their images in the mirror. While his lover still battled with the tie, the police observer raised his arms and gathered his long curly hair into a ponytail. A black leather band held the mane in place. Blair skeptically viewed his appearance, pursing his lips.

"Do I look  presentable enough?" he asked his lover's mirror image.

Handing him the bow-tie, Jim carefully pulled one stray of hair out of the braid. The curl framed the left side of Blair's face, giving him a look of innocence and devilry at the same time.

"That's better," Jim judged smilingly.

"Better?" Blair's voice swung with disbelief. "The wrong people might think I was just fucked senseless by the most gorgeous man on earth." He turned around, facing the flesh version of his Sentinel and started binding the bow-tie.

Both men were wearing black tuxedos. The only difference being the blue-and-black vest Jim had gone for additionally, the rebellious bow-tie matching the colours.

Jim stood perfectly still as Blair adjusted the accessory. "Well, if you think about it, you were just fucked senseless. But..." Jim creased his forehead in confusion. "Who's the most gorgeous guy on earth?" He tried to move his head, but a yank on his bow-tie brought him back face to face with his lover.

"Hold still, smart-ass," Blair growled, his blue eyes sparkling with love. His job finished, he patted Jim on the shoulder. "There...now you look half as good as me, big guy."

"Only half?"

"Uhm, yeah, maybe three-quarters, but not more," Blair admitted jokingly.

The two men observed their reflections in the mirror. Jim reached out and opened a cabinet where Sandburg stored his toiletries and 'stuff' only the anthropologist thought of as "absolutely necessary" to have in a bathroom. The detective had once questioned him why on earth Blair needed a tape recorder, learning quickly that such an item was totally essential these days - in the bathroom. Before the lecture had gotten out of hand, Ellison had simply closed the cabinet door.

"Here...put your glasses on," Jim handed him the spectacles smiling sweetly at Blair's questioning look.

"Why?" came the expected reply.

"Because --," Jim placed a little kiss on Blair's cheeks. "—you look so damn adorable and intelligent with your glasses on."

Complying with his lover's wish, Blair adjusted the glasses. "Hhhmmm. Now I really look all fucked up. Like we've done it in the truck or something."

"Riiiiight." Jim breathed on the lenses leaving the mist of his breath and blinding the young man temporarily. "That's an idea, by the way."

***

When Sandburg and the guest of honour arrived at the Cascade Renaissance Hotel, the younger man's face was framed with several unruly strays of his curly hair. He was smiling broadly and babbling enthusiastically to hide his racing heart. Only someone who'd pay special attention would have noticed there was a button on his shirt missing, torn off in a passionate workout in a blue-and-white pickup truck. Beside him, Jim Ellison grinned foolishly. After all, Blair was wearing his glasses...

"Hey, Jim!" Detective Henri Brown greeted them on their way to the Venice Ballroom where the dreaded event would take place. The two men shook hands. "Hairboy!" Henri delivered a solid blow to Blair's back, sending the young man a couple of steps forward. "Kinda windy tonight, isn't it?" He laughed. "I think I can dare to wear my hair down, right?" The detective rubbed one hand over his almost-bald head.

"Yeah, sometimes I wish I had Jim's short cut," Blair replied, fearing anyone would read the truth on his face.

"Enjoy the evening, guys," Henri said. "You truly deserve this, Jim."

Jim grimaced. "What have I done..." he moaned.

Entering the ballroom they spotted the round table reserved for them. Captain Simon Banks, Joel Taggart and Jim's father and brother were already seated, enjoy their drinks, and engrossed in a light conversation.

"Sorry, we're late. " Jim approached the table.

"What kept you?" Simon inquired, noticing with pleasure that Sandburg blushed at his deliberate question.

"The traffic was kinda heavy," Blair mumbled. "Good evening, Mr. Ellison." He turned his attention to Jim's father, but didn't miss Banks' knowing smile. "Hi, Stephen." The anthropologist extended his hand. "I heard you made some nice profit with your new stocks?"

While Stephen and Blair talked about the habits and social behaviour of 'bears' and 'bulls', Jim faced his father, the two men staring at each other for a second longer than necessary. Finally, father and son moved forward simultaneously, hugging and patting each other on the back.

"I'm glad you could make it tonight," Jim whispered into his dad's ear.

William Ellison smiled as he pulled away. "I'm so proud of you, Jimmy." The old eyes behind the glasses shone with emotions. "You're a good man, and I'm...I'm really touched to be here with you. Thanks for the invitation."

Still weary of displaying his feelings for his father openly, Jim just nodded. "It's okay," he managed.

"What would you like to drink, Jim?" Joel Taggart made himself known from across the table.

The evening went on, stretching the minutes and hours unbearably. Blair Sandburg noticed with a smile that his lover was yawing behind his hand from time to time, throwing impatient glances at his watch. The fight for dominance at the buffet had ended with Jim and Blair sharing their lobster. The older man had certainly complained about the lack of french fries and a decent hamburger, but Blair's stroking hand under the table had made him forget about the seafood no one really knew how to eat.

It was almost ten o'clock now and Jim wondered how long the mayor would need to get his act together. Elton John's " That's why they call it the blues" was instrumentally intoned by the band, and the Sentinel leaned over to his lover.

"Wanna dance?" he whispered into the ear, the stray of curls tickling his face.

Blair threw him a grateful glance, but shook his head. "Nah, later maybe, at home." The young student knew Jim would have danced with him in public… and in front of the mayor if Blair had wanted to. However, Blair decided it would prove to be more relaxing dancing at home, slowly peeling off the clothes from each other in the rhythm of the music. The thought made him smile.

"What is it?" Jim asked.

"Just day-dreaming," Blair confessed and winked.

//God, why does these little gestures always get me hard right away?// Jim groaned inwardly as his cock twitched.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please," Mayor Walton stood at the small podium.

//Yeah, right. Now you have to do it.// Jim took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the remains of his lobster. //Nice fishy thing.//

"We've gathered here tonight to honour a man of courage, a man of loyalty, a man of integrity and strength..."

Jim tapped his captain on the shoulder. "Did you tell him this crap?" he asked when Simon turned his head into his direction.

"Nope. Sandburg did," the black man answered with a grin.

Jim rolled his eyes but reached out to lace his fingers with Blair's.

"...He has been working for the Cascade Police Department for eight years now, proving himself as a resourceful detective who's name is known even across state borders. The service you've done for this city is greatly appreciated, and I know that the meaningfulness of your work actually cannot be rewarded with a 'title' or award. From the bottom of my heart I would like to thank you for your extraordinary achievements over the past years. This is the first time in the history of our annual "Cop of the Year" ceremony that a police officer has been nominated back-to-back. Thanks to you Cascade becomes a safer place every day... Detective James Ellison."

Applause thundered through the ballroom and cameras from the attending press flashed. Jim blinked rapidly; the bright lights assaulting his eyes. He felt Blair's hand on his back, and he concentrated on the whispered guidance.

"I'm okay," Jim assured his lover and made his way to the podium. The guests and fellow officers gave him a standing ovation. William Ellison's eyes watered at the sight, and he placed an arm around his other son's shoulder. Stephen smiled, his face showing the awe he felt for his older brother.

"Thank you, Mayor Walton. I really appreciate this." Jim shook the mayor's hand.

"It's not only talk, Detective," the Mayor replied. "I meant what I said. You're a good man."

The people still applauded when Jim turned around, facing the microphone. Slowly the noise faded, and silence set in as the guests awaited Jim's speech of gratitude.

Clearing his throat, Ellison searched for words. This wasn't his area, talking definitely was Sandburg's forte, and Jim silently wished for some sort of psychic connection between them so that his partner could take the lead.

"I--- I—actually don't know what to say. Receiving this award is a great honour, however, I'm only part of a terrific team of co-workers. This belongs to all cops of Cascade PD, because their skills and hard work makes my success possible." The crowed cheered, and from his distant point of view Jim could see his fellow colleagues smiling with pride.

"Furthermore,... I have a great partner who watches my back every time we go out there," Jim continued, locking his eyes with Blair who was practically radiating with joy. "I owe him my life and—and—know I wouldn't be here tonight if he hadn't rescued me three years ago...when—thanks, buddy," Jim shot a wink and a smile towards his lover and partner.

"Detective Ellison, is it true you have a lead in the Masterson case?" a male journalist asked.

"No comment." Jim cut the man off shortly.

"Will Cascade PD consider asking for psychic help from Charlie Springs like last year?" The journalist's sidekick asked.

Jim sighed. "I'm sorry I really can't give you any information right now. Someone's life is at stake. Please, don't ask any questions I can't answer at this point." //Assholes.//

"A few months ago the so-called officer's exchange program was initiated. Rumor has it that you will meet the invitation by the New South Wales police to join their force for a couple of months, is that correct?"

//Where the hell do they get these stupid questions?// Jim's enhanced hearing picked up a considerable increase in Blair's heart rate, as his partner threw a confused look to Simon Banks to see if the rumor was indeed true.

"It's correct that we enjoyed the help of Inspector Megan Connor, but as far as I know there are no plans to send me down under."

Blair relaxed visibly.

A young female reporter raised her arm, and Jim nodded at her encouragingly, at the same time daring her with his eyes to mess with him.

"My name is Kathryn Harper from the Cascade Sun..." she introduced herself and the detective covered his grimace with a forced smile. The Cascade Sun was one of the worst scandal rags in the state.

"Can you tell us your opinion on the recent accusations of police brutality in California?"

Surprised by the almost innocent question Jim replied honestly: "Unfortunately those incidents in other cities throw a bad light on all cops, those wearing a uniform, those working behind a desk or detectives like me who just try to do their job. There's truly no reason for violent acts against suspects or criminals, and I totally disapprove of them."

At their table, Simon Banks nodded thoughtfully. "Well-put, Ellison," he muttered and Jim smiled.

"Did you ever deliberately use your power and strength against a suspect?"

Jim frowned slightly. //Hadn't he just answered that one?// The detective shook his head. "No, Ihaven't. I might lose my temper sometimes, but I have never—"

Kathryn Harper interrupted him. "Detective Ellison, do you know the name 'Peter McAllister'?"

A little voice in the back of his head warned him to back off and ignore the question. However, he didn't remember the name and so he said, "No, I'm afraid not."

The reporter nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. "Did you work for Cascade PD in 1988?"

"No."

Harper pulled out a small folder. "Can you tell us what you were doing at that time?" She smiled smugly expecting his following reply.

"No.   Can you tell me what you're getting at, Miss Harper?" Jim's voice was even, a bit of curiosity echoing in it.

The woman extracted a few black and white photographs from her folder, holding them in front of her. Beside Jim, the Mayor squinted trying to decipher the content while a few people sitting next to the reporter gasped in shock. Before Jim could tune in to the picture, Harper told the audience, "This is Peter McAllister, a broken man after being interrogated and tortured by one Captain James Ellison."

The following silence was deafening.

***

The cigar returned.

An almost comical relief washed over the man's face as the hot tip touched his stomach, leaving his more sensitive body parts at ease for a moment. Waves of pain still surged through his groin and ass where the tender flesh had been seared. Surprisingly, they'd spared his cock and balls. For now at least.

The captive grunted, his throat too raw from screaming and lack of water. Touching his navel, the cigar was carefully stubbed out. Stomach muscles tensed up against the pain, a hoarse "you son of a bitch" filling the air, a poor lament against the laughter of his torturers.

Someone took his hand in a tender grip. Turning his head to one side, the man opened his eyes slowly, hoping to see the familiar face he knew he'd never see again. The hope shattered into the piercing little pieces when the gentle grasp turned into agony. The little finger of his right hand was snapped. Before the hiss of pain left his mouth, the steady pressure moved to the next digit, breaking the second finger like a rotten branch.

How long had he been there?

***

Four weeks earlier...

"Do you deny that you were one of the participating officers who violated Mr. McAllister's human rights and deliberately inflicted physical pain on him over the agonizing period of 14 hours?" The microphone carried Kathryn Harper's unbelievable story through the room.

Jim clenched his jaws, the muscles twitching painfully, his gums already hurting. "No comment." He searched the room for Blair's calming glance. The young man stared at him with those impressive blue eyes, his beautiful face distorted with shock. William Ellison had his mouth open, as if he was going to protest against the ridiculous accusation, but no sound came out. He, too, stared at Jim, his eyes asking for understanding, hoping for denial. Jim saw equal expressions on his co-worker's faces, only Simon Banks, his captain and military-trained superior, buried his face in his hand, shaking his head slowly.

The reporter changed her tactic. "Mayor Walton, how can you justify honoring a person like Detective James Ellison who obviously has some skeletons in his closet?"

Before the Mayor could manage a half-way believable reply, Jim glared at Harper and said in a cold voice, "I don't have to justify anything, Miss Harper. But let me tell you this: You should've done your job better before storming in here and dropping what you surely would call the 'bomb'." The detective stepped down from the podium, walking slowly over to the table where is friends, family and co-workers were sitting.

"I've done my job, Detective," Kathryn Harper informed him from across the room. "I even have an eyewitness to prove it."

"Sorry, folks," Jim said, gently taking Blair's arm. "I'm out of here."

"Jimmy...," William Ellison stood up and touched Jim's shoulder. "Whatever... happened there, I'm behind you 100%." He moved to give his son a reassuring hug, but Jim shrank away from the open display of affection.

"I don't need your moral support, dad," Jim searched for Blair's hand. As soon as the felt the warm fingers, the Sentinel relaxed. "I'm okay." He nodded towards Simon. "We'll talk tomorrow, sir."

"I'll try to do some damage control tonight, Jim," Simon promised, frowning at the haunted look on Sandburg's face as the two man walked towards the exit.

Kathryn Harper's voice stopped them. "Have you ever seen Peter McAllister since, Detective?"

The two lovers were almost at the door, when Jim stopped dead in his tracks. He gripped Blair's hand tightly, the painful squeeze making his partner gasp. Ellison recognized the face he had hoped he would never see again. Once distorted with agony the old features of the middle-aged man in front of him now showed disgust and, the Sentinel could tell from the man's racing heart, fear. Jim's face displayed no emotions, not even recognition; he simply stared into his component's black eyes.

Peter McAllister opened his mouth, the two words coming out slowly, tentatively. He seemed afraid of  their sound reverberating through the air after ten long years. "Captain Ellison." Hatred coloured the name.

Blair's hand slipped out of Jim's. He sensed the tension knotting his lover's body, and he carefully replaced his hand on Jim's back, encouraging him to say what he needed to, encouraging him to form an apology or words of regret.

"Are these your 15 minutes of fame, McAllister?" was all the detective said. He groped for Blair's hand, but the young anthropologist flinched away.

***

Their love-making had always been gentle. Passionate, yes, fierce, yes, but no matter how rough they played the game, the two men's actions had never stepped out of the circle of love. Even tonight, after the emotionally draining event at the ceremony, Jim's gentle hands roamed over the younger man's body, caressing the soft skin and placing little kissing along the way. Lubing himself generously, the detective parted Blair's ass cheeks and tenderly pushed into the tight opening.

Blair groaned and struggled to relax his body to allow this lover to take him.

"You okay, babe?" Jim whispered, stilling his motions. At Blair's short nod, he reached around and engulfed Blair's dying erection. "Just relax and let me love you," the older man soothed, sliding in deeper.

The sensual massage of his cock, momentarily distracted Blair from the dark thoughts in his mind, and he managed to accept the suddenly uncomfortable sensation in his ass. Penetration had never hurt, simply because Jim was the gentlest lover anyone could ask for, and also because Blair always longed for the intoxicating feeling of being filled by his lover. Tonight though, relaxation didn't set in and his internal muscles involuntarily fought against the intruder.

Behind him, Jim moaned as the clenching and unclenching of Blair's rectum worked miracles on his cock. He started a gentle rocking, carefully sliding out and in, while he continued the tender ministrations on Blair's front.

Jim had tortured a man? The police observer closed his eyes at the invading thoughts, gasping at the mental image he never wanted to see. Jim had tortured a man?

"Why did you do it, Jim?" Blair suddenly asked.

Jim stilled his motions, knowing immediately what Blair was talking about. "Chief..., let's talk about this in the morning, okay?" He kissed Blair's shoulder. "Let's forget about it now, please... I need ...you right now."

"I can't forget the man's face, Jim," Blair murmured. Jim had tortured a man. Suddenly Blair squirmed under Jim's loving touch. The iron-hard rod inside him stretched his internal walls painfully, while the stroking hand on his cock sent shiver's down his spine.

"I'm sorry you had to hear this crap, love," Jim started.

Blair lurched forward. "Please... I need you to pull out NOW, Jim..." He grasped the blue-yellow sheet and pulled himself forward, trying to break the physical connection. It hurt as Jim's erection slid out, and the anthropologist heard the small moan that came from his lover, too. At this state the man's arousal must have been already painful with the need of release.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Trying to ignore his straining member, Jim touched Blair's shoulder. As he started to pull him closer, the younger man sat up swiftly and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I—I'm sorry, Jim.... I need to...." Not finishing the sentence Blair grabbed his robe and headed downstairs.

Minutes later, the bathroom door was slammed shut and the shower went on.

//Shit.// Jim groaned, rolling onto his back, staring in disbelief at his fading erection. "Damnit," he grunted when he buried his head into a pillow. Sighing deeply, the detective forced his exhausted body to cooperate.

Coffee at 3 a.m. in the morning probably wasn't the best idea to sooth a troubled anthropologist, but Jim needed something to wake his spirits. Sure as hell Blair would give him one of his , and he needed to be on alert for that.

The bathroom door opened.

"You okay?" Jim asked gently, as Blair slowly made his way to the kitchen counter. "Did—did I hurt you, Chief?" Concern was audible in his voice, the warm blue eyes compassionate as always.

"I'm fine." Blair helped himself to a cup of coffee. Feeling Jim's eyes followed his movements, the young forced a smile. "I'm really fine, Jim. It surely wasn’t anything with the—physical act. You are always so gentle." Blair smiled again but his expression grew sober quickly. "I'm sorry. You okay?" He wanted so badly to reach out and caress the older man's chest, wishing his hands could roam down and tenderly squeeze the cock and balls through the thin black boxer shorts. He'd done it so often before, but now Blair shuddered at the mere thought.

Jim took a sip of his coffee. "That was one coitus interruptus but yeah, I'm alright." Knowing his lifemate too well to not see the signs of mental distress, Jim approached the delicate subject first. "What can I say to make you feel better?"

"Tell me you didn't do it. Tell me that woman lied. Tell me the man we met just knew you from something else." Blair shrugged. "Just tell me what I can believe."

"Chief....I wish I could say it all was a hoax to blow the ceremony, but I can't. This Harper woman probably described it a bit melodramatic..."

"Melodramatic?" Blair repeated. "Jim, she said you tortured someone. There is nothing melodramatic about it. It's sickening."

Jim flinched at Blair's words. "Then what do you want me to say?"

"Tell me the whole story," Blair demanded. "Make me understand... a least part of it."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

The coffee cup landed on the kitchen counter with a clank, the black liquid spilling over. Blair stared at his partner in total disbelief. "Because of covert ops?" At Jim's short nod, the anthropologist shook his head. "Oh man, I just don't FUCKING believe you. I'm your friend, your partner, your lover and probably know more about you than anyone on this planet, and you can't bring yourself to tell me about your top-secret crap? Whom do you think I'm gonna tell?"

"I'm sorry, love, I really can't," Jim moved forward to get a gentle hold of Blair's shoulders.

Blair twisted out of his touch. "Then at least tell me you were just following orders," he whispered, his eyes pleading for the truth, his heart pleading for a merciful lie he knew wouldn't come.

"We had no choice." Jim emptied the two cups of coffee into the sink. "You won't understand."

Blair grabbed the collar of Jim's robe. "I want to understand, Jim. I need to understand why the man I love so much is capable of such an atrocity."

"You knew that I did covert ops."

Pushing his lover into the kitchen counter, Blair replied, "And that should excuse everything?"

"What's your point here, Sandburg?" Jim shouted suddenly. "Why are you so upset about something that happened ten years ago? It's in the past. It's over."

Blair's anger faded at Jim's loud voice. "I don't know," he simply said, his shoulder slumped when he leaned against the refrigerator. "I'm sorry, Jim. I have no right to jump at your throat like that especially since I don't know the details. It's just... it's so hard to believe you actually did something like that." He leaned into Jim's strong hand as his partner caressed his cheeks.

"No, I understand. I wish—I wish I could tell you about it." The Sentinel tentatively placed a kiss on Blair's mouth. //I hope you'll never find out, Chief.//

"I'm acting like a narrow-minded jerk," Blair mumbled and returned the kiss. A small part of him wanted to shrink away from the man he loved so deeply.

"No, you're reacting like I would expect Blair Sandburg to react," Jim replied. The smaller man's arms encircled his waist, their lips merged. Seeking strength and hope from the embrace, the two men tasted each other. It was a passionate seal of their love...

...wasn't it?

***

A cool and moist cloth touched his face. The man jerked in his bonds, survival  instincts kicking in as he expected another wave of agony. Sore muscled tensed  up, and he turned his head away. He shuddered, half with the cold, half with  surprise when the cloth was almost gently dabbed at his raw lips. The supine  figure opened his mouth to let the cool drops of liquid sooth his throat. Sucking  greedily, he tasted his own blood again as his lips burst open, protesting against  the movement of his jaw.

The thirst became more bearable, and the man was grateful for the human gesture  of compassion.  A cramp surged through his broken hand, the fingers swollen  against the handcuffs. The man sighed, willing the pain away. If it was a profound  act of willpower or simply exhaustion, he couldn't tell as his battered body relaxed,  and he slipped into the peaceful world of sleep.

***

Three weeks earlier...

They had been running the gauntlet for eight days now. Each morning bore another  horrific newspaper article with gruesome pictures telling a story of pain and  humiliation. Late-night phone calls to the loft disturbed their sleep or interrupted  cuddling in front of the fireplace. Not only the press, but also the media had  started showing interest in Jim's past and the alleged torture of Peter McAllister.  One of the local stations broadcast on a daily basis, digging up older articles by  Amnesty International and other human rights organizations and even establishing  a telephone hotline "What do you think of James Ellison?"

Whereas most papers could only reprint information already published, Kathryn  Harper from the "Cascade Sun" issued an exclusive interview with McAllister. Big  bold and black words on the front cover promised more shocking details on the  inside.

14 hours of horror!

Beating breaks 4 ribs!

Beware of Ellison's ELECTROSHOCK therapy!

Cop of the Year - The dark side...

Blair Sandburg parked the old green Volvo in his usual parking spot. Shouldering  his backpack and grabbing several books for today's Anthro 101 class, the young  TA slowly walked over to Halgrove Hall . Despite the early April morning sun, Blair  shivered remembering the new headline which surely would bring the "Cascade  Sun" record sales:

Ellison - Master of Genital torture?

His lover had already been gone when Blair had emerged from the shower. A soft  tapping on the bathroom door, followed by a  "see you later, sweetheart, I love  you" had been all. The front door closed behind the Sentinel, and the  anthropologist had left his hide-out in the bathroom. Resting his head against the  door, Blair's heart had ached. Since they'd become lovers the young man couldn't  remember a time when they had parted without sharing one last kiss good-bye. He  could almost physically feel the loss whereas part of him deliberately avoided  physical contact with Jim.

"Damnit it!" Blair cursed under his breath, spotting the small crowd gathering at  the entrance of Halgrove Hall.

Reporters.

Rounding the peaceful pattering fountain, Blair didn't sense the usual surge in his  heart rate at the sight of the place where he'd....died. Instead a wave of annoyance  mingled with rage rushed through his body. Staring straight ahead, Blair tried to  wade through the waiting journalists.

"Mr. Sandburg, are you still working with Detective Ellison?"

"No comment." Two quick steps.

"Do you approve of what he did to Peter McAllister?"

"No comment." A shove into someone's ribs, reaching for the door.

"Has he ever used physical force against you?

"I said, no comment!" Pulling the door open, one step inside.

"Blair Sandburg, is it true that Ellison and you are lovers?"

"Leave me alone!" Almost at his office, fumbling for the key.

"Mr. Sandburg, how does it feel to be Ellison's toy?"

"Screw you!" Almost there.

Blair squeezed his body through the small opening his office door provided and  breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped into the room. Quickly he turned the lock,  trying to ignore the fierce knocks on the door. The young man retreated behind his  crowded desk. Casting a nervous glance at the door, Blair switched on his  computer. While booting, the young man reached over and turned on the  coffee-maker.

The banging on the door increased. "Mr. Sandburg, just one more question..."

"Stop it or I'm calling security!" Blair yelled and threw his still empty coffee mug  against the wooden door where it shattered into pieces. Too late Blair realized it  was the mug Jim had given him after he'd aced one of his final exams last year. It  had amused the anthropologist at first when the detective had given him the mug  covered with patterns of small and large red-hearts.

'Actually, I had meant to give it to you as a Valentine's Day gift,' Jim had  shrugged, 'but I didn't have enough time to finished the paint job, so I waited for the  right opportunity.'

Paint job? 'You... you made this yourself?' Blair had asked, staring at the one or  other heart that seemed a bit out of shape.

'Congrats on your A+,' Jim had grinned like a fool, his face flushing in  embarrassment.

And, in one knee-jerk reaction, Blair had destroyed the meaningful gift. Slowly the  young man walked over to the door where the remains of the mug littered the floor.  A razor-sharp splinter cut into Blair's palm as he picked it up. A single tear rolled  down his cheek. Blair clenched his hand into a fist, forcing the splinter deep into  his flesh. Blood oozed between his fingers, his knuckles white from the strain. For  a wonderful moment, the physical pain overruled the agony he felt in his soul.

***

The phone on his desk rang. Fearing it would be yet another eager reporter, Blair  waited for the answering machine to pick it up. A small smile touched his face  when Jim's voice spoke.

"Hey, Chief. I was wondering if you'd feel up to lunch today? 'The Chinese...'"

Blair grabbed the receiver. "Sounds good."

"Hi there, how's your day doing?" Jim asked, and the young man knew his lover  was smiling.

Looking at his bandaged hand, Blair replied, "It's pretty cool so far, some  students, some annoying profs, the usual stuff."

"Any reporters?" Jim's voice became serious.

"A few," came the slow reply.

"I'm coming over and pick you up, say, at 12:30?" Jim suggested.

"No, I'm coming to the station, okay?"

The Sentinel went silent for a moment, considering Blair's answer. "You okay,  Blair?"

The young man winced inaudibly at the warmth he detected in the concerned  question. "Sure, I'm fine, Jim. I'll have to wade through my mail and grade a couple  of papers but other than that—"

"That's not what I meant," Jim interrupted gently.

"I know. I'm—fine, really. Don't worry, Jim. See you at 12:30 then, huh?" Blair  picked up the stack of envelopes on his desk, his morning post.

"I love you," Jim whispered and terminated the connection.

"I love you, too, Jim," Blair mumbled and sliced open the next envelope. With a  resigned  sigh, he pulled out the latest issue of  the "Anthropology Journal",  staring on the front cover without really reading the eye-catching topics. Vaguely,  he remembered he'd written a short article for the monthly magazine, and any  other time he'd would been eagerly searching the pages for the contribution in  question.

What bothered him most was the frightening fact that Jim Ellison didn't seem to be  the least bit concerned about the accusation and the enormous pressure the  media laid upon his reputation. The Sentinel acted almost nonchalant, like it was  nobody's business but his own.

Maybe it wasn't.

No, it wasn. Someone suffered, a human being had been harmed and, as absurd it  might seem to the rational mind, Jim had been part of it. Had participated,  probably even had been the officer in charge.

//Geez, what do you think they did in covert ops, Sandburg? Rescuing old ladies'  cats?// Why was he so upset? The military training Jim Ellison had endured wasn't  a piece of cake. Furthermore, his childhood and the treatment he'd received from  his father added to...

//To what? Making him cruel? A monster?// Pushing those harsh words aside,  Blair leafed through the "Anthropology Journal" without reading.

Jim didn't talk about it. His silence made it look like it was right, justified, moral.

There was nothing moral about torture.

//Hit a reporter, Jim. Do something! Show an emotion. Show me!//

Blair sighed and opened another envelope. Frowning slightly since he didn't  recognize the sender's name, the young man gasped in shock as the contents of  the envelope slipped onto his desk. One of those small yellow post-it notes stuck  in the right corner of a black and white photograph. It carried a name in a neat  handwriting: "Peter McAllister - 14 hours of pain".

The anthropologist stared at the photo. For a few minutes his eyes were riveted on  the picture. The battered, naked body, imprinted  its gruesome details forever into  his mind. Shaking himself out of the trance, Blair walked over to the shredder.  Within seconds, the photo was torn apart.  Whomever had sent the picture  wouldn't succeed in driving Blair away from his Sentinel.

//Never.// Moving to the sink, Blair splashed some cold water into his face.  Through bleary eyes, he stared into the small mirror. "Never...," he emphasized  locking gazes with his reflection. Suddenly, his stomach rebelled and he threw up  into the sink.

****

The man didn't open his eyes. He knew he couldn't fool his captors by pretending he was unconscious. It was something else. Exhaustion ravaged his body, the smallest effort costing too much strength. He was tired, mentally and physically. His survival instinct faded, and he let fate take over. No need to fight anymore.

Cold metal clamps touched his nipples. The piercing sensation set in instantly, but the man's vocal cords didn't find the motivation to utter a moan.

No need to fight...

His brain provided the horrible foreboding of what would happen soon but, like before, he didn't care. Another clamp attached to his balls sent waves of agony through his body. His mouth opened involuntarily in a mute outcry of pain - the only visible sign of distress.

Saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth, and his brain finally caught with his resignation.

No need to...

***

Two weeks earlier...

How many times had he watched his lover sleeping? Even with his enhanced senses turned down, Ellison usually woke up before the early bird could even think of catching the worm. Leaning on one elbow, Jim's eyes scanned the familiar features. The long curls were fanned  out on the yellow pillow, the contrast stark and overwhelming. Carefully, as not to wake the sleeping man, Jim twirled one of the long curls around his finger, enjoying the thick texture of the stray. Blair was breathing evenly, his chest steadily rising and falling with each inhale. With his lips slightly parted, the young man looked young and vulnerable, waking in Jim those strong instincts that had earned him the title of "Blessed Protector".

The older man sighed, the sound anguished and indescribably sad.

//'How can the innocence of your heart ever understand the cruelties mankind is capable of?'// The thought tormented his mind, the emotional storm Blair fought deep inside of him not passing unnoticed on the Sentinel. Every gasp of shock, every faint intake of breath at the sight of another gut-wrenching headline or photo tore through Jim's heart. His Guide was suffering. Because of something Ellison did a decade ago...and because of what he did now.

Gently Jim cupped Blair's face in one hand, bent over and kissed the adorable mouth. It was a brush of lips on lips, like a breeze in a hot summer night cooling their bodies after a passionate love-making.

//I love you so much, Chief. I love you so much.// His hand trailed down Blair's body, his touch soft and loving. The young man stirred under the caress, a sleepy sigh coming from the slightly opened mouth. Jim roamed over Blair's stomach and as his hand moved down to stroke the limp genitals through the thin fabric of the boxers, the detective bent forward and pressed another kiss on the young man's lips.

Startled, Blair opened his eyes! In a hectic movement he reached down and snatched his lover's massaging hand away. He closed his legs in an almost panicked gesture.

"What are you DOING, man?" Blair pushed against Jim's body and sat himself up in the bed.

Confusion spread over Jim's face, the unexpected reaction not what he had hoped for. "I wanted to kiss you good-morning, babe," he tried, noticing with concern that Blair's heart was racing. "I'm sorry..., I didn't think you'd mind." The Sentinel reached out to stroke Blair's cheek in a comforting gesture. However, his arm fell seeing his lover flinch away. "You never minded before," Jim tried to justify his actions.

"Well, I do now," Blair snapped and threw the bed covers aside. Swinging his legs out of the bed, his movements stilled as Jim grabbed his arm.

"Hey..., what's wrong, Chief?"

//You know what's wrong, Ellison.// Yeah, right. Since the Cop-of-the-Year ceremony and the revelation of Jim's past, their love life had cooled down considerably. They certainly had kissed and cuddled, but with each passing day and every new revealing article, Blair retreated more from his lover.

"I'm not in the mood." Blair replied curtly and cast a look at his trapped arm. "Would you let go of me, please? I have to go the U this morning."

Like he'd burned himself, the detective let go off Blair's arm. "It's only 5.30," he said in a low voice. "Why don't you come back to bed and we do this right, huh?" Smiling he added, "It's been a long time."

Blair grabbed his robe. "Maybe tonight, Jim. I have some work to do and going in early is the only way to get everything done." He moved around the bed, but was stopped by the tall frame of the older man obscuring his way.

"We have to talk about this, Blair," Jim said softly and rubbed Blair's shoulder gently.

The blue eyes shone with mockery. "Yes, Jim, you're right. We have to talk about this, but 'we' includes both of us. I here, man. Talk to me. Let me know what's on your mind. Make me understand. Simple as that."

"We've been through this before, Sandburg. There are certain things I can't tell anybody," Jim spoke softly.

"I'm not "anybody", big guy," Blair sighed. "I thought you knew that. I wish you'd trust me."

"I trust you," Jim stressed. //We never needed to have this kind of conversation before, Chief.//

"I gotta go."

Jim still stood upstairs, not moving and just listening to the sounds his partner made when Blair showered, dressed and eventually left the loft. With the shutting door, the thread of their relationship seemed to have been cut into further.

***

Jack Kelso stared at the folder in his lap. The brown cover didn't carry a label, no hand-written note - nothing that would reveal its disturbing content to the innocent bystander. But Kelso knew. Working as a Professor of Foreign Affairs at Rainier University, he probably had more information on the 'establishment' than anyone else. Sometimes Kelso wondered why the heck he was still alive. He grinned sheepishly. Maybe 'they' feared his will, the man suspected ironically.

Rolling his wheelchair back and forth in a nervous reaction - a tick he thought he'd abandoned years ago - Jack hesitated. A knock on the door, it would be very so very simple. After all, he was just delivering some information a friend had asked him for. No big deal. Nevertheless, the butterflies raced through his stomach, an uneasiness that made him sick. The sensation hit him by surprise. He'd seen, done and known a lot of disgusting things (for a lack of a better word) so why was he suddenly so upset about just providing some facts he'd been asked for?

//You won't like this, Blair.// Jack Kelso took a deep breath and knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" Blair's voice sounded tired.

"Blair, it's Jack Kelso. I have the information you wanted," the teacher shouted through the closed door. Moments later, he heard the unmistakable sound of a  bolt being thrown and the door swung open.

"Hi, Jack, thanks for coming," Blair greeted his old friend and co-worker.

Kelso maneuvered his wheelchair through the narrow space of the door. "Problems with the 'mob'?" he asked, nodding his head as Blair locked the door again.

"Yeah, the reporters are still on the hunt," Blair sighed and sat down behind his desk. "Want some coffee?" he offered, already opening his desk drawer for a clean mug.

"No, thanks." Jack's hands roamed over the folder he'd brought. "Blair, I know you asked me for this--," he began.

"And I really appreciate your help, Jack. I know it's not something you would do for everyone. Believe me, I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't absolutely necessary," Blair interrupted the teacher. He looked at the older man expectantly. //You really don't want to see this Sandburg.// Blair thought to himself.

"You really don't want to see this," Kelso gave sound to his thoughts, startling Blair for a second. "It's nothing like your usual bedtime reading."

"I'm aware of that," Blair replied slowly, while in a remote corner of his head a voice threatened him he would regret this. "I need to know what covert ops involve, need to know more details."

"Why?"

"Why?" Puzzled, Blair looked up and stared into Kelso's eyes. The short question caught him off guard and left him speechless. The anthropologist opened his mouth, but his brain didn't provide the logical, reasonable explanation Kelso waited for. //Why?//

"I'm interested in the subject," Sandburg answered vaguely after a long period of silence.

Kelso nodded, discovering the lie for what it was. "I'm not sure if I should give you this, Blair. I mean, Ellison's under a lot of pressure, and I know you want to know more solid information without all the colouring the press and media do, but..." he paused and locked his gaze with Blair. "...this heavy stuff. I would suggest you ask your partner about it before you dig into the matter behind his back."

Blair took a sip from his coffee. "I tried, Jack. Jim is not very cooperative here. I understand he can't tell, but I wished he'd ... let me in on it." Sensing Kelso's protest, he raised his hands in a calming gesture. "I know, I know, it's top-secret and he's not supposed to tell."

The older man sighed heavily and handed Blair the folder. "It's all in here. MO, training, example cases, everything."

The student took the folder hesitantly and placed it on his desk without opening it. "Thanks, Jack. This really matters, you know."

Kelso nodded. "You'll also find an address and phone in there. If you have any questions, call Dr. Leeds in D.C." At Blair's questioning glance, the professor explained, "He's a psychiatrist dealing with the training, but also with  the mental trauma of covert operations." The man went silent for a moment. "If I were you, I wouldn't open that folder."

Blair swallowed. "I need to know, Jack. You wouldn't understand."

Kelso smiled sadly. "Blair, it's probably none of my business to say this, but did it ever occur to you that Jim is trying to protect you?"

The young man didn't reply.

***

The air was thick and smoke filled. Voices, laughing, chatting, shouting, mingled at high volume, making any normal conversation impossible. That was, of course, if something like a 'normal conversation' could take place in "The Onion". Loud music prevented any word right from the start, and the guests surely didn't choose the pub for academic discussions.

It was way after midnight, but the place was still crowded with people of all ages, ethnic background and profession. The loudspeakers blared with techno rhythms, destroying eardrums, and numbing the level of sensitivity.

Blair Sandburg raised a glass to his mouth. The golden-brown liquid oozed down his throat, leaving his head spinning like a roller-coaster.

//Hey, it actually starts to taste better.// he thought grimly, taking another long sip. Shuddering, the anthropologist placed the now empty glass on the counter and waved the bartender for a refill.

The young man couldn't recall the last time he got drunk voluntarily. Maybe this was the first at all.

//There's a first time for everything.// Blair raised the new glass to a toast to himself. Enjoying the burning sensation as the whiskey coated his tongue and throat, he pushed the long hair out of his face.

"To covert ops!" he said, his voice drowned by the noise around him. Hiccuping, he wiped his mouth. "To Jim, my 'Blessed Protector'."

Actually, he wasn't the type who tried to drown his bad mood in alcohol and, when he started drinking a few hours ago, his sober mind already knew he'd regret this big time in the morning. However, Jack Kelso's report had shaken him to the core. An operator's manual of pain and horror compiling methods and instruments of so-called interrogation from A[gony] to Z[apping]. The human brain never seemed to cease inventing new terrible ways to inflict pain on people. For what? To get information? To prevent a crime? Or, the lowest reason of all, to punish?

//And your partner was one of them.//

//What did he do to that McAllister guy?// Blair gulped down another long sip of the whiskey and rested his head on one of his hands. //Did Jim participate in the same atrocities the report offered? Beating the man? Humiliating him? Depriving him of sleep, food, water?//

"Hey, sweetie, care if I join you?" The melodious voice spoke to him from behind. Before Blair could reject or accept her offer, a young woman occupied the seat beside him. "Hi, there, I'm Clarice."

With dull blues eyes Blair took in her appearance. //Oh, yeah, definitely female.// The young man blinked, staring at her breasts like he'd never seen those anatomic features before. //Oooops, yep, female.//

"What's your name?" Clarice asked and scooted closer to him.

A hand stroked his knee, trailing slowly up and down his thigh, small, fragile fingers tickling the insides of his leg. "I'm ---the <hiccup Chief around here," Sandburg struggled to get the words around his lazy tongue.

"Bad day?" the girl asked sympathetically, eyeing the half-empty glass of liquor in his hands.

Blair nodded. "Sort of."

"Maybe I can get your mind off things, huh?" Clarice suggested seductively, her hand moving up his thigh and reaching his crotch. A long, red fingernail scratched at the denim of his jeans.

Blair sighed. The police observer placed his glass back on the counter and encircled Clarice's waist with one arm. "That would be nice," he murmured drowsy; His hands clumsily searched his pockets for some cash to pay the check.

***

His body finally gave up. Convulsing with each violent jolt of electricity, the man let go. His muscles tensed and weakened in a horrifying rhythm... then the darkness claimed him and an unnatural silence settled over his prison.

***

Still two weeks earlier...

It felt wrong.  The unmerciful pounding in his head added to his discomfort. As Blair slowly drifted towards consciousness, the feeling of displacement mingled with growing regret surfaced. Opening his eyes carefully, the blue pools were squeezed shut immediately, the sudden brightness sending a piercing pain through his skull. His body ached like after a bad work out, his head, oh man, don't mention the head...

Blair groaned and rolled over on his side. His arm connected with the soft body beside him...with the soft body beside him...soft... With a start, the young man opened his eyes. Early sunlight illuminated the room, shadows casting strange images on the wall and ceiling.

"Oh my God..." The curse left his mouth hoarsely as the anthropologist took in the rumpled bedcovers, the pillows on the floor, clothes piled on the nearby chair and drawer.

The girl. Her sleeping form was tangled in the blanket, one leg dangling out, her naked breasts only partly covered. Blair's heart began racing in the onset of a panic attack, watching the girl's chest steadily rising and falling.

//Clarice.// Blair's foggy brain provided the name and with it, the events of last night rushed back to him. His body felt spent, his mind searched feverishly to excuse the betrayal he had committed. He'd betrayed both of them. Clarice by pretending it had been fun, and, if he was honest with himself, his muscles told him it indeed had been a fun—that he had enjoyed the night. And Jim.

//What kind of asshole are you Sandburg?// With growing disgust, Blair stared down at himself, noticing in the traces of their love-making.

//Love-making?//

It had been nothing but sex—a hard, relentless fucking bringing the relief he'd craved—and now the sorrow he felt. A total physical reaction of his body, right? Hot nerve endings had gone out of control, ignoring the message his foggy brain would've sent if he'd been able to think straight at that moment. Absolutely physical, no love, no butterflies in the stomach, just—need.

//Need?//

The word circled through his head, echoing accusingly, and Blair knew it didn't have much to do with ...love-making....or need, but everything with ---

//Revenge?//

Revenge for the pain Jim had inflicted upon him during the last weeks... and on that poor guy 10 years ago? Revenge for the simple fact he shuddered at Ellison's touch? Revenge for the love he still felt in his heart? Or was it...

//Punishment?//

Blair sat up and the room started spinning around him. Thor's hammer viciously tormented his head, and the police observer struggled to keep his balance. Steadying himself with both hands, groping for support at the bed and drawers, he made it to his feet. He moaned and held his stomach as a wave of nausea hit him. Breathing through his mouth, Blair remained perfectly still for a few moments, his eyes estimating the distance to the bathroom.

//Where the hell are we?// The gap in his memory wouldn't provide the answer. Carefully, Blair wobbled forward only to stop after a two small steps. The anthropologist swallowed the threatening bile rising in his throat.

//Breathe deep....breathe slow.// The old advice Jim Ellison had given him when they'd found that battered body throw out of an airplane flashed through Blair's head. Casting a look at the bed and the sleeping girl again, Blair's hand loosened its grip on the bed railing. His stomach grumbled in protest, a surge of pain flowing through his guts. His eyes closed momentarily, but the room started whirling again.

Panting heavily against the discomfort the hangover brought, Blair's glance fell onto the discharged condom... Pink rubber, soft looking and probably strawberry flavoured  to eliminate the salty taste of his semen.

Had he even enjoyed the blow job?

***

Three phone calls already. It was merely 7.30 a.m., and Ellison's day already deserved as many swear words as he could imagine.

//Idiots.// Padding barefoot down the stairs, Jim played with the belt of his robe, pulling and tearing in a frustrated motion. Some mindless jerk had been the first caller, startling him out of his sleep. Obscenities, curses and threats were delivered in a hushed voice, haunting him and promising revenge. Jim had hung up the phone almost immediately, some distinctive words of his own delivered in return.

His attempt to go back to sleep was interrupted about half an hour later when the first reporter asked if he felt up to an exclusive interview to "clear the air". Tonight, Peter McAllister would go public and tell his story on one of those talk shows and, of course, the mob hungered for a reaction from Captain James Ellison.

Last, but not least, the dark voice of Simon Banks roared from the other end of the line at a few minutes past 7, requesting his presence at the station a.s.a.p. New leads in the Franklin case awaited him and Simon's hints didn't sound too promising.

Short: Jim's mood was below the freezing point before this FUCKING day had even started yet.

From the bathroom, the detective could hear the sound of rushing water. Jim sighed and walked over to the kitchen counter. His lover hadn't come home last night. It had happened quite a few times before that the young man had crashed at his office instead of heading home and snuggle into bed with Jim. Lately, it had happened too often. Blair would come home shortly after dawn, showering, dressing and, if both their spirits were up, sharing a mutual breakfast or gulping down a cup of coffee. The first time, Jim had almost freaked, staying up all night to wait up for his partner. Then Blair had walked into the loft with an innocent look on his face, his eyes reflecting sorrow, but also a calmness that made Jim wince. Somehow Jim feared Blair would—

The older man had never finished the thought for himself. Imagining Blair would .... made him want to cry out, made him want to embrace the young man with his arms, devour his mouth and never let go off him again. Jim had never noticed that ever-present fear. The fear of losing his lover, his best friend to something worse than a bullet or an accident: Jim Ellison.

"Asshole of the Great City," the Sentinel mumbled as he opened the cupboards to retrieve their breakfast utilities. Preparing the food and coffee, Jim tried to dismiss the painful thoughts invading his mind at the early hour. He counted the spoonfuls of coffee for the coffee-maker, one, two, three, four..., two cups, a knife, bread....The toaster needed fixing again, shit, maybe eggs would do, where's the pan? Jim concentrated on his tasks, and  he let his senses drift outward.

Sound—in the basement, Mrs. Matthews and her little 7-year old daughter had an argument about the clothes the young lady wanted to wear to school which "mooooom, please" thought inappropriate.

Sight—millions of tiny dust particles danced through the loft, making the Sentinel almost shudder with disgust.

Taste—salt, sugar, vanilla extract.... no bad milk today.

Jim grinned remembering one of Sandburg's first experiments on him.

Touch—He'd never noticed that the smooth surface of the kitchen counter was so...bumpy.

Smell—Shampoo, herbal aftershave, Blair in general, garlic...

Jim's head jerked up!

//This isn't possible.//

"This isn't possible." Turning around, the detective leaned against the counter and intensely watched the closed bathroom door. He extended his sense of smell, focusing on the young man in the shower...his clothes on the floor, underwear in the hamper.

//No. NO.//

"No, you're wrong Ellison," Jim lied to himself, knowing too well his senses were as accurate as a lab analysis. But sometimes specimens get mixed up, and the analysis is useless in court... Grasping the small ray of hope, Jim waited.

//Chief....//

"Please, please, don't do this to me," the tall man whispered staring at the door and trying to turn off the awful smell that assaulted his nose.

The scent of betrayal.

The shower shut off and a few minutes later the door to the bathroom opened. At the same instant, Jim whirled around, busying himself with the coffee maker.

"Morning, Jim," Blair greeted, his voice low and raw. To his surprise, the young man already was fully dressed

"You look like you could use a good coffee," Jim judged from the pale expression Blair wore..

//Did she wear you out, Chief?//

"You  wear yourself out last night, huh?" Grinning, Jim handed him a steaming coffee mug.

Blair accepted the mug gratefully. "Thanks, man." Sipping the hot liquid, the young man peered over the rim of his mug, eyeing the older man carefully. "Sorry, I didn't come home last night. We—there was a party I was invited to."

//Very good, Sandburg. Your heart rate is almost steady.// "As long as you guys had fun," Jim mumbled and started cutting the bread. "Want some jelly?" He groped some strawberry jam on his index finger and seductively offered it to his young lover. Deliberately.

Watching the strong body in front of him, the gentle smile, the easy gesture of affection, an iron fist closed around Blair's heart and threatened to squeeze all air, all life and all love out of him. The anthropologist stepped forward. With one hand he steadied Jim's and took the finger into his mouth. The sweet jam coated his tongue and, when Blair's lips closed around the digit, he felt Jim's finger tenderly probing the soft tissue. What would have been sensual just few weeks ago, now became an ordeal. The urge to gag increased. Carefully Blair opened his mouth and moved backwards.

"We also have chocolate mousse," Jim licked his own finger, tasting the remains of the jelly, the aroma of Blair's mouth and...

The Sentinel grabbed a towel and wiped off his finger. "Or what about some bacon?" he asked, throwing the dish towel into the sink.

"I'm not hungry," Blair announced.

"Are you coming down with something, hon?" Ellison reached out to place a hand on his love's forehead, but ceased his movement when Blair flinched away. "You okay?" Jim probed, wondering if he really wanted to know the truth. He knew already. It was a perverse powerplay, demanding to hear it from Blair's mouth, hear the pleasant voice telling him he'd slept with someone else. And he wanted to see the anguish in Blair's eyes.

The police observer swallowed hard. He didn't want to say it; he didn't want to admit he'd been drunk enough to sleep with that girl, or that he'd hated himself the most right now. However, it was a perverse powerplay, demanding to see the reaction on Jim's face, to see those piercing blue eyes turn anguished... Blair wanted to punish him again for this own pain.

"I'm okay, Jim," Blair replied, trying to find the right words - or the most hurting ones. Deep inside, his soul bled, his heart broke , but a dark corner of his being delivered the next words to the surface. No foreplay, no euphemisms, no "Jim, I must tell you something", just plain and simple:

"I spent the night with someone." "I know." Plain and simple.

"You know?" Blair repeated, his and anger blossomed at the lack of Jim's emotions. "That's all you have to say?" //Come ON, Jim, hurt me, tell me you hate me, give me a reason to hate you.//

"What do you want me to say, Chief?" Jim crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Don't you even wanna know why I did it?" Blair felt his anger fading and the hurt took over. He wanted to be screamed at, wanted to have a reason to cry, wanted a reason to feel what he felt. All he got was indifference.

Jim watched him for a moment, studied the big blue eyes and returned the firm gaze. Then he shrugged. "No."

"What?" Only Blair Sandburg managed to put all his emotions, all his love, all his sorrows into one single word. As he vocalized the dislief dripping from the 'what', Jim saw everything and yet wanted to see more.  More... pain.

"It's been - how long? - two weeks since I—fucked you?" Jim spat the word and was pleased to see the flash of pain crossing his lover's face. "You probably needed the sexual release and, since you apparently didn't want me to be the one, you turned to somebody else. No big deal."

"Release? So this -," Blair gestured with his hands including the two men and the apartment, "has always been about sex, no more, no less? We both satisfied ourselves because our bodies reacted biologically? What about the ten thousands "I love yous" you crooned into my ear, huh?" The young man smiled knowing he was about to beat Ellison with his own words.

Suddenly, the Sentinel lurched forward and grabbed Blair's upper arms fiercely. His fingers dug into the flesh, making the anthropologist gasp with the wave of pain. Just as Blair opened his mouth in a protesting moan, Jim's lips pressed hard on his, his wet tongue forcefully gaining entrance.

The violent kiss only last seconds. Before Blair could even think of struggling against the vise-like grip on his arms, Jim broke the contact, whispering into his ear, "If I wanted to I could take you right here on the floor and get what my BODY craves." With that he shoved the young man against the kitchen counter.

Blair's heart hammered against his ribs, and he knew the Sentinel could hear it without much effort. Despite his sudden realization the man in front of him could easily kill him with a flick of his wrist, the young man raised his hand. It was a poor gesture, but satisfying yet to see the flicker of shock in the older man's eyes as Blair simply wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

***

They wouldn't let him die. Fate was cruel. As much as he willed his body and mind to go and accept the eternal darkness, a gruesome stroke of destiny wouldn't allow this last mercy.

Pain. Strangely enough, the aches and cramps had eased, or maybe he'd simply gotten used to the sensation of constant suffering; he couldn't tell.

Humiliation. A small part of his brain wanted to feel embarrassed at the pitiful sight he must present. The odors of his own bodily fluids should've assaulted his nose. Sweat, blood, urine. However, they didn't bother him anymore.

//Loss.// A whimper came over the man's bloody lips, resembling the sound of a heart-wrenching sob.

He remembered.

He'd lost...everything.

****

One week earlier...

//Enough was enough.// Simon Banks chewed on his unlit cigar and stood up. Stomping around his desk, he wrenched his office door open. The glass door banged against the wall, and all heads turned into his direction. The dark man would've smiled, satisfied at the startled reactions, if he noticed it.

"Ellison! Sandburg!" he barked, then added in a low, almost threatening voice, "My office, now." He would've call it "facinating?"—the sight in front of him; but, as he watched the two men—his best team, hell, two of his best friends—slowly walking towards him, he was simply mortified.

Ellison stood up from behind his desk, grabbed a folder and, without spending a confirming nod at his partner, strode over to the captain. The detective looked like hell, which would probably even be an understatement. His expression was blank, his face pale. He'd forgotten to shave his morning, the dark stubble giving him a sick pallor.

Sandburg's appearance wasn't promising either. Those impressive blue eyes shone with a sadness that startled Simon. The usual sparkle was gone, and it seemed like the energetic fire was being extinguished . Looking up from the coffee maker now, Simon was under the impression Blair'd just woken up. The kid flinched at Simon's shouting, and Blair's look of being lost and alone in the world made the captain cringe.

Without saying a word, the two men entered Simon's office. Like well-trained dogs, they  stood in front of the desk, waiting for a command. At Simon's nod, they automatically sat down.

"What's wrong with the two of you?" Banks began without much ado.

"Sir?" Jim raised his eyebrows.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Simon could see Blair grimace at Ellison's feigned innocence. "You know what I mean," Banks replied.

Jim shrugged. "It's private, captain."

Blair nodded but didn't meet Simon's eyes. "Nothing to worry about, Simon," he tried a poor reassurance.

"I beg to differ, Sandburg," Banks retorted. "For a week or so , you guys have acted like...," Lacking an appropriate comparison Simon sighed. "....strange." He looked from Ellison to his partner. " You barely talk to each other and when you do, it's only associated with work." Figuring it would be best to attack the anthropologist with his question, Simon added, "as far as your talkative manner is concerned, that's novel."

"Does this conversation concern our job?" Jim asked.

Simon sat down on the edge of his desk, facing the two men, his eyes warm with the concern of a worried father. "No, it concerns you."

Jim stood up. "If has nothing to do with my work, or Sandburg's, there's nothing tomore to say, sir."

"Sandburg?"

The young man followed Jim's movement and stood up.

//For once they agree on something,// Simon thought bitterly, watching the young man's quick glance at his partner.

"With all due respect, Simon, this is none of your business," Blair said quietly. "As Jim said it's between him and me. " He joined Ellison at the door.

"That's all, sir?" Jim inquired, a notch too polite for Simon's taste.

"Does it have to do with this Sentinel thing?" Simon didn't give up, grasping for any explanation he could get his hands on. To his surprise, Sandburg laughed out loud.

"Simon, we can't blame every shitty thing that happens on Jim's senses. This time it's pure and plain James Ellison." Seeing the confusion flashing over Banks' face, he added quickly, "Don't worry though, we're 100%."

With that the door closed behind the two men, leaving the captain puzzled and worried about what had transpired between the two partners.

The phone rang.

***

Yellow tape separated the crime scene from the rest of the house. Bright lights illuminated the place, a police officer roaming around and securing the premises. Occasionally a reporter's camera flashed from behind the barrier. It appeared to be an ordinary crime scene—a homicide, as horrible as it was, but still terribly regular these days. However, nothing was ordinary anymore.

Clifford Franklin was dead.

//Finally// Jim thought bitterly, entering the victim's bedroom. His kidnappers, now his killers, had cold-bloodedly disposed of the corpse in the man's own house where Franklin's parents had found him.

"Oh man....," Blair groaned at the sight of the dead body, turning away momentarily.

Jim reached out and touched his partner's shoulder lightly. "Take it easy, Ch--." He went silent,  his face taking on a shocked expression when Blair flinched away from the comforting touch. "Whatever," the detective mumbled, frustration replacing the concern. When simple touches repulsed Blair, what would happen to...

//Us?// Ellison banned the upsetting thought to a remote corner of his mind and focused his attention on the victim.

Dan Wolfe, the medical examiner, scribbled on a chart, writing down undecipherable words and medical terms. The big man circled and underlined certain things. He looked up, smiling friendly as always.

"Hi, Jim. Blair." He wrote a final comment on his chart and straightened up. "That's one big mess we have here." Wolfe shook his head. "It'll be a feast for the media."

"What's the cause of death?" Jim asked, sensing Blair's presence beside him.

The ME grimaced. "Internal bleeding. Caused by a bullet wound in his rectal area." Adding another note to his report, Dan added, "His large and small intestines are all over the place and it looks like someone shoved..."

"Excuse me," the words came over Jim's lips before the doctor could finish the gruesome sentence. Two pairs of puzzled eyes met his. "I need to..." The Sentinel rushed out of the room. Locating the bathroom, he threw the door shut behind him.

"That's actually always my line," Blair muttered surprised.

Dan chuckled. "You know, Sandburg, I always say it depends on what you've eaten. Soup or steak, fries, salad... If your stomach is comfortable with the food, you're safe to view and hear stuff like this." He laughed. "My wife can't make mashed potatoes with spinach when I'm at work."

Blair nodded mutely. He didn't make an attempt to check on his partner. Instead the young man carefully leaned against one of the chairs, waiting for Ellison's return.

Dr. Wolfe closed his medical bag. "I'm finished here. Tell Jimbo he'll get my report as soon as possible, okay?" He patted on Blair's shoulder. "Maybe it was your cooking," he joked.

The ME left the crime scene just as Jim emerged from the bathroom. The detective looked pale, almost shaken, and the wet spots on his shirt indicated he'd washed his face, splashing water to cool down his...what?

//Emotions? Surprise? Shock?// Blair mused, pushing himself off the back of the chair he'd leaned at.

"You okay?" The anthropologist asked, his voice neutral.

Jim scanned the half-covered body of Clifford Franklin with keens eyes. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Blair observed. Part of him wanted to feel disinterested, cold, but his heart ached to simply hug the big man and gently make him feel better. The younger man couldn't tell which part of him was stronger.

"You've forgot to turn on your puppy-dog eyes, Sandburg," Jim replied coldly and knelt down by the corpse.

The words cut through Blair's body like a sword. He felt his aching heart start to bleed, and his own anger and pain returning. Swallowing hard, he knew Jim could hear his heartbeat, the thunder inside him, and Blair struggled to calm his emotions.

"Are your senses picking up anything?" the police observer inquired.

"Don't know." Jim inhaled deeply, the gust of air turning into a sharp exhale of breath as the overwhelming scent of blood and bodily fluids assaulted his sensitive nose. The Sentinel shuddered.  "I can't." The statement barely left his mouth when a soothing touch of Blair's hand on his back helped him to relax and focus.

"I'm here, Jim. Listen to my voice and try again," Blair instructed gently, his hand never leaving the Sentinel's back. "Trust me," he whispered.

The detective closed his eyes. With the room deserted now, they could risk using his extraordinary abilities—with Blair at his side, he dared to go as deep as possible. Jim's mouth opened slightly, his breathing becoming even...  Concentrating on the hand on his back, the subtle stroking of Blair's warm fingers, Jim let his senses flow.

Blair's scent, Blair's touch, Blair's soothing voice. The sensual information led to vivid mental images in his head.

Blair's hair, Blair's eyes, Blair's body.

"Try to stay with me, Jim," the anthropologist misjudged the Sentinel's deep level of concentration. Rubbing Jim's back, Blair stepped closer.

In Jim's secret dream, the smaller hand traveled further, massaging his taunt shoulder muscles. A second hand joined its mate, doubling the caress. From behind the hands roamed over his shoulder, collar bone, and into the opening of his shirt. Nipples grew hard at the subtle tweaking and rubbing. He imagined a gasp escaping his mouth as Blair carefully pinched the sensitive nub. Desire raged through Jim's body, starting in his throbbing little peaks, surging into his groin. The mane of dark curls tickled his face as Blair bent over, kissing his face and searching for his mouth. The hands never left their targets, long fingers twirled his nipples, teasing, pleasing and making him writhe with pleasure. For a second, the magnificent ministrations ceased, and Jim was about to utter a complaint. However, he watched with fascination and growing need when Blair probed Jim's lips with his index finger, inducing the detective to invite the digit. Licking and sucking greedily, the loss was overwhelming once the finger withdrew again. Jim opened his mouth to protest weakly. Moments later though, the finger, slick with his own saliva, moistened his nipples. Blair's mouth came down on his while squeezing the erect nub.

"Jim?! Hey, Jim... Come back to me, listen to my voice....," the concerned voice of his Guide penetrated the fog of his day dream. The roaming hand on his back increased its motions, trying frantically to bring him out of what must seem to Blair as a zone-out. "Breathe, man, deep and steady... Yes, slowly... Now come back to me."

Feeling the sudden tenderness in his groin, his balls tightening dangerously, the Sentinel followed his partner's instructions. Inhale, exhale, concentrate, breathe... Jim opened his eyes.

"Jim? Are you with me now?" Blair knelt beside him, watching him with those incredible, keen blue eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," Jim shook his head to clear the erotic cobwebs.

"Did you pick something up?" Blair asked, his hand supporting Jim's back as the older man stood up.

Jim sighed. He hadn't needed to try anymore and pick up more clues at this crime scene. He knew who'd done this. Everything was so clear all of a sudden; the detective could've burst out into hysterical laughter at the fact he hadn't seen it before.

"Yes, thanks, Chief," Jim replied.

Blair let his hand fall and turned around. "Okay, I guess you can tell Simon without me, right? Gotta get some work done at the U."

The police observer left the room. He'd accomplished his job helping Jim with his senses. Like he'd promised three years ago.

***

They'd laughed, enjoying the ordeal he suffered, making fun of every whimper or gasp of pain. His hands were tied up behind his back - in handcuffs judging from the cold metal. Agony shot through his body with each movement. Ropes encircled his ankles, bringing his burned and beaten thighs together. Cold air brushed over his skin; he shivered and his teeth clattered against the gag in his mouth.

Moving. Vibrations. Darkness. The different sensations confused his mind, causing nausea to torment his empty stomach. He was in a moving vehicle. A car? A van? The man tried to extract more information from his environment, but before he could muster enough strength, he was lifted up. A gust of wind, an ice-cold breeze swept over his exposed body. Hinges squeaked. Traffic. Cars.

Instinctively, the man wanted to reach out, to extend his arms stopping the violent impact his body would be subjected to any second. Trapped in his restraints, the man grunted once as he hit the asphalt.

Darkness claimed him.  Finally.

***

Five days earlier...

Of course, no one believed him. That is - no one would've believed him, if he told anybody.  Jim had debated about tell Simon or Sandburg what he'd found out at the Franklin crime scene. But with only his unique senses providing evidence, it would be impossible to make  his story believable. Surely, the two men would believe him, but what then? It was far-fetched at best for any outsider, and even Ellison was only following a hunch, his instincts - and his memories.

The medical report had proven Dan Wolfe's initial statement. Clifford Franklin had died of extreme blood loss due to severe injuries in his digestive track. Lab analysis found traces of gun power in the remains of the man's ripped off anus where barrel had been brutally inserted and fired.

Jim knew.

Franklin's killers, or, singular, killer, eventually had made the mistake that would reveal his face. Nothing else, the ransom notes to the victim's family, the phone calls, would've led to him. A perfect crime - with simply the wrong method of execution.

Needling his truck through the rush hour traffic of Cascade, Jim swallowed hard, memories racing back to him like they had so often these last few weeks. He felt the searching glance of his partner resting on his face, but the detective wasn't ready to offer an explanation as to where they were heading. Blair simply stared making the older man ponder if he were purposefully trying  to make him uncomfortable. A bitter smile played at the corner of Jim's mouth. The anthropologist was probably adding mental notes to his thesis.

The cold barrel of a gun.

Black metal, shining in the soft light. Polished for the mere task it was used for ten years ago - and probably even today should an interrogation go wrong or didn't  bring satisfying results. Who knew?

The long shaft probed the poor captive's ass, first touching the quivering cheeks, tracing the delicate cleft, and finally tickling the spasming orifice with the hard breath of its deadly promise. Eyes wide with horror, the once strong voice reduced to weeping, pleading little sounds. For a last time, the question was asked, a whisper into the prisoner's ears. The gun prodded deeper, causing a tiny trickle of blood, and emphasizing the seriousness of the threat. Once the trigger was cocked, Peter McAllister had screamed out his horror, the information pouring out of his mouth in sheer panic.

Fear could work miracles. The trigger was never actually been pulled. They'd never intended to. Just... a sick way to reach the goal.

And now?

Revenge was sweet.

//...like love.// Jim abruptly stomped on the brakes at a red light. Beside him, Blair jerked forward in the seatbelt, those damn soft curls flying around his head.

Holding onto the dashboard, the young man threw him a look the Sentinel couldn't quite read. Annoyance mingled with the threat of laughter and pity perhaps. "So, care to tell me what we are going to do?" Blair asked calmly, relaxing back into the passenger seat.

"We're gonna have a little talk with a suspect." Turning left, Jim pulled the truck into a halt. The engine died in the same instant Jim released his seatbelt.

Blair raised his eyebrows. "Where? Here?" The police observer looked around, discovering nothing that would deserve the detective's scrutiny.

"Over there," Jim pointed to the entrance of The Cascade Towers, one of the city's first-class hotels. "Stay here, if you want," Ellison offered, mockery coloring his voice. He opened the driver's door.

"You wish...," Blair muttered and climbed out of the truck, following his partner into the noble hotel.

***

 

<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN">The voice haunted him in his dreams. His worst nightmares carried that dreadful melody, threatening and deriding him over and over again. Every time he closed his eyes. Ten years ago, and sometimes even today, the pictures came back to him.

Now the voice breathed down his neck.

"You made a mistake," it said.

Slowly, struggling hard to make his legs move, Peter McAllister turned around. Out of the corner of his eyes he already saw him, the figure of the tall, large man turning his blood into ice. Then he turned to face the man.

"Captain Ellison." Like at the Cop of the Year ceremony, McAllister didn't know what else to say. His mouth was dry whereas the palms of his hands became damp with sweat. Sweat of fear.

"You made a mistake," Ellison repeated, his bright blue eyes blazing with fire.

At his side, the detective's partner - Sandburg, right? - exchanged uncomfortable glances between the two men. The kid was definitely uneasy with the confrontation. He even looked quite apprehensive. Papers had it he and Ellison were lovers. Despite his fear, McAllister smirked inwardly.

"What...," McAllister cleared his throat. "...what do you mean?"

The detective grinned. "What do I mean?" Chuckling, he shook his head, in mock disbelief. "You want to know what the FUCK I mean?" Ellison produced his gun out of the holster at his back.

"JIM!" The long-haired guy warned, his voice stern. However, McAllister mused fearfully, if Ellison lost control, the kid wouldn't be able to prevent it. Involuntarily, McAllister stepped back and felt the obstacle of the wall. There was no way to run, no escape, no rescue.

"Take it easy, Sandburg, this slime isn't worth the bullet," Jim spat. He clicked   cartridge out of the pistol, letting it fall to the floor. "See? I don't need a fucking gun to deal with him." He wildly gestured with the weapon. "A polished barrel? Shining metal? Hard and cold? Do you remember the feeling? Do you have scars? Does it hurt to shit? Tell me about. Tell me how it felt when you pissed your pants!"

"You are SICK, Ellison," McAllister brought over his lips, his back pressing into the concrete wall.

"Oh, really?" Jim smiled menacingly. "Yeah, could be. These last weeks certainly have had the potential to drive me crazy." Jim stepped even closer, invading McAllister's personal space. "What about you? How sick must you be to kill somebody to take out your SWEET revenge on me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" McAllister protested, raising his hands in a defending gesture.

A piercing scream cut through the abandoned corridor of The Cascade Towers! The outcry of pain was accompanied by the chilling cracking of breaking bones. In one swift, almost elegant, movement Ellison grabbed McAllister's hand, turning, twisting and breaking the man's index and middle finger.

Sandburg shouted something, but the Sentinel seemed oblivious to the rest of the world. Drilling his empty gun into McAllister's chest, he cocked it.

"Let me refresh your memory, Pete," Jim growled. "You couldn't get over it, right? In all those years you planned your revenge, make me suffer, right? Knowing all too well there would be no way for me to come out and tell the public what sort of miserable, low, crawling, spineless little shit you were, right?"

"NO!" McAllister howled as the pressure on his broken bones increased.

"NO?" Only using the strength of one hand, Jim dominated his opponent's body, forcing him back into the wall. "You were really smart, man. Terrific, an excellent plan I give you that. Destroying my reputation by making an appearance and spilling your guts, telling your story. But why the Franklin kid? Why did you kill him? Just for fun?"

"NO!" The captive gasped trying unsuccessfully to get free of the deadly grip. "I...didn't....kill anybody," he brought out between gritted teeth.

"Jim, let him go!" Blair's voice startled both men, bringing them back to from the one-sided power play. McAllister threw the young man a desperate glance, hoping he could calm the enraged detective. "Please, man, don't do this," Blair added and stepped into Jim's personal space. Carefully, he put a hand on the arm that held McAllister captive.

"Not before I get my answer," Jim grunted, forcing even more pain on the trembling figure in front of him. "Why Franklin?"

"I didn't know him...," McAllister's face was distorted with man, his knees starting to buckle.

"WHY?!!" Jim barked. "Why did you kill him that way? Is that your version of payback? Hurting others instead of trying your luck with me?"

"Jim! Damnit, Ellison, stop it!" Blair's hand encircled Jim's upper arm. "If he killed Franklin, we'll prove it, you hear me?" The police observer stopped his litany, when his partner turned his head into his direction. Ice-cold eyes locked with Blair's.

"Fuck you, Sandburg, or you're next."

The anthropologist flinched away, his hand letting go off Jim's arm immediately. It wasn't the harsh words that cut through his body, it was the calmness, the carelessness with which they were delivered. No shouting, no yelling. For the first time in his life, Blair was truly afraid of the man in front of him. The young man backed away.

"Just take it easy, Jim," Blair pleaded, following a whisper of his heart, he added, "I love you, man." A weak sentiment which usually was the most powerful of all.

***

Touch (agony); Sound (noises, words, commands);  Sight (bright lights, darkness, bright lights again); Smell (antiseptics, urine, sweat); Taste (blood).

Movements. Probing, prodding, piercing. Hands. Touching him, inflicting more pain on the man's damaged body.

Cold. He was cold.

A raw moan came over the man's lips. His throat too dry for another sound, he tried to move his muscles to escape the reawakening pain in his broken limbs. Someone touched him again. He felt gloved hands on his most private parts and instinctively he drew his legs up.

//No....//

Voices. Loud voices near his ear. Distant sounds from a loudspeaker... from a remote place, he heard sirens.

The hands touched him again, and a sob worked its way up his throat. //No more, please.//

A voice spoke to him. A stranger he hadn't heard before. Gentle. Asking him to relax.   Resembling another voice he knew in his heart. Calling his name.

"Detective Ellison? Can you hear me?"

***

Earlier....

The man hadn't uttered a word, hadn't screamed or cried out in pain as they started the 'lesson in evil'. His lower lip oozed with blood, the raw flesh making every intake of breath unbearable. The blood ran over his chin or, when his lower body was elevated like now, the red thick mass trickled over his face and into his nose.

He had no recollections about what day it was. His conscious mind had simply forgotten about the date, the year, the name of the current President, whatever. Nothing mattered anymore. There was nothing left worth fighting for; he'd lost everything, his humanity, his love, and, even his dignity.

Suddenly though, he remembered a name. His memory struggled against the pain. Just a name. If it was his own, a friend's, or his tormenter's, the captive couldn't tell. He finally screamed, his voice reaching a high piercing sound, as a gleaming cigar burned his anus.

Who was... Jim Ellison?

---

If applied properly, torture usually proved a very effective tool to obtain access to secret information or push forward an interrogation. A Q & A of horror, whereas the poor victim faced his execution as soon as the goal of breaking the suspect was achieved. Thus it could be slow and tremendously painful or fast and... tremendously painful. It was all part of a gruesome game of power, dominance and humiliation.

Irrational thoughts raced through the man's mind as he slowly drifted towards consciousness. His captors hadn't asked any questions yet, hadn't pressed for top-secret governmental information he might give away if the pain warranted. Still hovering under the surface of awareness, the man knew the ordeal had just begun; the questions would come eventually, sooner or later he would be broken, crawling on all fours and begging for mercy. He'd seen prisoners of war do that. Hopefully he would die first.

Or maybe they simply enjoyed watching a human being writhing in agony? He had no way of knowing, foreboding shadowed his mind when a brutal slap to his face fully brought him back to consciousness. His body throbbed. The odor of sulfur <matches and tobacco <cigars lingered in the air, tickling his nose. The man coughed, the sound turning into an anguished moan as the heat on his inner thighs became unbearable. Hot ashes seared tender skin, heavy rain drops of fire pouring down on his groin.

He probably deserved all this, didn't he?

---

The cigar returned.

An almost comical relief washed over the man's face as the hot tip touched his stomach, leaving his more sensitive body parts at ease for a moment. Waves of pain still surged through his groin and ass where the tender flesh had been seared. Surprisingly, they'd spared his cock and balls. For now at least.

The captive grunted, his throat too raw from screaming and lack of water. Touching his navel, the cigar was carefully stubbed out. Stomach muscles tensed up against the pain, a hoarse "you son of a bitch" filling the air, a poor lament against the laughter of his torturers.

Someone took his hand in a tender grip. Turning his head to one side, the man opened his eyes slowly, hoping to see the familiar face he knew he'd never see again. The hope shattered into the piercing little pieces when the gentle grasp turned into agony. The little finger of his right hand was snapped. Before the hiss of pain left his mouth, the steady pressure moved to the next digit, breaking the second finger like a rotten branch.

How long had he been there?

***

A cool and moist cloth touched his face. The man jerked in his bonds, survival instincts kicking in as he expected another wave of agony. Sore muscled tensed up, and he turned his head away. He shuddered, half with the cold, half with surprise when the cloth was almost gently dabbed at his raw lips. The supine figure opened his mouth to let the cool drops of liquid sooth his throat. Sucking greedily, he tasted his own blood again as his lips burst open, protesting against the movement of his jaw.

The thirst became more bearable, and the man was grateful for the human gesture of compassion.  A cramp surged through his broken hand, the fingers swollen against the handcuffs. The man sighed, willing the pain away. If it was a profound act of willpower or simply exhaustion, he couldn't tell as his battered body relaxed, and he slipped into the peaceful world of sleep.

***

A sound jarred the man out of his exhausted sleep. Startled, he opened his eyes, staring at the familiar ceiling of the cell that had become his dungeon during the last.... how many hours? Days? Weeks? He didn't know. Listening to the creeping sound of a filthy rodent, his eyes roamed, taking in his surroundings. Nothing had changed. His whole body ached, the aftereffects of the torture evident with each intake of breath and muscle spasm. His bladder screamed for relief, a painful pressure that soon occupied his whole mind.

The door to his prison opened. One of his tormentors collected the washcloths he'd been allowed to suck on earlier, smirking at him.

The man opened his mouth. "P...l...eas---e," he croaked out, his naked body squirming uncomfortably. The uncompassionate eyes of his captor glistened, taking note of the obvious relief the man craved. With perverse joy a large hand reached out and pressed onto his lower abdomen.

The captive gasped as the urge to relieve himself intensified. He tried to arch his back but the bonds held him in place. The hand pushed down on his bladder again, and a soft whimper of humiliation escaped the man's mouth. His cock started leaking with urine. Still reclined on the table, he tried flexing his muscles, but soon the warm piss oozed over his stomach, running in a steady trail up his chest.

Laughter echoed through his head as the stream reached his face. Unable to stop the flow, the man hissed as the juice burned bloody lips and ran into his nose.

***

The man didn't open his eyes. He knew he couldn't fool his captors by pretending he was unconscious. It was something else. Exhaustion ravaged his body, the smallest effort costing too much strength. He was tired, mentally and physically. His survival instinct faded, and he let fate take over. No need to fight anymore.

Cold metal clamps touched his nipples. The piercing sensation set in instantly, but the man's vocal cords didn't find the motivation to utter a moan.

No need to fight...

His brain provided the horrible foreboding of what would happen soon but, like before, he didn't care. Another clamp attached to his balls sent waves of agony through his body. His mouth opened involuntarily in a mute outcry of pain - the only visible sign of distress.

Saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth, and his brain finally caught with his resignation.

No need to...

***

His body finally gave up. Convulsing with each violent jolt of electricity, the man let go. His muscles tensed and weakened in a horrifying rhythm... then the darkness claimed him and an unnatural silence settled over his prison.

***

They wouldn't let him die. Fate was cruel. As much as he willed his body and mind to go and accept the eternal darkness, a gruesome stroke of destiny wouldn't allow this last mercy.

Pain. Strangely enough, the aches and cramps had eased, or maybe he'd simply gotten used to the sensation of constant suffering; he couldn't tell.

Humiliation. A small part of his brain wanted to feel embarrassed at the pitiful sight he must present. The odors of his own bodily fluids should've assaulted his nose. Sweat, blood, urine. However, they didn't bother him anymore.

//Loss.// A whimper came over the man's bloody lips, resembling the sound of a heart-wrenching sob.

He remembered.

He'd lost...everything.

***

They'd laughed, enjoying the ordeal he suffered, making fun of every whimper or gasp of pain. His hands were tied up behind his back - in handcuffs judging from the cold metal. Agony shot through his body with each movement. Ropes encircled his ankles, bringing his burned and beaten thighs together. Cold air brushed over his skin; he shivered and his teeth clattered against the gag in his mouth.

Moving. Vibrations. Darkness. The different sensations confused his mind, causing nausea to torment his empty stomach. He was in a moving vehicle. A car? A van? The man tried to extract more information from his environment, but before he could muster enough strength, he was lifted up. A gust of wind, an ice-cold breeze swept over his exposed body. Hinges squeaked. Traffic. Cars.

Instinctively, the man wanted to reach out, to extend his arms stopping the violent impact his body would be subjected to any second. Trapped in his restraints, the man grunted once as he hit the asphalt.

Darkness claimed him.  Finally.

***

It started raining again in Cascade, Washington. Certainly no surprise at this time of year. Thick, gray clouds hovered over the city, turning daylight into the darkness of an early evening. Puddles formed on the sidewalks and streets - a paradise for kids and dogs.

Interstate 94 was heavy with traffic; trucks sped by, cars and motorcycles. The weekend was near, last-minute businesses had to be taken care of, and some travelers were already on their way down south.

No one noticed the battered body lying by the road. Occasionally, the man shivered before unconsciousness claimed him again.

***

At 852 Prospect, the telephone rang several times. The sounds reverberated through the deserted apartment until the answering machine picked up the call. The wild staccato of the hysterically blinking red light indicated the number of callers. The machine beeped and the tape rewound to the beginning.

***

It started raining again in Cascade, Washington. Certainly no surprise at this time of year. Thick, gray clouds hovered over the city, turning daylight into the darkness of an early evening. Puddles formed on the sidewalks and streets - a paradise for kids and dogs.

Interstate 94 was heavy with traffic; trucks sped by, cars and motorcycles. The weekend was near, last-minute businesses had to be taken care of, and some travelers were already on their way down south.

No one noticed the battered body lying by the road. Occasionally, the man shivered before unconsciousness claimed him again.

***

Two days earlier...

The bullpen fell silent. Jim Ellison walked over to his desk, ignoring the searching glances of his co-workers. Everyone stared at him; he knew it, he felt it. A phone rang. Everyone flinched, someone picked it up.

"Brown," Jim heard the young detective answer the call. Computer keys clicked, Henri murmured something that sounded like "just a sec...".

Throwing his jacket over the back of his chair, Jim regarded the surface of his desk for a moment.  Not thinking of anything, the man simply stared at the smooth white surface.  From a distance, he focused on the phone conversation Brown was having - something about required signatures and an over-due report. After a minute or so, the Sentinel carefully sat down behind his desk, his hand reaching out to switch on his computer. Dazed.

A huge shadow darkened his desk. Not saying anything, Simon Banks' impressive figure stared down at his detective.

Jim looked up.

And nodded.

Without a single word of communication he placed his badge and gun onto the smooth surface of his desk. Onto the same surface he'd stared at just a minute ago like a moron.

//You are going insane, Ellison.// The detective shook his head slightly, trying to find a clear thought to focus on during this crazy day.

"McAllister pressed charges today," Simon informed him calmly, taking the offered badge and weapon. "We need to talk, Jim."

The detective smirked. "Talking doesn't change anything, Captain," he replied, glancing at the empty chair beside him.

Banks followed his glance. "Where's Sandburg?" he inquired, gaining an almost startled look from Ellison.

"Sandburg? I-don't know. He probably has some work to do at the university."

"The Chief and the Mayor want a statement from me," the dark-skinned captain said.

"I'm sorry."

In urgent need of some distraction, Banks put the gun and badge back on the desk and produced a cigar out of his coat pockets. Chewing on the unlit cigar, thinking became easier. Or, at least, he thought so.

"I don't wanna hear you're sorry, Jim. I want an explanation," Simon clarified.

Jim shrugged. "I lost it."

"That's not enough."

Snatching his jacket from his chair, Jim glared at his captain, suddenly too exhausted, too tired, to answer questions he didn't have answers for...or didn't want to answer. "Then tell them I REALLY lost it, sir."

"Ellison!"

The name was spoken into thin air as Jim left the office. Moments later though, the Sentinel returned. "Can we talk?" he asked almost breathlessly.

***

The temperature had dropped considerably and, if the weather forecast could be trusted, a rain front would roll over Cascade soon. The wind blew, tearing at Simon Banks' coat. Burying his hands deeper into the pockets, the captain followed Jim's lead through the park. The detective seemed to be oblivious to the cold, walking in long strides towards his destination.

The park was almost deserted, only a few dogs with their masters occupied the sidewalks and lawn. Simon was about to call out to Jim when the man stopped abruptly in front of a wooden bench. The green paint had seen better days and, for a single, ridiculous moment, Banks feared for his new coat. Nevertheless he sat down joining the Sentinel.

The wind sped up rustling through the trees and composing tiny waves on the lake. A dog barked somewhere behind them.

"I lost it, Simon," Jim eventually spoke up, his gaze riveted on the water.

Simon didn't reply, knowing Jim needed time to open up and tell him about things he had probably never ever told anybody else. The dark man wished Sandburg was here to listen and to help. To offer comfort and to give love.

//Never thought I'd say I miss you, Sandburg.// Simon raised his head and looked at the sky where clouds past by rapidly.

"I lost my temper before, you know that, but this time...," Jim took a deep breath. "..I was so mad I wanted to hurt him."

For a brief moment Banks wanted to ask whom he was talking about - McAllister or...Sandburg - but he remained silent, giving his friend the time he needed to form his next sentence.

It came slow, hesitant, like the thought itself still hadn't been finished.

"I wanted to believe it so badly that it was him, and if you ask me I still think McAllister has his dirty fingers involved in this... mess," Jim continued. "I wanted, needed an answer, all possible casualties considered and approved."

"What made you think it was him?" Simon asked after a long silence.

"The moment I saw the dead body of Clifford Franklin and Dan told me what caused it, I knew." Jim swallowed, keep his gaze on the lake. "You wanna know why?" The rhetoric question served well to save some time. The man shook his head and suddenly looked up into Simon's calm face. "I...we...threatened McAllister that way, threatened to kill him like that ...back then."

At the captain's surprised expression, Jim grimaced. "Yeah, I imagine it must sound like we were all brainless sickos but believe me, sir, fear can truly loosen a man's tongue - more than any imaginable ... physical interrogation method ever could." The bright blue eyes focused on the rough surface of the water again.

"You followed orders, Jim," Simon said.

"Maybe."

Fumbling through his coat for a cigar, Banks considered his next words. Military trained himself, the captain knew what it meant to "follow orders". On the one hand it's the only thing you have to do, it's what they tell you right from the start. However, on the other hand, deep inside you a tiny voice haunts you and threatens you in your dreams. You're human. The inner conflict grows at times like those, and then sometimes you manage to banish it completely.

"What's McAllister's motive?" Simon asked.

"What do you think?"

Simon shook his head. "Revenge? Oh, come on, Jim. The man must be smart enough not to mess with you. It can be such a basic reason."

A little red ball hit the sidewalk in front of them. The toy rolled to a halt at Jim's feet. In the same instant, a brownish-red cocker spaniel sped towards the bench, his long, floppy ears flying around his small head. The dog dived his nose into the grass, snatching the ball from between Ellison's feet. Big brown eyes looked up at the stranger, wagging his little tail, awaiting praise. Jim ran his fingers over the spaniel's head, tickling behind his ears.

"Good dog," he said, holding out his hand to ask for the ball.

The animal growled, fearing to lose his prey to the man. Considering all possibilities, it spat out the spit-covered ball.

"Alrighty, go get it," Jim took the toy and threw it in the direction the dog had come from. The cocker spaniel started racing, following the flying red object like mad.

"If you think about it, McAllister's strategy is pretty smart, Simon," Jim picked up their conversation. "He shows up, frames me in public, instigating the press and media to chase me and Blair wherever we go, then he kills Franklin in a way he must know I would recognize. All the time he knows he can practically do anything he wants because I can't go public."

"What about the interviews he gave, the story he told?" Simon asked. "Are you saying he just made everything up for the papers?" Part of him wanted the answer to be 'yes' but Banks knew this was about more than just a few slaps in the face.

"No, but he told only one side of the story. The one that would make him the victim and us the assholes." Jim laughed shortly. "That bastard knew right from the beginning I couldn't deny anything, but at the same time couldn't tell the real truth."

"Okay, but why Franklin?"

The detective shook his head. "I don't know, Simon."

The wind gusted, and Simon prepared to feel the first rain drops. Carefully, he approached the other delicate subject. "What about Sandburg, Jim? I've never seen you guys so....so hostile towards each other."

"It's personal, captain," Jim rejected an reply.

"I bet it is," Simon admitted. "But I see my best team suffering and would really like to know what's going on to help." At Jim's sad smile, he added, "As a friend."

"You know Sandburg," the Sentinel replied. "He always talks, asks a lot of questions—"

"....that you couldn't answer, right?" Simon finished the line.

The other man bowed his head and stared at the hands in his lap. "Yeah, part of me wanted to pretend I couldn't answer, and you know that I'm sworn not to tell anyone."

Simon nodded understandingly, waiting for the 'but' he knew would come.

"...but another part of me didn't want to answer his endless questions." Jim pursed his lips. "I was afraid I would lose him if he got to know all the details."

The cocker spaniel appeared again from behind the trees, proudly carrying the ball Jim had tossed away.  The dog raced back to the bench, placing his toy deliberately in front of the Sentinel's shoes. Warm eyes begged for a play, a wet pink tongue glistering between sharp teeth.

"Hey, little friend," Jim said and petted the animal. Picking up the ball, Jim threw it in the other direction. The bundle of energy at his feet rose and chased the prey, barking.

"If you think about it, I lost him all the same," Jim muttered, wiping his hands with a tissue.

Realizing he was still holding the unlit cigar in his hands, Simon sighed and put it back into his coat. "Blair loves you, Jim. And I dare to say you surely love him, too. Your love is strong, as strong as the two of you. You can figure this out, you hear me?" A large hand squeezed Jim's shoulder.

Jim tried a smile. "Thanks, Simon." Banks returned the smile, but Jim added, "Though it's not as simple as that."

Ignoring his captain's shocked gaze, Jim stood up and walked away from the bench. Shoulders slumped forward, hands grabbing the insides of his pockets in a fierce grip.

The cocker spaniel returned from its search for the ball, racing after Jim and circling the human's legs like a whirlwind. The red ball dropped to the ground, issuing another invitation to play. The dog barked in disappointment as there was no response from his new-found friend.

***

The parking lot at 852 Prospect was empty. Jim pulled up into his usual space, not too surprised to see that the old green Volvo of his lover wasn't there. However, the Sentinel was sure Blair had been there during the day.  A few more clothes would be missing, maybe a book or two, and the unmistakable scent of his Guide lingering in the air. For two days now they hadn't talked. Jim longed for this precious moment as he opened the door to the apartment, tuning his senses to the unique odor inside. Smell was all he had left of Blair.

The lock clicked and Ellison extended his sense of smell.

Gun powder!

The Sentinel reached behind himself to extract his weapon from the holster at his back. Unbearable pain shot through his arm as someone grabbed his hand and twisted it until the bones in his wrist snapped. There was no time for a moan. Darkness claimed him, the unmistakable odor of chloroform the last thing he sensed.

***

"Hello?"

"Sandburg? Where the hell are you? Simon's been trying to find you for hours!"

"Joel? Uhm, I'm in my car right now. Sorry, I turned off my phone 'cause I had to finish this paper on South American --  What's up?"

"I don't know how to say, kid. It's...it's Jim."

"What do you mean?"

"Can you come down to Cascade General?"

"What happened?"

"I can't tell you on the phone, Blair. Please, just come here as soon as you can."

"Is he okay?"

"He's alive, but it's really...bad. I... "

"Did he have an accident? Did he get shot? Come on, Joel, tell me."

"He'd been kidnapped, sometime yesterday."

"Kidnapped? By whom? Y-yesterday?"

"Blair, will you come down to the hospital?"

"Yesterday? - Yeah, I'm on my way."

***

//Yesterday.// Simon Banks closed his eyes briefly. The word echoed through his head. Pacing the waiting room area of Cascade General, the police captain had spent the last few hours waiting for any word on Jim. Banks looked over at Detective Brown, who leaned against a wall; the man's expression was coloured with a mixture of fear, concern and anger - just like Simon's.

A nurse from the ER had called the police department after recognizing Ellison, informing Simon in calm, friendly words that "Detective James Ellison has been admitted to Cascade General this morning". Upon Simon's question, the female voice had regrettably told him no more details were available at that moment.

//Sandburg, where the hell are you?// Simon cursed.

Taggart had called a few minutes ago, delivering the relieving information that the anthropologist was on his way. Still - it was not enough.

//The kid should be here by now. He shouldn't have gone in the first place. Where the heck had he been when they'd caught Jim? Why hadn't he noticed anything, damnit? //

//21 hours ago.  How was that possible? How could someone, a cop, disappear from the face of the earth for 21 long hours without anyone noticing it? How could he end up near the highway, left there to die, how.... was that possible?//

"What do you think has happened, captain?" Henri Brown's voice interrupted Bank's dark thoughts.

Simon shook his head. "I have no idea, Brown," he replied curtly. Sighing he added, "Somehow I'm not sure if I wanna know."

Brown nodded mutely.

At the sound of footsteps, both men looked up. An almost annoyed expression crossed Banks' face as Detective Rafe approached.

//Get your ass down here, Sandburg.// Simon swore, acknowledging the young detective with a short nod.

"Hi guys," Rafe greeted, stopping somewhat uncertain in the middle of the corridor. The two policemen stared at him like he'd grown a second head, making him uncomfortable, making him fear the worst. "How‘s Jim?"

"We don't know yet," Brown replied. "It's been hours."

"Did you see Sandburg?" Banks inquired, feeling Sandburg maybe had got lost in the hospital. What an absurd though. What if...

//What if he didn't --?//

//Stop it, Banks. Sandburg is on his way.//

"No, sir." Rafe walked over to Brown and joined his colleague leaning against the wall.

Banks turned around and looked out of the window. The storm had lessened, leaving deep puddles of rain on the streets, branches of trees and bushes plastering the sidewalks and lawns. The dark clouds though remained, daring anyone to take a breath. It wasn't over yet. A loudspeaker blared, demanding a doctor to the pediatric unit; a second voice paged "Dr. Carlson". The sounds unnerved the captain. He didn't know why; it simply bothered him.

//How must it be for Jim?// Simon questioned silently. The noise, the scents, the brightness must bother the Sentinel to the point of physical discomfort. Banks had never really understood what those extraordinary senses involved, but the mere thought the hospital environment might cause more damage, more pain, made Banks sick to his stomach.

Behind him he heard the squeaking sounds of rubber soles as someone walked through the corridor. He was probably imagining it, but to Simon the noise seemed multiplied, scratching over his eardrums and adding to his quivering nerves.

"Simon?"

Sandburg's calm voice stirred Banks out of his musings. The captain whirled around.

"Where the hell have you been, Sandburg?!" he barked approaching the police observer in a few long strides.

The young man flinched at Simon's outburst. Involuntarily, Blair stepped back. "I had a paper to write and—" he began.

"All night?" Simon probed, somehow desperately seeking someone to blame for the fact that one of his detectives, one of his friends, had been tossed aside like an unwanted puppy.

Sudden anger flashed across the anthropologist’s face. "Yes. Yes, it took me all night long, Simon, simply because I didn’t have enough time during the day while working with Jim." His voice was firm, daring anyone to question his whereabouts or motives.

"And you forgot to charge your cell phone so that tool of communication was off limits, too, huh?" Banks knew it was unfair, digging up the old litany of Blair forgetting to check the batteries on his phone. The captain remembered the kid and Ellison had argued about those little things a few times before.

"No, I turned it off," Blair replied, adding, "Okay?"

//Jim wouldn’t have called me anyway.//

"You turned it off?" Banks repeated. "Just like that? Your partner was kidnapped sometime YESTERDAY, and you didn’t fuckin‘ notice a damn thing? What kind of partner are you?!"

The young man stared at the dark-skinned captain for a moment, hurt switching places with anger. "I don’t have to listen to this," Sandburg stated and turned around, walking over to the nurses‘ desk nearby.

Simon Banks exhaled deeply. Taking off his glasses, he listened to the young man’s inquiry.

"Excuse me, miss, I’m waiting for any news on Detective Ellison?"

A pretty young nurse began the standard reply that Jim was still being examined and the doctor would be by shortly to fill them in, when the door to the intensive care unit opened. A fairly young doctor emerged, approaching Simon, Rafe and Brown. The nurse gestured towards him.

"Oh, there’s Dr. Pratt. He’s the emergency physician who attended Detective Ellison." She smiled reassuringly.

"Thanks."

Blair Sandburg returned to the waiting room. Avoiding Simon’s glance, he introduced himself to the doctor.

"My name’s Blair Sandburg. I’m Detective Ellison’s partner."

The two men shook hands and Dr. Pratt nodded. "I understand you’re listed as Mr. Ellison’s next of kin?" Without knowing he was adding to the low blows Banks had delivered earlier, Pratt said, "We tried to reach you several times, but our staff couldn't get a hold of you."

The anthropologist sighed. "Yes, I know," he replied calmly. "How is he?"

Throwing a questioning look at the three other policemen, the doctor accepted their presence as a given and motioned for them to sit down. "Do you have any idea who abducted Detective Ellison?" Dr. Pratt asked, adding quickly, "If this information is confidential I understand."

Simon shook his head. "No. I mean, we don’t know who or why he was kidnapped." //We’ll talk about that hunch you had later, Jim.//

The physician opened the chart he brought with him and related the medical information in a shockingly neutral voice. "A truck driver found Detective Ellison at approximately 10.30 this morning. He had stopped on I-94 to, uhm, relieve himself when he spotted the prone, naked figure of your partner."

Banks interrupted. "What’s the truck driver’s name? Do you have his personal data?"

Dr. Pratt consulted his notes. "Yes, his statement was given to a uniformed officer, Mark Jenkins, who was present in the ER."

"Rafe." Simon nodded towards the younger detective.

"I’m on it," Rafe said and reluctantly left his place.

The doctor read the chart again. "In accordance with the truck driver’s statement, he had thought at first Detective Ellison was dead --." A sharp intake of breath from the young anthropologist interrupted his monologue again. "But luckily he gathered his wits and checked the body for vital signs. Mr. Ellison didn’t react to verbal cues and, due to the condition of his body, the man was weary to touch him."

"What exactly was...is his condition?" Brown asked in a low voice, gaining a startled look from Banks who had concentrated on the doctor’s words and apparently forgotten about the detective’s presence.

Blair remained silent, staring at the hands in his lap. If not known better, he might have appeared disinterested, hoping to get out of there quickly.

"Detective Ellison sustained two broken ribs and a concussion. We could find bruises and skin abrasions all over his body which I assume are due to a fall out of a moving vehicle," Dr. Pratt started his eerie list of injuries. "Furthermore, his right wrist was broken in two places, as well as four fingers on that hand. On his left hand, two fingers were broken, and the other two, including the thumb, were dislocated from their joints." He paused for a moment, viewing the terrified expressions on Banks‘ and Brown’s face. The police observer didn’t react and the doctor wondered if the young man was listening.

"Additionally, we found burn marks all over his body." The questioning look of the two officers made Pratt add: "...which were probably caused by a gleaming object, like a cigarette, or, most likely, a cigar since the burned issue and skin around the affected areas are pretty large. The wounds vary from mostly 2^nd to one 3^rd degree burns." The doctor hesitated momentarily, debating if his audience needed to know the details. "Although the marks are spread across his whole body, it seems the main focus was directed at the groin area and inner thighs."

"Excuse me." Henri Brown swallowed hard and pushed himself off the chair. The detective quickly made his way down the corridor, disappearing out of the other men’s range of sight.

All of a sudden Blair chuckled quietly. //What is it these days that the hardcore cops turn into wimps?// Thinking of Jim’s odd behavior at the Franklin crime scene, the grad student shook his head slowly. Why’s that? Why was he suddenly so detached from such gruesome situation which would usually sent him reeling at the first sight?

Maybe, after all, he’d checked his humanity at the door?

"You okay, Sandburg?" Simon inquired gently, mistaking the sound he’d made for a sob or moan.

"We don’t have to do this now, gentlemen," Dr. Pratt cut in. "I can imagine these things are hard to digest."

"I’m fine, thanks," Blair answered.

It wasn’t even a lie. What was wrong with  him?

"Anything else you need to tell us, doctor?" The captain spoke up.

The physician referred to his notes again. "When Detective Ellison was admitted to the ER we were quite startled to find his heartbeat erratic. It beat too fast and, what worried us mostly,  irregular."

Blair raised his head. "Are you saying he was drugged?" //I gotta get my notes.//

Dr. Pratt hesitated. "No. His blood work hasn’t shown any sign of drug abuse. I estimate he underwent electroshock...therapy. That would also explain the small burn marks and cuts we found on his chest and testicles."

"Oh my god," Banks groaned. "Just a second," he demanded and flipped open his cell phone. The doctor and Sandburg watched in surprise as the police captain bellowed a short order into the mouth piece.

"Taggart? Banks here. Bring in Peter McAllister."

Blair’s mouth gaped. "McAllister?" he repeated after the phone was turned off again. "Do you really think McAllister did this to him?" Logic ruled his words, overriding love and compassion.

Simon sighed. "It’s a start," he replied.

"Looks more like a dead end to me," Blair muttered.

The tall figure beside exploded.

***

His Guide was angry.

Consciousness returned slowly, bringing back the pain and despair. From somewhere Jim could hear Blair’s voice and the accelerated heartbeat. He’d longed for that voice during those endless hours of agony, had tried to imagine the gentleness, the pleasant timbre. But now as the voice reached his eardrums, the  Sentinel flinched at the harshness, the anger  and rage he could clearly make out.

Word pieces, torn sentences.

„...wrong...„

„...deserved it...„

„...justice...„

„...hate...„

„...disgusting...„

Muscles twitched involuntarily. Reflexes from the brain induced the movements that brought more pain. Jim moaned.

„...no....partners...„

The anchor Blair’s voice usually had been failed now, losing the soothing effect it had on Ellison’s senses. This voice was hard delivering hurting words that cut into his already tormented body like the cold blade of a knife.

Two voices - or just one? The detective couldn’t tell. Pain fogged his brain, making any logical thought a profound act of will. He hadn’t the strength anymore to focus.

Breathing hurt.

Someone called his name; it wasn’t Blair.

//...‘course not.//

Unconsciousness crept upon him. Slowly, deliberately. Like the torture had been.

***

His body was on fire! Thousands of tiny hot needles burnt his skin. It felt like little spiders with gleaming feet crawled over his limbs, leaving their searing footprints on his skin. The beasts touched his chest, his sensitive nipples painfully hardened as they tried to fight the pain. Travelling downwards the burning spots of elegantly dancing spiders reached his stomach. Muscles clenched, his hips buckled struggling to fight off the insects.

A voice spoke to him. Same voice he heard before the darkness had come. Female. Trying to calm him. Jim groaned, jerking, twisting around to escape the hot poker-like spiders. They ravaged his groin, his ass. Leaving a trail of agony, they crept into the opening of his cock. Acid.

„Take it easy, Detective Ellison, try to relax as much as possible.„ It was a female voice and a frail hand touched his face at the same time. Jim turned his head and cracked open his eyes. Bright light pierced through his skull.

The Sentinel moaned softly and lost the battle against consciousness once again.

***

Ants.

Millions of ants invaded his body, eating at his intestines, nibbling at his balls, crawling into his mouth, ears and nose.

With a start, Jim opened his eyes - and stared into the deep blue eyes of...

„Dad?„ he murmured around swollen lips, wondering if he was dreaming. It was too unreal.

„Yeah... how are you feelin‘, Jimmy?„ His old man asked, concern creasing his face. An old hand touched his face, caressing his cheek. „You gonna be okay, son, don’t worry, everything’s gonna be alright.„

„Dad?„ Jim repeated, dazed at the unusual sight in front of him. This was not right. His father shouldn’t be here. He’d never been.

„It’s me, Jimmy. Relax and try to sleep a bit more,„ William Ellison spoke up again. It sounded like an order.

A memory flashed through the Sentinel’s mind, as out of place as his father’s being here was.

„You...-you knew,„ Jim gasped.

Confusion crossed the older man’s face, and he touched his son’s arm. „What do you mean, Jimmy? I knew what?„

Losing the battle to stay awake, the detective gave in to the approaching darkness. „You-knew,„ he repeated before his eyes drifted shut again.

***

Another pair of blue eyes stared down at him. He’d seen those eyes before. Cornflower blue, sapphires, smoky blue; each description matched. A familiar face came into focus, and Jim’s vision suddenly blurred. His eyes clouded with the mist of tears.

//Blair’d come. My....//

Blinking away the tears, Jim closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Blair was gone.

***

Blair couldn’t breathe. His lungs hurt from the exertion. Running down the white long corridors of Cascade General, he panted heavily as the precious oxygen became a necessity. He couldn’t stop, needing to get away from that hospital room, from that bed and its occupant - as far as possible.

//God, I’m sorry, Jim. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.//

His cell phone rang, the sound sending vibrations through his jacket. The anthropologist came to a halt near the elevators.

„Blair Sandburg,„ he answered the call. His voice cracked slightly.

An unfamiliar voice greeted him. „Mr. Sandburg? My name is Dr. Jonathan Leeds. I believe your friend Mr. Kelso has told you about me?„

Reaching out for the call-button for the elevator, Blair’s hand stopped mid-motion.

„Yes... I-I think he mentioned your name,„ the young man replied slowly, still panting to catch his breath. „What can I do for you?„

"Jack Kelso suggested that I talk to you, and I was wondering if we could meet?" The doctor explained in a calm voice.

"Why?" The police observer asked, pushing the call button for the elevator.

"I heard about the --," A short pause, like the man was searching for an appropriate term. Eventually, he continued: "...talks concerning Captain Ellison." He received no prompting from the other end of the line. "I worked with him during his --," another pause. "...military time. I might have some answers."

The elevator arrived. As the door parted, Blair stepped inside. "I don't know," he said.

"I'm at the university. We could meet for lunch if that's okay with you," Dr. Leeds suggested.

//The man's persistent.// Blair sighed. "Okay, I'll be there in 30 minutes."

"That's fine. Should we meet at your office?"

"Sure."

Sandburg disconnected the call and slumped against the elevator walls. Suddenly his legs gave out. Sliding to the ground, Blair wrapped his arms around his legs. His forehead touched his knees as tearless sobs shook his body.

***

"How long have you known Captain Ellison?" Jonathan Leeds accepted the cup of tea Blair offered. "Thanks."

The anthropologist studied the person sitting opposite of him. He was utterly surprised at how young the psychiatrist was. Dr. Leeds couldn't be much older than Jim, maybe 39 or 40 years tops. He had short, black hair and remarkably emerald-green eyes.

//Is it a rule that all doctors have to wear glasses?// Blair poured himself a cup of tea.

The dark suit Leeds wore absurdly reminded Blair of Fox Mulder, but he assumed the man usually wore more casual clothes. It was the way he walked and acted that revealed Leeds would be more comfortable in jeans and a  t-shirt.

//I wonder if he dressed up like that just to impress me.// Blair took a seat behind his desk, moving a stack of papers on top of a pile of books.

As if he read the young teacher's thoughts, Leeds smiled. "I'll have a business meeting later this afternoon. That's why the suit."

Blair returned the smile politely. "You don't look the type." He sipped at his tea. "No offence intended. It's just...my impression."

The doctor's glance  roamed through the small office. "None taken." Still waiting for an answer to his question, his gaze returned to the long-haired man. He raised his eyebrows, silently reminding Blair of the outstanding reply.

"It's nearly four years now," Blair told him.

"How did you meet?"

//He looks at me like he's really interested.// Blair mused meeting those incredibly green eyes. "I'm working on my doctorate in anthropology and since I'm writing about closed societies like the police department, Jim and I hooked up." The standard lie to this question easily came over his lips.

//He isn't buying it!// The police consultant sensed, panicking slightly. His mind raced for another explanation when Jonathan Leeds changed the subject.

"I met him in 1987." An apologetic smile touched his mouth. "Unfortunately, I can't tell you how, why and where."

Blair shrugged. "It's okay. I'm not expecting you of all people to suddenly come up with a revelation." //Been there, done that.//

"What did Jim tell you?" See the surprise in the younger man's eyes at the sudden informal use of the detective's name, the psychiatrist explained, "I used to build up a relaxed relationship with my patients where rank, status or titles don't have a place."

"Patients? What exactly are you doing, Dr. Leeds?"

"You haven't answered my question," Jonathan pointed out smilingly.

Sandburg stared into his cup. "Nothing," he admitted silently. "Jim said he couldn't tell me, but I think he ...," trailing off into the uncertainty of what he wanted to believe, Blair shrugged again.

"Blair, I'm employed by the US Government to consult, advise and help men and women working in special forces, covert ops and similar organizations. I'm there to prepare and train them for all possible situations. Hostage scenarios, prisoners of war, negotiators, etc. You can say my job is the opposite side of the physical training they receive. I'm there to strengthen the mind, if you want to put it this way."

"Are you telling me you—you show them how to interrogate people?" Blair asked incredulously. "Have you recently seen the news and papers? Do you want to tell me that you are the person who steadies their quivering hands when the going gets tough?"

//This is sick!//

"This is so sick," the anthropologist repeated out loud.

Dr. Leeds didn't react to the insult. Putting his cup back on the desk, he nodded. "It's understandable you think so. Most people do."

"You are a doctor!" Blair exclaimed, suddenly enraged someone of the supposed-to-be good guys participated in such cruel acts. "You are supposed to help heal; not help  destroy a human being." The student raised from his chair. "I think it's time for you to leave now," he stated firmly.

"Blair, I'm counseling people who were forced to do things no one even wants to think about." Dr. Leeds stood up as well. "This is no game, no fun, but, as you said, an act of cruelty - which might be the ultimate tool at times. I'm there to guide them through the traumatic aftermath."

To Guide...

Blair swallowed and resumed his seat again. He was ready to listen. To at least try and understand.

***

A large hand touched his arm, kneading it gently. Jim could feel the warm skin, long fingers trying to provide reassurance.

"Everything's gonna be okay, Jim, just hang in there."

//Simon.//

It was Simon who spoke to him, who offered comfort and tried to push the pain away. Like his dad had before, the police captain had taken the place of the only person the Sentinel longed to see, to feel and to hear again.

Blair was gone. He'd seen Jim, seen his battered body, seen the cruelties that had been done to him. Then he'd gone. Leaving him. Like he deserved.

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Jim's mouth. //I'm sorry, Chief. I wished we would have had time to talk.//

//Love you so much.//

The Sentinel stopped breathing.

***

Early afternoon brought another storm to Cascade. Rain poured down, transforming the streets into dangerous water ways. Trees bent and cracked under the pressure of the violent wind. The sky was black.

Tiredly, Blair Sandburg rubbed his eyes. This conversation was wearing him out. For the last two hours Dr. Leeds had told him about his job and the people he'd met. "What about Peter McAllister?" Blair asked.

Jonathan Leeds sighed. "I'm sorry, Blair, that information is—"

"...classified," Blair interrupted. "Don't bother to explain. It's okay."

Keen green eyes watched him carefully. "Why I am under the impression that it's not as 'okay' for you as you say?"

Distractedly drawing little circles and squares on a note pad, the anthropologist shrugged. The pencil scratched over the paper as the motions became faster, the figures more abstract. "I understand Jim can't tell me about the military stuff and everything, but it's not like I'm gonna tell anyone. He should trust me on this. They could torture me and I wouldn't...," the police observer broke off, suddenly remembering the hurting man in the hospital across town.

"Blair? You okay?" Dr. Leeds certainly noticed the pained expression flashing across the young man's face.

//Yesterday. They took him yesterday.... Where was I? Why wasn't I there to realize he was missing? Simon's right. What kind of partner am I anyway?//

The tip of the pencil broke  under the pressure Sandburg applied. An ugly dark spot distorted the scribblings. To Blair, it seemed like a black spot on this white paper....on his white vest? //Yeah, right, Sandburg, you're not guilty of anything. Jim must really hate me by now.//

Again, the anthropologist ignored the psychiatrist's question. Instead, he dropped the pencil on his desk, asking, "What did Jim do? Was he the driving force?"

//Of course, he was. Jim's always been in charge.//

"Yes—"

"Shit!" The exclamation left Blair's mouth and he closed his eyes at the simple, one-syllable confirmation Dr. Leeds had just given him.

The older man raised his hands and moved his chair closer to the desk. "Please hear me out, Blair. Jim did what he thought was the last resort. McAllister was a scumbag of the worst kind, the situation threatened to get out of hand and when the order came, Captain Ellison obeyed and reacted respectively."

"Following orders, huh?" Blair grimaced in mocked understanding. "That's what they said during the Trials of Nuremberg, too." He shook his head. "It doesn't excuse the atrocities."

"No, it doesn't. You're right," Dr. Leeds nodded. "Did you ever hear of the 'Operation Snake'?"

The student chewed at his lower lip, going mentally back in history. "I can't remember, sorry," he admitted after a minute.

"I would be surprised if you did," Jonathan replied. He looked at the door as if expecting someone or checking if the air was clear. "It never happened." Seeing Blair's puzzled expression, the psychiatrist lowered his voice. "Ten years ago the Western governments were threatened by the para-military heads of another country which I can't name to you. That country's very powerful secret-service had managed to infiltrate the Western/NATO governments, gather classified information, and intended to launch violent strikes against military, governmental and also civilian targets. They used rogues, mercenaries and practically everyone who was willing to betray one's country for a few thousand bucks." Dr. Leeds looked at Blair, waiting for the information to set in.

"McAllister was one of them?" Blair understood and straightened up in his chair.

"He was the key leader of the said ring of people who supplied essential details to the foreign government." Dr. Leeds didn't exactly confirm Blair's question but he continued, "A Special Forces unit managed to track him down. They grabbed him but, as expected, he refused to name his contacts or any other significant data. Jim led the interrogation. When the results weren't satisfying, his superior, Colonel Oliver, gave the order to take more drastic measures." He shrugged apologetically, "...so it happened. McAllister eventually supplied the names of his conspirators and they barely managed to prevent 'Operation Snake' from happening."

"How come you know about all of this?" The phone on Blair's desk started ringing. The anthropologist pressed two buttons and the sounded muted. This conversation was far too important for a member of his faculty to interrupt it with administrative questions.

"As I told you I'm a psychiatrist," the man answered. "Jim Ellison talked to me several times afterwards."

Another expression of puzzlement flew over Sandburg's face. "Why?"

"Why? I'm surprised you ask this, Blair. He came to me to tell me about his feelings, his fears, his nightmares. He feared he'd lost his humanity to the cruelty of the act he'd performed." Dr. Leeds smiled sadly. "Actually, this thought is kinda ironic because Jim's reaction was human, natural, understandable, but he was afraid of losing his ability to feel and to care."

"He's a good guy," Blair whispered, a lone tear starting to trickle out of the corner of his eye. "But why the hell didn't he tell me? I love him! I would've understood. He never gave me a chance to understand."

The psychiatrist exhaled audibly. "I told you he'd made a vow of silence; he cannot talk about it to anyone. That's one of the reasons why I'm in this business. I give them a chance to open up, to reveal and deal with their emotions. Furthermore, as I know Jim, I imagine he was scared to let you down, to lose you, by telling you what he had done."

Silence settled into the small office as both men looked at each other. Dr. Leeds studied the younger man, seeing his moist cheeks where more tears had left their trail. Outside the storm gathered strength, branches from a nearby tree whipping against the closed windows. The howling wind resembled the anguished sounds of a lone wolf.

"Jim was kidnapped yesterday," Blair finally said, wiping at his eyes and face. As the police observer told the story, his cell phone came to life.

***

His tormentors were back. They wouldn't allow him to die, forcing him to live with the loss of his love. What had happened? Why? When the lack of oxygen had become too much, Jim'd gratefully accepted the peaceful curtain of darkness. The pain had faded and so had his consciousness, taking him to the final frontier.

A breathing tube had been forced down his throat. When Jim slowly struggled back to the surface of consciousness, the hard, unyielding object scared him, making it impossible to swallow and hurting every time he tried to fight it.

//This isn't right.// Turning his head slightly, the tube seemed to move inside him. Jim tried to open his mouth but it was securely taped against his face. //Let me go...// His splinted hands were useless, and so the Sentinel moaned softly struggling to wiggle his fingers.

A gentle hand stilled the attempted movement. Resting the limb on the soft mattress again, the hand carefully brushed over the fingers which stuck out of the cast. The tender stroking somehow soothed the raging sea of emotions inside him.

The voice! Deep, vibrating with a pleasant timbre, it penetrated his head, rushing through his mind and helping him to focus. The voice. It had done the same so many times before. Rescuing him, guiding him. The voice was there when he needed it. Blair's voice.

"I'm here, Jim. Take it easy, you hear me? Everything'll be alright," the voice promised. Repeating the sentences over and over again, the subtle touch on Jim's broken fingers never wavered. There was no pain; the warm, sensual words filling his being.

Jim opened his eyes. He was scared. He feared if he opened his eyes, there would be nobody, no Blair. Maybe his imagination was playing tricks on his brain; maybe it would be safer to just stay still and let the voice lull him back to sleep. His eyes partially cracked open, his vision unfocused for a moment as the bright lights pierced through his skull.

Like he'd feared, the voice stopped.

//No..., please, don't go away.// The tube down his throat stole his voice and only a sob-like hiss came out of his mouth. //Don't leave me.//

Blinking, his eyesight cleared. The voice was gone but the image remained. Worried blue eyes accompanied an expensive smile. Curls. Long silky hair framed the adorable face of the love he'd lost forever. The love who'd come back to him one last time to say good-bye.

"Jim? Can you hear me?" Blair moved closer and caressed Jim's cheek with his hand. Watching the Sentinel leaning into the soft touch, the anthropologist caught a tear sliding down the pain-stricken face. "It's okay, love, you gonna be okay. The doctor said your lungs collapsed, that's why you are on a respirator." The young man's voice cracked. "You gonna be okay," he repeated. "I'm here for you, I'm here."

The tears came openly now, clouding his vision. Jim didn't dare blink fearing the image would vanish like before. He stared at his love's face, locking his eyes with the overwhelming blues of Blair's. The warm hand touched his face again.

"Shhh, don't cry, man, I'm here....you gonna be okay."

He wasn't crying, he didn't feel the moisture. Warmth spread through his body, soaking up the pain like sponge. Jim sighed. Infinitely slow, he raised his hand. The cast was heavy, lead-like, and his arm quivered with the exertion.

"What do you need, Jim?" Blair supported Jim's arm by the elbow, smiling reassuringly while he wondered what the patient was trying to tell him. "Take it easy," the police observer said, following Jim's labored movements. Reaching the level of his face, the exposed fingers touched Blair's cheek. The student could feel the trembling muscles in older man's arm, as Jim fought to accomplish the move. The cold, hard surface of the cast brushed over Blair's lips. A fingertip stroked the soft flesh, then the hand fell back. "Relax and try to sleep, Jim," Blair said, catching the falling limb and lying it back onto the bed. "I'll be here when you wake up."

With the sweet sensation of Blair's lips on his fingers, the Sentinel tuned up his sense of touch. The pain rushed back to him while Jim concentrated on the tingling in his fingers. He closed his eyes and drifted back to the dark world of agony, trusting the voice to keep its promise.

***

The man was sweating. Pearls of fear glistened on McAllister's forehead. Running down the left side of his face, they gave him a slimy look. His hands gripped each other tightly, pulling at his fingers, joints plopping.

//Yep, he's nervous.// Captain Simon Banks noticed triumphantly. //Wonder why that is, Mac?// Exchanging a look with Detective Rafe, the younger police officer stepped forward.

"Listen, Mr. McAllister, we can do this for another four hours but don't you think this game is getting old?" Rafe sat down, adjusting his suit, and watched McAllister considering his words.

The suspect raised his hands in an innocent gesture. "Detective, I really don't know what you're talking about. And, quite frankly, I'm sure the press would like to have some of this. Interrogation of an innocent citizen."

Was it just his imagination or did McAllister's voice tremble at the word 'interrogation'? Simon thought. Leaning casually against the wall of the interview room, the captain silently observed the questioning. They'd brought in McAllister this morning. After all, Jim's hunch might have been not so far off, Simon had concluded. However, watching the sweating, trembling figure of their suspect, the captain suddenly doubted his idea. It wasn't mere nervousness that made McAllister's body react like this; it was fear. Unadulterated fear. This man truly wasn't a match for Jim Ellison.

"Your detective broke my fingers!" McAllister's exclamation brought Simon back from his musings. "You certainly have no right to treat me like this."

"Treat you like what, Mr. McAllister?" Simon walked over to the table. "We are very politely asking you a few questions about your whereabouts during the last couple of days and your involvement regarding the disappearance of one of my detectives. It could be said you're our only suspect right now and when Detective Ellison feels strong enough to appear in court and tell his story, you'll be in a lot of trouble. You'd better tell us now or the consequence will be ..., let's say, ...pretty nasty."

McAllister blanched at the underlying threat. "I don't know what you're talking about. What do you think I have to do with the attack on Ellison?"

The two policemen exchanged another look, smiling mildly at each other. Their interaction worked beautifully, as planned. Rafe took the lead again. "Detective Ellison claimed you kidnapped and tortured him over the period of about 20 hours. He said you were mad with the thought of revenge."

"That's a lie!"

//Of course, it is, but you don't know that.//

Ignoring the outburst, Simon jumped in. "Revenge is one of the lowest motives, McAllister. You might go for sympathy but, honestly, the jury will fry your ass for assaulting and kidnapping a law-enforcement officer. Then there's the issue of Clifford Franklin. Did you kill him? You're going to jail. For how long though is up to you."

"I didn't touch him!" McAllister whined. "Please, you have to convince him it wasn't me. I didn't, I couldn't, I mean, I just...showed up as they told me, nothing more. I never thought it would turn out like that."

//They?// Another glance between Banks and Rafe.

"Who. Are. They?" Rafe's accented voice asked calmly, but at the same time daring McAllister to  serve up a far-fetched story.

"I don't know. They never mentioned any names." The sweat poured in earnest now, as Simon noticed with grim satisfaction. They were on the right track.

"What did they want from you?"

"A man called me two months ago," McAllister began, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette. "Do you have a smoke?" he asked. The two men ignored his request and so he continued. "He didn't tell his name. The man knew about...about what happened ten years ago, he knew all the details. He said he had to settle an old score with Ellison. He asked me to show up and start questioning the man's reputation around here. He gave me the name of some rainbow press reporters who would be willing to publish my story without asking too many questions."

"That's why you showed up at the 'Cop of the Year' ceremony," Rafe stated.

McAllister nodded. "Yes, I heard about it and thought that would be the perfect audience to start the game."

"How much did they pay you?" Simon questioned.

"$15,000." McAllister mumbled.

Rafe sorted in disgust. Fifteen thousand dollars was a low price for a betrayal like that. "What happened next?" he probed.

"Nothing. I kept telling my story to everyone who wanted to hear it. The man said he would first make Ellison look like a bad cop, a guy who disgusts people, and then, after a while, he'd destroy him physically. I thought he'd just kill him! And know what? I looked forward to it. Ellison tried to destroy me ten years ago and if he suffered a bullet or so, that would be fine with me." McAllister smirked. "You said they tortured him? How does this saying go? 'Honour whom honour is due.'"

The legs of a chair scratched over the concrete floor when Rafe pushed it back and stood, towering over McAllister who stared at him fearfully. "You bas--."

"RAFE!" Simon's hand restrained the young detective, the warning clearly audible in his voice. The dark face was stoic, but the brown eyes shone with compassion.

The detective relaxed. "I'm sorry, sir." Trembling with rage, Rafe looked down at McAllister. It seemed like the young man wanted to say something else, as he added, "You're not worth wasting my breath..." He sat down again.

"Okay, McAllister, if you want to save your sorry ass, I want you to tell Detective Rafe everything you can remember. Times, dates, locations, voices.... Everything." Simon placed his hands on the table. "Make it convincing."

//I need a cigar.//

***

Dr. Pratt quietly closed the hospital room behind him. Consulting the notes on his chart, he added a few lines. He smiled fondly when he spotted the young, long-haired police observer who quickly made his way down the hallway.

"Good morning, Mr. Sandburg," the physician greeted.

"Dr. Pratt." The two men shook hands, then Blair asked, "How is he?"

"Detective Ellison had a good night. We took him off the respirator and he is breathing on his own with no interference or problems," the doctor explained. "He's still pretty exhausted and in quite a bit of pain, but he'll be okay."

Blair sighed. "That's good." Taking another deep breath, he approached the door to Jim's room.

"Mr. Sandburg," Dr. Pratt gently restrained him with a hand. The young man turned around. "Your captain called this morning asking if Detective Ellison could answer some questions."

"Yes, Captain Banks and I spoke briefly on the phone," Blair replied. //Briefly, yeah, right. 'why are you not at the hospital, Sandburg?' surely qualifies as a brief, short, to-the-point conversation.// The young man remembered the call vividly. He looked Dr. Pratt.

"I ask you to approach Mr. Ellison carefully. He might appear calm and settled but with a trauma like that, the psyche is also affected. Don't scare him," Dr. Pratt advised sternly.

//Scare him?// Blair's eyes widened with surprise mingled with disbelief. "I don't think he'll be afraid of me, doctor."

Pratt nodded his agreement. "Sure, but his subconscious is working overtime right now. He might not be able to help himself with his fears or to control involuntary flinches." Watching the anthropologist carefully, the physician wondered how much he could tell him. Certainly, the young man was listed as his patient's next of kin, however, there were things which remained better unsaid sometimes.  "Don't take it personally should he shrink away from any ...touches or caresses." Hesitating for another moment, Dr. Pratt studied Blair's eyes, searching for a hint how much the man could take – and, what was more significant, how much Jim Ellison could bear him to know.

"I understand," Blair said, suddenly afraid to step through that door. "I'll make sure he feels comfortable." //...if you tell me how.//

"Good." Dr. Pratt smiled reassuringly.

An invisible force seemed to restrain the door from the inside. The handle felt heavy in Blair's hand as the anthropologist pushed against the door. Like in slow motion he quietly entered the hospital room,  his heart longing and aching at the same time. The young man had never been so scared before in his life. Not even when Lash or Alex had tried to kill him. Fearing for his life had been easy, a piece of cake,  in comparison to what could happen today. His heart was at stake. He was going to fight for it – and for their love.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, the still figure on the bed opened his eyes. Bright blue. Staring at him in surprise. Then a hesitant smile made them shine even brighter.

"Hey, big guy," Blair stopped beside the bed, standing stiff like a statue and afraid to startle Jim with a sudden move.

"Hi," Jim croaked, his voice hoarse. "G—ood...," he cleared his throat, "...to see you."

The police observer smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"Like you cooked and the kitchen exploded," the Sentinel joked weakly, a chuckle got overpowered by a gasp of pain when his ribs rebelled.

"Take it easy...," the younger man started to reach out with his hand but remembering Dr. Pratt's warning, he let it fall to his side again. Whatever Jim had been through, Blair was not going to jostle any devastating memories. "How's the pain? Can you dial it down?" he asked gently, referring to Jim's extraordinary abilities.

"I'm okay," the detective replied. "Just... no sudden moves, you know?"

The anthropologist nodded sympathetically, recalling a time when he'd suffered from broken ribs. "You gonna be okay," he reassured.

The white cast on Jim's right hand moved, making a patting gesture onto the edge of his bed. "Would you like to sit down for a...for a minute?"

"Sure, if you're not too tired...," Blair started and groped for a nearby chair. The piece of furniture scratched over the floor. He sat down and placed his elbows on the bed. He was on eye-level with Jim now. "So,  did Dr. Pratt tell you when you can go home?"

The head on the pillow moved. "No, he still wants to keep me for observation for a few days. After—after the stunt my lungs pulled yesterday, he wants to be on the safe side." Jim turned his face toward the heart monitor. The machine was only blinking quietly, the sound turned off for the patient's sake. "They're also still monitoring me for any heart problems due to the –the---"

Blair interrupted, interrupting the vocalization of the torture, "You're probably a hit with the nurses. I bet everyone wants to trade shifts with the one on duty just to be there to help you to the bathroom." He grinned forcibly.

//He's digested. I disgust him.// Jim's heart started bleeding again. "I wish they all looked like you," he said.

"Jim, I—"

"I dreamt about you." Jim licked his dry, sore lips. They still felt swollen to his sensitive tongue and he could imagine how the rest of him looked. "Yesterday, or the day before, I have no idea when but I saw you sitting beside me. My fingers...touched your hair. It felt like heaven, and you've never looked so beautiful." A coughed tickled him deep in his throat. "I hoped so badly it would be true again." The suppressed cough escaped his lips. "I loved touching your hair."

Staring at the injured man, a look of anguish and deep love crossing Blair's face. //Oh, Jim.// He straightened up in his chair, debating with doctor's orders and his emotions.

Love needed no rules. No orders, no restraints. No explanations. Just pure and simple. Love.

//It's about love. ...I just didn't get it before.//

But the older man's face fell. Seeing Blair pushing himself away from the bed after Jim's confession was worse than all the torture he'd received. More than the Sentinel could bear.

Before either man could say anything, there was a short knock at the door. Both men flinched. A pretty nurse stuck her head into the room, pushing the door open with her hip. She carried a tray of utilities.

"Hello, Mr. Ellison!" she greeted cheerfully. Walking over to the patient's bed,  she watched the silent couple.

"I'm Maureen, Mr. Ellison's nurse," she introduced herself to the police observer.

Blair stepped back from the bed, taking the chair with him. "Nice to meet you, Maureen. Blair Sandburg," he said friendly.

"How are you feeling today?" Turning back to Jim, the woman asked, sorting through the items on her tray.

"I'm alright," the patient replied.

Maureen smiled, taking a blood-pressure cuff. "Let's see if that's true." Still smiling sweetly, she addressed the anthropologist with her next words. "Would you please wait outside, Mr. Sandburg?"

A few weeks ago the request would have been turned down without hesitation – the lovers trusting each other with everything. No shame, no embarrassment. Just Love. However, things had changed. Trust was a precious gift, and Blair knew he had violated that gift badly, had taken it, used it to hurt his partner. Like Jim had hurt him by not trusting him ... enough?

Before the student could finish his musings, Jim's hoarse voice spoke up. "Maureen, if you don't mind, I'd like him to stay." Bright-blue eyes pleaded, turning into Blair's direction as if asking for forgiveness.

Writing some notes on Jim's chart, Maureen raised her head, her glance travelling from the  patient to his visitor. "Well, it's not common, but if both of you are okay...," she started, considering the question.

"I think we're both consenting," Blair quipped.

A brief smile flickered over Jim's face, a silent 'thank you'.

Maureen continued her task, checking Jim's vitals and temperature. Adding the gathered information on his chart, she asked a few related questions, scribbling down more notes.

"Would you like some  more ice for your throat?" the nurse asked as she moved the bed covers aside.

"Yes, that would be nice, thanks," Jim whispered.

The at other times smooth, magnificent, strong chest was covered with colourful bruises and ugly scratches. Blair tried to contain his emotions, tried to suppress his startled gasp, as angry red, partly blistering,  burn marks came into view. They showed no pattern, just random spots as if the person who had inflicted them had not followed a plan. It was a sadistic array of pain.

Maureen kept talking and asking questions, some of them casual, some job-related. With tender, careful hands she applied a cooling gel to the injuries. Blair rounded the bed and stood on the other side to give the nurse more room. The young man didn't want to stare and make Jim uncomfortable, so he tore his gaze way from her ministrations. The Sentinel remained calm, his sense of touch probably turned down considerably.

"This might be a little tough now," Maureen announced, exposing the man's lower body.

"I'm sorry," Jim said. "I bet you can imagine nicer things."

"There might be nicer things, but not so many nice men," the woman replied, blushing a bit at the compliment.

The detective grinned. Then his face fell, and Blair could see the strong jaws suddenly grinding on each other as Maureen touched the sore places on Jim's genital area.

"Do you need to go?" the nurse focused her patient, ignoring Blair's presence.

Shaking his hand, Jim breathed out audibly. "No, but I hope I can take you up on that offer later?"  The words were etched with pain.

"Sure. Anything you want."

Another grin crept over Jim's face. "A long stick so that I can scratch myself inside these itching casts."

Now it was Blair who chuckled. "Oh man, that reminds me of the time I fell off my neighbour's tree and broke my arm. It was like so ready to cut off my whole arm when it started itching." He couldn't look at Jim's cock. If he did, he'd lose it.

Putting the jar of gel back on the tray, Maureen laughed with them. "Can you try and roll onto your side?" she gingerly nudged his shoulder and supported him as best as she could. "Just a little."

The detective complied slowly,  moving his aching body into the requested position. He faced his partner. Behind him, he heard Maureen putting on a pair of gloves. Knowing what was ahead of him, Jim told his muscles to relax. He vaguely remembered a similar procedure yesterday night - only he had been too out of it to really follow the medical necessities. He recollected the discomfort, hands touching his ass, the irritated area of his anus and rectum sending waves of fire through his body.

"Okay, Mr. Ellison, I want you to relax now," Maureen announced. The hand was back now, parting his cheeks gently. "This'll help down here..."

"What did you do?" Jim asked, turning his attention to Blair. The casts on both hands rested in front of his chest. They bore a stark contrast to the skin, a reminder of what he had been through.

"Huh?" Blair looked down at the older man.

"With your itching arm," the Sentinel added, a shiver shook his body when something cold and slick touched the sore orifice to his body.

"Oh, I tried said stick but the branch I chose was too rotten and it broke into pieces when I probed my cast," Blair laughed. "Now I had a LOT of itching little pieces of wood inside the cast and it was pure hell."

Jim smiled at the tale, but seconds later he gasped and winced in pain. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he moaned quietly.

"Hey, Jim..." Blair stepped forward, kneeling in front of the bed and hesitantly reaching out to touch one of the encased hands. His fingers moved upwards, squeezing Jim's lower arm. "It's okay, try to relax."

//The heat inched forward into his ass, fire, hot, unbearable heat, flames, there should be flames. Where there's heat, there's fire. The cigar came down onto the trembling opening, searing the muscles, going deeper. Being stubbed out. The pain sent spasms through his body, originating from his small center. A scream that was his own. Laughter. Darkness.//

Jim whimpered softly and tears of pain oozed from under closed eyelids. "Chief..."

With his other hand Blair stroke Jim's short hair. "I'm here, big guy." He threw a glance at Maureen.

"It's a suppository to soothe the tissue," the nurse explained. She brushed over Jim's hip. "The unpleasant sensation will subside in a few moments, Jim."

"Chief..." //The gleaming object returned, pressing into the tender flesh.//

"Chief.." //Raining. It was raining fire, sparkles. Pain.//

"It's alright, man, concentrate on me, you hear me. Feel my hands on your arm and head," Blair soothed, his voice cracking at the sight of his hurting lover. "Only my hands..."

Jim opened his eyes. Moist with tears, he looked so vulnerable. Taking a breath to form the words, soft lips on his stilled his intentions. The kiss was gentle, hesitant but the warmth of Blair's mouth quickly spread through his body.

"I love you." The lips whispered.

The Sentinel believed them.

***

Nurse Maureen left the hospital room with a smile on her face. Closing the door quietly, she was wondering what she had just witnessed. Very often it happened that spouses, S.O.s or partners, whatever you wanna name them, had a soothing effect on the patient, but the gentle interaction between James Ellison and this young man was remarkable. The English language had a word for this, and so did any other language. Love. Liebe. Amore. A feeling of bliss surged through Maureen's body. She was happy for the two men.

"You okay?" Blair cautiously sat down on the edge of Jim's bed. Still massaging the older man's arm, he looked at his partner, eyes twinkling with moisture.

"I'm fine... now," Jim said in a low voice. "Thanks. Thanks for...being here, for staying...I mean you didn't have—"

"Shhh," Bending down Blair placed another soft kiss on his lover's mouth. "No need to thank me, love. It's all included in the Sandburg Package."

Raising his head slightly to meet the kiss and nipping at a soft lip, Jim smiled at the phrase. He felt Blair's searching tongue probing his mouth. As gentle as possible, the Sentinel pulled away, careful not to shatter the frail bond they'd just spun. "Chief...," he began. "I don't... want you to do this out of pity."

Impossibly large eyes caressed his face. "It's not pity, Jim," Blair replied, gathering his thoughts before he went on. "I mean I'm mad as hell right now about what happened to you, but I'm not pitying you. I feel with you."

"Why?"

The direct question startled the anthropologist. Jim asked for a reason. Asked for explanations. "Love isn't logical, man."

"No, it isn't, is it?" Jim reached out, groping for Blair's hand. The cast heavily bumped against the young man's arm, fingers carefully interlacing, holding each other in a living symbol of the newly woven thread of their love. "Just... just two days ago... and now...," Jim's voice faltered. "I need you, I want you but I couldn't live with it, knowing this all results from misunderstandings."

Tenderly brushing over Jim's fingers, Blair shook his head. "Jim, the last few weeks were so intense, man. I didn't know what to feel, this whole thing eating at me. I—I was hurt, and I hurt you to let you somehow feel my pain. But... " He shook his head again, curls flying. "Part of me believed every single word the papers wrote and at the same time, I knew it was a whole bunch of made-up stories to make a buck."

"I'm sorry, Chief, I acted like a jerk," Jim whispered.

"NO." Blair blurted out, placing a soothing hand on Jim's face when the older man flinched at the loud, sudden exclamation. "Sorry..." Caressing the cheek Blair kissed the tip of Jim's nose. "I was the jerk. I can't say I don't care about what happened back then...."

"I want you to care, to be pissed, to be angry. You feel. That's part of you. You live your emotions...and don't bury them," the Sentinel said softly.

Blair swallowed. "I can't say that I would've fallen in love with the man you were ten years ago. But I pretty damn well know I love this grumpy, wonderful, hard-edged, adorable guy you're now. We all change, man, and we all have our stories to tell. Good ones and bad ones. It's all part of what we strive to be, what we'll become and what picture people have of us at the end of our lives."

"You have no idea what I did back then," Jim turned his head, trying to hide his face in shame.

"Jim...," Cupping his lover's cheeks gently, Blair made him look at him. "I know what happened, sort of anyway."

A fearful expression crossed Ellison's face. "How?" //I never wanted you to know, Chief.//

"I met Dr. Jonathan Leeds," Blair explained, smiling reassuringly.

"J—Johnny?" For a second Jim's look became distant. "Johnny Leeds?" he repeated.

"He had a business meeting in Cascade and came to see me," the anthropologist told him. "We talked and—"

"Oh my God...," the words were low, a breath of three syllables. However, the horror in the exclamation was evident. "I'm sorry, Chief, I'm so very sorry..." Jim met Blair's loving gaze. "I never wanted you to know what I did."

Blair silenced the detective's distress with another sweet kiss, his mouth barely touching the sore lips. "He didn't tell me any details, Jim, just that you didn't have much choice. It was the only way."

"Don't make me the hero, Blair. You always tell me there must be another way, another choice. What I did was cruel, inhuman and sadistic." //Why are you so stubborn, Sandburg?// "You don't have to pretend to understand. How can you even look at me knowing all this?" With his last words, Jim turned his head away again.

"Because he told me what it had cost you." The pleasant timbre of Blair's voice sent a surge of warm vibrations through Jim's head, traveling through his body and engulfing his soul. "No matter what McAllister's motives were, you grieved because you thought you'd lost your humanity." The young man paused for a moment. "But you didn't."

Jim shook his head. "A few days ago...I wanted to hurt him. I hated him and you—"

"That was not hate, Jim," the police observer interrupted softly. "If you wanted you could've killed him.  It was a fear response, because McAllister incorporated  your worst nightmare."

"My worst nightmare is to lose you." The Sentinel swallowed, his throat starting to burn from the conversation. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes and continued horasely. "For the last 48 hours I thought I had lost you. I gave up, praying they'd kill me."

As carefully as possible, Blair enfolded the older man into his arms. "Oh, Jim...," he whispered against the nearest ear. "I love you so much, and I'm so sorry about everything that happened." The young man felt a hard thump against his back when the embrace was laboriously returned with two encased hands.

"I love you, too, I love you, I love you, I love you." Jim murmured inhaling the scent of Blair's hair which tickled his face. "I wanna hold you," he sighed.

"Let me hold you for a change, big guy," Blair mumbled. "Save your strength to get better."

Taking comfort out of each other's presence, neither man spoke or moved for a while. The rhythmic melody of Blair's heartbeat and the calm pattern of Jim's soon united to a lovely, soothing rhapsody. The Sentinel relaxed in Blair's arms, letting the young man's warmth seep into the abused muscles of his body. Jim felt save. Cherished. And loved.

"Jim..."

"Chief..."

Blair felt the movement near his face as the detective smiled. "Jim..." The anthropologist pushed himself up, gently breaking the embrace but never really ceasing the contact with his partner's body. Sending an emotional message of love with his impressive eyes, Blair took a deep breath.

"What is it?" Jim asked, his brows furrowing in concern noticing the accelerated heart rate.

"Do you know who ... 'they' are?"

//Do you know who they are?// The short question pierced through Jim's head, echoing off the inside of his skull. //They. Who are they? They. THEY?// Mental images, recollections of old and new torture rose in front of his eyes. McAllister's fearful grimace of pain came into view, the plead to stop, the scream of pain which suddenly mingled with his own moans and tears. Jim closed his eyes as the pictures threatened to overwhelm him.

"No," he replied, the voice shaking. "No. They.... I never saw any...." The Sentinel opened his eyes. A sudden memory flash zapped through his brain. He'd seen...

"It's okay, Jim," Blair said quietly moving impossibly closer. "You're safe now. No one's going to hurt you anymore."

Oblivious to his Guide's calming litany of words, Jim struggled to remember the half-finished thought that had illuminated his mind for a second. He spoke slowly. "I... remember... There was someone. He..." Shaking his head Jim focused on the young man sitting on the bed. "It's gone. The memory's gone. I remember ...pain. Pain and...and fear."

"I'm here, love, you don't have to be afr—" Blair began when Jim interrupted the sentence, the attempt to take Blair's hand failing due to the restriction of his cast.

"It was dark and yet bright," the Sentinel recollected, inhaling deeply as he closed his eyes. Falling into present tense, Jim returned to hell. "I hear a sound. Waking me. I'm not sure what it is, I have no idea what time it is or how long I've been here. Could be weeks. I listen to the scratching noise of a rat or some other filthy creature. I look around but nothing has changed. Everything hurts. A firestorm must've rained down on me. My senses ... I don't know how to control the dial anymore. Pressure. A painful pressure on my...my .... I need to go to the bathroom. The urge to go grows steadily. I kinda panic. The sound of an opening door makes me turn my head. Someone enters my prison. Can't say why but it's my chance to beg for relief. His eyes are cold. As cold as his hand. He reaches out and... it's unbearable. I try to hold it, he pushes down on my stomach. The pressure is too much. He laughs. I feel the wetness...I'm...I'm declined on a table...and the flow ...I can taste it..my own... my own.... Oh my god.... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Chief...I tried ...I tried...but couldn't..."

"It's okay, Jim," Blair whispered, kneading Jim's arm. Tears streamed over the anthropologist's face. The remembrance of this terrifying act of humiliation twisted his guts, only barely able to imagine the suffering and agony Jim must've endured during the actual scene. "Relax for me, okay?"

Tremors shook Jim's body. His breathing came in short gasps, the blue eyes taking on another look of sheer panic. He threw a scared glance at his lover. "I---," In sudden agitation Jim attempted to push away the blanket covering him. A wave of pain from his ribs caused him to moan as the he tried to sit up. Gentle hands grabbed his shoulders.

"Take it easy, Jim, it's okay, you're okay. It's a memory, you're safe, you hear me?" Blair spoke urgently but still guiding and soothing.

"No....I have to...I need to...go....," Jim gasped, fighting Blair's hands.

Realization dawned at the hurried words, but Blair refused to let go. "Easy does it, Jim... You're not supposed to get up yet." Pushing the older man back carefully, Blair's eyes searched the room.

"Please...," Jim begged, stilled captured in the vivid memory.

"Here you go, Jim." Lifting the bedcovers and producing a plastic urinal  bottle Blair assisted his lover as tender as humanly possible. "It's okay, babe, let it go," he soothed sensing Jim's inner battle.

"I'm sorry, Chief," the detective sighed as the relief came. The demons in his head disappeared.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, love, absolutely nothing..."

"Thank you."

A few minutes later Blair resumed his seat on the edge of Jim's bed. The broad smile on his face was genuine, however, the other man knew there was more to it. Before the police observer could form the question, Jim shook his head.

"I remember him but I don't know him. He seemed oddly familiar, still I have no idea where to place his face. I'm sorry."

"Maybe it'll come back to you later," Blair suggested gently.

"Maybe. I just hope I won't be freaking out like this all the time," Jim sighed sadly, a slight flush of embarrassment reddening his face.

"It's a natural reaction, Jim. You've been through hell and nobody excepts you to jump back to your old self in 24 hours," Blair said. "It'll take some time and hopefully you'll let me help you. We'll take one step at a time and if we stumble, we'll  start over."

"I can't imagine why I ever even thought of ...of not trusting you," Jim admitted, his eyes wet.

"And I can't imagine why I ever even though of not trusting you," Blair repeated.

Outside the window the pouring rain ceased and only a few fat rain drops occasionally splashed loudly against the glass. Clouds moved quickly as if an invisible force chased them away to reveal the blue sky hiding underneath. Sun rays twinkled their way through the gray obstacles, mingling with the rain. Soon a rainbow spread its colourful blanket over the city of Cascade.

***

Two days later...

Chewing on the inevitable unlit cigar, Simon Banks shrugged back into his coat. Visiting hours were long over, but because his visit had to do with police business, they'd made an exception. //I'm wondering what YOUR excuse is, Sandburg.// Simon managed a grin around his cigar. //I'd better not ask, right, boys?// Nodding his farewell to the two men, the police captain walked to the door.

"I'm really sorry, Jim, that I don't have any better news for you," Banks said, regret in his dark voice. He placed a hand on the door handle. "We'll get them," he reassured before the man finally left the room.

"'Bye, Simon...," Jim called out and yawned heartily.

"Man, he was pissed," Blair said, rising from his usual place on the edge of Jim's bed. Stretching his back, the young man raised his arms as if to touch the ceiling.

"Well, I can't say I don't understand where he's coming from," Jim replied watching in amusement the acrobatics his friend performed. "I react the same way when a lead proves itself to be a dead end."

Scared to death for his own sake, Peter McAllister had finally sung like a canary. At least, sort of. Knowing almost nothing about the motives, names or whereabouts of Jim's tormenters, McAllister had managed to give them a vague description, a voice and meeting point. Needless to say, the latter turned out to be an abandoned warehouse near the waterfront - a dirty, dark place which could've been found in lot of areas of the Washington city. No traces, no fingerprints, nothing had come up after a forensics sweep. The former mercenary had been part of the plot to harm Jim but, as all pawns in the royal game of chess, he also was the victim, a cheap and easy way to get information and someone to be sacrificed afterwards. It's always been like this; it made the world tick.

"How are you dealing with all this?" Blair asked quietly while taking off his shoes. "Are you... I mean are you—"

"You mean am I angry?" Jim finished the question. He shook his head. "I can't tell, Chief. Part of me wants to know who did this, who killed Franklin, who went through so many obstacles to approach McAllister. I would like to ask 'why?' but the bigger part of me is just..., I don't know, ... tired. I wanna go back to normal, but I know at the same time it won't be easy."

Blair nodded. "Sometimes it's better to leave things just... be. What did Dr. Leeds say? You told me he called you this morning."

A smile touched Jim's lips. "Well, actually, he said the same things you did. That everything's gonna be okay again. But he used more scientific phrases." Both men laughed easily but then Jim's face darkened. "I'm not sure though." He swallowed. "What if things won't get back to normal again? What if ... if a perp lights a cigarette and I'm suddenly paralyzed with shock, what if every time I go out to lead an interrogation ... I'm a nervous wreck, what if... if...if I can't do my job anymore?" The words rushed out of his mouth like a raging waterfall.

"You're strong, Jim. You're one of the strongest people I've ever met, man," Blair sat down again and caressed the older man's forehead. "Whatever you have to deal with, I'm with you for the ride. No matter what."

"I'm scared, Blair. I feel like my world's crumbling into pieces, everything I did and everything I was is suddenly out of whack." Locking his eyes with Blair's, Jim reached out and clumsily stroked Blair's hair which was bound in a ponytail. "What about you? Can I expect you to stay after all that's happened? Can I even dare to ask for it?"

"Jim, I can't say what the future holds for you, nobody can," Blair began. "All I can tell you for sure is that there is no place on this planet I'd like to be more right now. I'm with you. I love you, big guy, as sappy as these three little words might sound nowadays. I'm not going anywhere." He grinned. "Of course, it's possible that older men like you need a thorough demonstration of this lecture."

"I—I think I got it, teach," the detective answered, the smile creeping back into his eyes.

However, the police consultant creased his forehead in disbelief. "Ahhhh, I don't think so, Mr. Ellison. You surely need the visuals." Blair quickly made his way to the door and barred it with the back of a chair. Turning off the big ceiling lights, the soft illumination from the small lamp at Jim's bedside bathed the room in a romantic warmth. Returning to Jim's side, Blair smiled sweetly as he carefully climbed onto the bed, straddling Jim without putting any weight on the older man's body.

"What's--?"

The question was silenced by a kiss. Looking down at Jim with the sweetest of smiles on his face, Blair scolded the patient: "This is the love scene, loverboy." The young man's face sobered for a second. "Anytime you feel uncomfortable and want me to stop, you tell me, okay?"

"Could you repeat the first lecture, Darwin?" Jim's eyes shone trustingly.

Withdrawing the blanket, Blair bent down again. Jim's lips were still sore from his ordeal hence Blair only nipped cautiously. Their lips touched, then parted, uttering an unspoken invitation. Tentatively their tongues met, sending the first waves of passion through their bodies. No fierce duel, no wild kissing, the simple contact was enough to inflame the sensitive nerve endings.

The Sentinel had his eyes shut tightly when the moist tongue traveled to his exposed throat, licking across his Adam's apple. Blair could feel the gentle bobbling every time Jim swallowed. Cool air and warm kisses interacted beautifully, covering the collarbone and moving further down. A red nipple came into focus. The anthropologist hesitated briefly, afraid of inflicting any pain on the tortured little peak. Swiftly he reached up and freed his hair. The long, silky wave of curls fell into his face, tickling Jim's chest. Brushing over the left nipple with a strand of his hair, Blair heard the moan of pleasure building inside his lover. Then he placed a faint kiss on the right nub. Underneath him, Jim's body moved, arching upwards to invite the velvet lips to another sensual dinner. This time Blair's tongue darted out carefully. Wetting the nipple by whirling around it Blair blew some warm air over the moist area. A shudder went through the beloved body.

"You like this, huh?" Blair questioned rhetorically. He didn't use his hands knowing too well that other hands had hurt his Sentinel.

Jim moaned again. The magical tongue continued its path downwards. Kissing. Avoiding the worst spots where the cigar had deeply marked the skin, Blair encircled the affected area lovingly. He could feel the tension slowly leaving the muscles, Jim relaxing completely into the seducing bath. Licking.

Suddenly the tip of Jim's cock poked at Blair's chin. "Hey, sugarplum," Blair crooned.

Jim chuckled and gasped as his ribs protested the movement. "Geez, you're the only person I know who gives this thing a name," he sighed.

"To how many people do you show your muffin here?" The student inquired playfully, kissing around the root but never touching the erect member. Another passionate groan was the only reply Blair received. Soon the soft skin was matted with little kisses and hot licks. Blowing teasingly against the straining cock, Blair focused his attention on the inner thighs. The journey of his long hair came to an abrupt rest on Jim's middle. The tongue danced up and down the tender skin of Jim's legs causing the older man to raise his hips with desire.

"Oh my God...Blair....," the Sentinel mumbled. "...please... "

Burying his face deeper into the valley between strong thighs, Blair kissed his way back to the waiting cock. With a generous, long motion the young man swirled around the underside of the rock-hard organ. Up and down. Up. Down. Updown. Updownup. The rosy tip twitched. Blair placed a short kiss on the crown, restraining himself for a moment where nothing but his hot breath washed over the cock. Hovering. Then, he fully opened his mouth and engulfed the shaft entirely.

There was no time for establishing an erotic dance. The built-up need accumulated rapidly, a shout which sounded like a combination of Blair's name and cheerful relief powerfully climaxed with the hot semen spurting into the sucking mouth.

Short gasps, panting and moaning, Jim rode on the wave of pleasure. God, his ribs hurt! Though the rest of his body had checked out into nirvana, his muscles and nerves tingling with the fading orgasm.

"You okay, love?" Blair crawled back up, spooning beside the quivering body.

Jim nodded curtly, his body suddenly too exhausted to move. "T—hank you," he mumbled. "I never thought you'd—"

"Shhhh," Blair captured the words with another kiss.

"'kay...," came the soft reply.

Someone bumped into the locked door! Startled, Blair looked up, scrambling out of the bed.

"Hello? Mr. Ellison?" Nurse Maureen shouted from outside the room. "Is everything okay in there?"

Covering Jim with the blanket again, Blair quickly scanned the area for any evidence of their loving encounter. "Uh,..., everything's fine...Just a second!" he called back, re-arranging his hair with the rubberband.

"Come on in," Blair opened the door, throwing the chair behind him as he did.

Maureen entered the room carrying a vase of flowers. "I just wanted to drop off these flowers," she announced, eyeing the fallen chair and the young anthropologist suspiciously.

"Oh, thanks, uhm, we..." //Come on, Sandburg, THINK.// "We... moved...the...we moved... we…moved the chair..." //Think faster, man!// "....we moved the chair to see if....if...we could someone re-arrange ...the table so that... " Blair smiled, knowing fully well that his face was flushed tomato red. "Uhm, why don't you put the flowers on the nightstand. I'm sure Jim'll be pleased when he..." //Comes down to earth.//..."wakes up."

A knowing smile tugged at the corner of the nurse's mouth. She put the vase on the nightstand, fishing an enveloped letter out of her white dress. "Someone sent these for Mr. Ellison. Here's a letter, too." Throwing another worried glance at the anthropologist and the - indeed - sleeping patient, the woman slowly walked out of the room. The door closed behind her.

Blair dropped into the chair beside the bed. "Oh...*man*," he exclaimed.  Closing his eyes to calm his racing heartbeat, the graduate student inhaled deeply. The sweet scent of freshly cut flowers wavered through the air. Blair breathed in and...

His eyes popped open, darting over to the vase. White carnations. A beautiful, scented bunch of white carnations decorated the nightstand. Blair had studied so many cultures, rituals and traditions that the symbolic message of these flowers wasn't unknown to him.

Flowers of death.

"What the hell...?" he whispered, glancing over to the bed where Jim was sound asleep in the sweet aftermath of the love-making.

//Who'd sent the bunch?// The enveloped rested on the smooth surface, the white paper barely a contrast to the equally white little table. White carnations. The wheels inside Blair's head began to whirl. Shifting uncomfortable in his chair, the young man reached for the envelope.

//Maybe it's nothing. I'm surely overreacting.// His hand fell, hesitating to read a card or letter that was directed at his lover.

WHITE carnations.

//The person probably didn't know about the meaning of these flowers.//

White CARNATIONS.

Using his Swiss army knife, Blair sliced through the envelope. A sheet of paper, precisely folded two times, fell into his hands. The letter was handwritten. No, not handwritten, on second glance, the police observer realized it was a computer font. Reading the salutation, Blair knew he'd been right. His hands shook and his heart began to race.

"Captain Ellison:
First of all, let me spare you a lot of trouble by telling you that you don't need to even try and trace the origin of this letter. I know your cop heart is probably itching to get this down to your forensics lab, fishing for evidence that isn't there. Believe me, Captain, it's a waste of effort.
How are you doing? Pretty sore I guess. Aren't you wondering why you're still alive? The answer's quite simple: Death would've been too easy for you. To live with the things you've done, to live with the shame of your deeds and the ever-present memory of the humiliation you received is far worse than a single gunshot to the brain.
This necessarily brings up your next question I believe. The all-important WHY, am I right? Or maybe you aren't so eager to know because deep inside yourself you heart this tiny voice screaming at you all the time that you DESERVED this. And you did, Captain Ellison.
You're as low as this scumbag McAllister who was ready to tell his pitiful story to everyone for a few dollars. But I guess, he enjoyed knowing you'll get what you DESERVED. He was part of MY revenge. But maybe your fuck buddy would like to know, who knows? I would really like to know if you figured out who I am by now. Well, I don't want to keep you guessing any longer. My name is - and you can stomp your feet and yell for your SUPER boss to arrest me - Miles Oliver. Yes, let that name roll over your tongue. Miles Oliver. Well?
Does that ring any bell?
You killed my brother, Ellison! (Yes, I dropped your rank because a spineless maggot as you doesn't deserve the title.) My brother. Norman Oliver. The Colonel. One of the greatest man alive. It's almost macabre that he led the operation ten years ago, but without that I would've never had the knowledge about McAllister and the tool to slowly destroy your name, your career and, with mucho pleasure, your body.
Yes, The Colonel, my brother.
Revenge's sweet, you know? It's even sweeter to know you'll never be able to use the information I just gave you to find or prosecute me. It's all classified, remember? Our mutual governmental friends would never allow anything of this to get to the public. Splendid!
Oh, I almost forgot to tell you about Clifford Franklin, this poor lad. I really hate to disappoint you but he was just a lovely way to get your attention. As I said, revenge's sweet. Can you hear my laughter? Well, I should be going now. Have a nice life and watch your back because when you least expect it - I'll be back.

Miles Oliver
June 1999"

Numbly Blair refolded the sheet of paper and stuffed it back into the envelope. Rage, a feeling so unlike him, ravaged his body at the absurd confession he'd just read. Taking the vase of flowers, the anthropologist walked over to the adjoining bathroom. Dumping the flowers into the wastepaper basket, he threw the letter into the toilet.

Oliver's words roared through his head. //Revenge's sweet.//

And so was their newborn love. Later Blair'd tell Jim what had happened tonight, about the letter, the insane reasons. Later. Looking back at his peacefully sleeping lover, Blair smiled sadly.

At least for now their little world was perfect. It's been worth all efforts.
 

 

The End.

 

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