Different by akablonded

Different - akablonded

 

Looking out the grimy window at the even grimier view outside his second-grade classroom, Blair Sandburg sighed heavily. Just one beautiful day. Just one un-rainy, nice day to take the kids to the park. That's all I ask.

 

And as if the heavens heard his silent prayer, they answered perversely and pelted the glass panes with a driving downpour.

 

Jeez, they're all going to be drenched by the time they get here. There were precious few raincoats and even fewer umbrellas in the neighborhood surrounding Rosa Parks Elementary. There was never much of anything, except crime, unhappiness, and the constant struggle to make it from one day to the next. The school had nothing in the way of petty cash for much-needed supplies, let alone plastic slickers to keep Cascade's liquid sunshine at bay. It had cost Blair Sandburg a chunk of the money he'd earned tutoring to buy them personally for his second graders.

 

Not that everybody still had one to wear. In some cases, they'd been ripped off. One or two of the kids had given theirs to siblings "who needed it more." And Rasheeda Washington confessed in a whisper to Blair that she'd given hers to her Gramma Wanda so that the woman could stay dry while waiting for the Number 16 cross-town bus. Sixty-two-year-old Wanda Johnson needed the second job to support her grandbabies, as she called them. Rasheeda and three brothers had been dropped off -- more like thrown away -- in the middle of the night by their addict mother six months earlier.

 

Stories like that pretty much broke Blair Sandburg's heart. The children in his class were so wonderful. But for some of them, the goodness would all too soon be bled away, beaten away, or just left to wither away. Poverty and hopelessness could do it to the strongest adult. What chance did little kids have? So, the young teacher had made it his personal mission to help the second graders blossom and acquire a love of learning because nobody could ever take that away from them.

 

In that respect, Blair Sandburg was a teacher in the truest sense of the word. He brought much to the table. To Blair, education was about opening doors and expanding horizons - not just passing children on to the next grade to be rid of them. His colleagues at Rosa Parks' slowly began to recognize the extraordinary gift the young man had. Gone was the hostility - both open and implied -- that had dogged Blair Sandburg when he'd first joined the faculty. It had nothing to do with race. Blair's being the only white teacher was nothing compared to the other teachers' suspicions of his motives. After all, what would bring a well-traveled, well-educated and clearly overqualified man like Sandburg to a troubled school in a troubled area? Was he merely using the position as a stepping stone out to the better paying and safer environs of a suburban school? Others had. Why not him?

 

Actually, Blair Sandburg's many talents could have landed him in a prestigious private school. But how he'd found his way to this inner city nightmare was a story and a half, one not shared even with Livonia Caster, the vice principal of the impoverished school, and the woman who befriended him during those difficult, early days. He remembered the first time they'd gone out for coffee together. Was it almost two years ago? On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, one of the eighth graders had been seriously wounded in a drive-by shooting right in front of the school. Blair Sandburg was shaken to his very core by the senseless, mindless brutality. The vice principal had recognized his pain and practically dragged him to a café around the corner. There, the two sat and talked for several hours that rainy night. As they left, she'd made him laugh. "Blair, honey, sometime you're going to have to tell me what did a nice, white boy like you do to get that sweet little ass plunked down here?" The memory of his colleague's kindness almost took the chill off the damp room.

 

Almost. Better windows - hell, unbroken windows - would be more of a step in the right direction.

 

Blair opened the bottom-left drawer of his desk, or tried to, to retrieve two large towels he'd brought from his own home, just in case someone needed a quick mopping-up. The mahogany relic from a bygone era was acting like the world's oldest virgin, holding on to its last vestiges of mystery by staying stubbornly closed tight. From months of experience, Blair jiggled the recalcitrant drawer, first up, then down, then thumped it smartly with heel of his hand. Reluctantly, it opened.

 

So began another morning at R.P. Elementary, in a section of town primed for future gentrification. Right now, it was one of those areas every politician and his brother would hold up to the scrutiny of the public eye right before election. During that narrow window of opportunity, local councilmen, state senators, or assistant dog catchers, for that matter, would bemoan the sad state of public education, the dismal condition of the grade schools and high schools within the district borders; of the street crime and drug dealing that couldn't help but "impact negatively on disadvantaged children and youths." Then the cameras would be turned off, the media would leave, and everybody who could would go back to his or her nice suburban home with a backyard and trees, where the parks were unencumbered by barb-wired fences and the swing sets were never broken.

 

In the end, no additional funds ever materialized for either school improvements or additional police personnel.

 

It was always the same.

 

And so life went on at Rose Parks, which is why Blair Sandburg had to bring in towels from his own little two-room shoebox of an apartment. He'd also purchased colored construction paper from the Dollarland around the corner so that his kids could have arts and crafts on Friday.

 

When the situation called for it, Blair baked M&M chocolate chip cookies, like the batch he'd done just last night for Jamil Osavedo's birthday party. They'd go along nicely with the origami-folded party hats he'd taught his students to make. They glued glitter all over the hats and themselves. It had been the highlight of the previous Friday afternoon. Blair had started the celebrations when it became painfully evident that an in-class birthday party might be the only one the student was likely to have.

 

So, they were all ready for this afternoon.

 

The wall clock told Blair that his second-graders would start trickling through the door at any minute. He wondered, not for the first time, how he'd ended up here -- how the much-loved dream of becoming an anthropologist and traveling the world, meeting new and exotic people, experiencing life to its fullest had morphed into a claustrophobically small classroom painted a depressing grayish yellow, with desks and chairs as marred as the souls of some of the people Blair Sandburg met during his time at Rosa Parks.

 

Then it would come back to him - as it always did -- with the force of a tsunami. On the way to a double doctorate, Blair Jacob Sandburg's life had been sidelined by a terrible reality: his mother, Naomi's, terminal illness. He struggled to stay focused and on track at Rainier. But there just wasn't enough money in the grants, scholarships, and part-time jobs to keep him afloat.

 

And the hospital bills kept coming and coming.

 

After Naomi's death, Blair Sandburg was awash in grief - and drowning in debt.

 

The job at Rosa Parks Elementary was the life preserver he grabbed. The salary was almost a joke, but since there were few other applicants for the job - none, in fact - he could step into the position immediately.

 

That had been two years and a lifetime ago.

 

Slowly, Blair chipped away at the mountain of bills that had the Sandburg name on them. What's more, he was invested in these 21 children. Being a grade school teacher was an important job - in its own way, more important than investigating those faraway places that were now out of a school teacher's grasp.

 

Well, he might not be getting back to school anytime soon, but Blair Sandburg could at least make a difference here in the lives of these kids. He could show them that there was a world outside Cascade's northside.

 

To peak the students' interest - and perhaps keep his own alive -- Blair had placed maps all over the walls, so that he and his students could plan exciting expeditions he was never going to go on. Sandburg cut out pictures and made montages of places from newspapers and old magazines his landlady Mrs. Friedman gave him.

 

The worst part of all that had transpired was that Blair had been alone. Long days of teaching fulltime and nights of part-time jobs when he could find them left no time for socializing, much less being in a relationship. His university friends were all within reach of their academic achievements and lives both full and prosperous.

 

Blair Sandburg had little in common with the people he'd considered friends. But, if he were being totally honest with himself, Blair knew in his heart they'd never been friends, so much as acquaintances. He'd always been the youngest, the geekiest, and the smartest, the 16-year-old wunderkind with a sky-high IQ who knocked the hell out of the grading curve. The baby face which still got him carded and his annoying ability to rattle off enormous amounts of useless information on virtually any subject earmarked him as a geek. Blair's love of all things plaid flannel kept his title as their Crown Prince intact.

 

At this moment in his life, Blair Sandburg didn't have a single person to share a cup of coffee -- much less a life  -- with. Margaret had called it quits even before Naomi had become ill. And Philip... well, he was a really wonderful guy and the answer to their prayers at the hospice where Naomi ended her days. Look up the word "nice" in the dictionary and Phil Genero's picture was probably there.  But their time together was tangled up in Naomi's condition. After she was gone, Blair felt empty. He was running on fumes. And if he didn't have anything for himself, what could the young man offer anybody else?

 

Since then, there had been no one. No one except the kids in his second grade class. They were Blair Sandburg's responsibility - and his salvation.

 

The first bell signaling the beginning of the school day rang and the door opened. Eleven girls and 10 boys in Blair's class made their way into the classroom.

 

"Buenos dias. Bu?i sang. An-nyeong-ha-se-yo. Good morning, everybody."

 

"Good morning, Mr. Sandburg." Little reedy voices in different accents chirped back.

 

"Hang up your wet things, and then, take your seats. If anybody needs to dry off, I have towels." Blair looked with satisfaction as coats were hung up on the proper hooks, and the second graders made their way to their desks and began taking out their homework for collection, a "first thing in the morning" daily exercise. The second bell had just rung when the door seemed to implode into the classroom. Standing there, in his black leather jacket, was Jorge Osavedo, the father of one of Blair's students. Jamil Osavedo was a bright child who lived with his mother. The previous month, Nina Martinez had sworn out a restraining order to keep father and son apart. And now Jorge Osavedo was standing here, looking as menacing as any of the other gang members from the 357's the second grade teacher had seen around the neighborhood.

 

This was not the way Blair Sandburg wanted to start his Monday morning. He tried to remain calm. "Mr. Osavedo, can I help you?"

 

Without any preamble, the tall man yelled as he pointed to the small child in the back of the room. "Boy, we're leaving. Get up here now!"

 

"Mr. Osavedo, stop." Blair Sandburg tried placing himself between the father and his son.  "You can't take Jamil without -"

 

Jorge Osavedo took an obscene amount of pleasure in grabbing and slapping the smaller man across the face in front of the children. He had little respect for someone clearly a maricon - no real man would take a woman's job as a teacher. Blair lifted his hands defensively, but was hit repeatedly for his trouble until he felt dazed and disoriented.

 

Two of the braver children yelled. Some cried. None tried to leave their chairs or run out of the classroom to whatever safety they could find. Sadly, violence was such a part and parcel of their young lives that this sort of scene was all too familiar.

 

"Sit there and be quiet or I'll give you what I'm giving this teacher of yours!" Jamil's father threatened.

 

His nose bloodied, Blair shook his head, trying desperately to clear it. Suddenly, he felt himself pressed against the bulletin board near the front door. Osavedo's forearm held him securely in place. Blair began to speak, softly and calmly, as though he were speaking to a child, for in essence, he was. He was speaking to all the little faces sitting at their desks.

 

"Mr. Osavedo. You don't want to do this. You know you can't take Jamil out of class. There's a restraining order sworn out against you."

 

"Who's gonna to stop me, faggot? I'm taking my son with me."

 

"Please leave Jamil and go. I promise I -" A solid fist connected with the side of Blair Sandburg's face. He ricocheted off the bulletin board again and fell, taking several pieces of the children's art with him. Crumbling to the ground, Blair began to lose consciousness, even as he heard the sounds of children screaming all around him. The teacher wanted to say something, but oblivion took priority.

 

***

 

"Mr. Sandburg, you should let us take you to the hospital to get checked out." The earnest-sounding EMT was putting a butterfly bandage over the young teacher's left eyebrow. "You did black out, isn't that right?"

 

Blair winced at the woman's touch, even though it was a gentle one. His head was throbbing.

 

"I'm alright, honestly. I hit my head on the edge of the board there."

 

"Did the board do this?" Officer Luis Ricardo, the first patrolman to respond to the 911 call, pointed to a bruise darkening Blair's chin. "It's got a great right-cross."

 

"Luis, I can't leave." The teacher had met Ricardo and his partner a few months earlier when the school's gymnasium had been vandalized. "The kids are freaked out. I have to talk to them."

 

"You're going to have to talk to me first."

 

The voice coming from behind Blair Sandburg's shoulder made all heads turn. Standing there, a tall, incredibly well-built man wearing wraparound dark glasses was in the process of flashing his badge. "Mr. Sandburg? I'm Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade PD. Major Crimes. I'm here to investigate what happened here this morning. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?" Ellison removed the glasses, folded and placed them in the breast pocket of his jacket.

 

"But I don't want - "

 

"I think it would be better for everyone concerned, sir," Jim Ellison nodded his head slightly toward the anxious children sitting at their desks, attention focused on the tall stranger with the shiny gold shield, "if we let the vice principal take over the class for a few minutes while we talk about what happened."

 

"Sorry. You're right, Detective Ellison." Blair Sandburg turned and spoke softly. "Boys and girls, I'm going to be gone for a few minutes. If you haven't already done it, please take out the homework assignment I gave you on Friday and finish it up. I'll collect them as soon as I get back. And I know you're going to be good for Mrs. Castor. Right?" Blair Sandburg's reassuring smile settled the nervous second graders almost instantaneously. Amazed at the transformation in the children, Jim Ellison watched 20 little heads bob up and down in agreement as Livonia Castor walked in and took her place behind the desk.

 

The two men exited the classroom out into the hallway, quietly closing the door behind them. As they walked along the corridor, Jim Ellison was again assaulted by the smells of the school. The miasma of odors - bagged lunches, chalk dust, sweaty bodies, old books, decaying woodwork, wet clothing - all made his stomach roil. It took every bit of control the nauseated detective could muster not to throw up the little bit of breakfast he'd forced down earlier that morning. Those damned problems with his senses were getting worse.

 

But the man walking next to him - "Assault Victim Sandburg" -- smelled like aloe, honeysuckle, vanilla and some other exotic essence thrown into the mix for good measure. The dizziness and nausea seemed to disappear and the air in the dingy corridor became as fresh and as clean as a glacier lake. The detective was taken aback for a moment at the normalcy, the "rightness" of how his body was reacting to the young teacher.

 

Jim Ellison looked closely at Blair Sandburg and zeroed in on the butterfly bandage that did little to mask the cut over his left eye. It marred an otherwise beautiful face. Beautiful? Christ. Settle down, Jimbo. Do NOT go there. This is a damned school teacher - and a victim. Yet something deep and unnamed within the detective's core made him grab Blair Sandburg's chin with his left hand, and brush aside the shining hair with his right. The auburn curls were stained with their owner's blood. "You should try to wash the rest of it out before you go back to your classroom, Chief."

 

"I didn't realize I'd bled that far up." Self-consciously, the teacher ran his palm over the area. "I'll make a pit stop after we finish talking." They walked in silence the rest of the way down to a darkened room marked "Teacher's Lounge." Once inside, Jim Ellison looked around with the eyes of a trained investigator. Everything looked old, shabby, and resigned to being there.

 

"Sit down. You look pale." The detective placed his hand firmly on the small of Blair Sandburg's back, guiding the other man toward the thread-bare sofa against the far wall. "Do you want something? Coffee? Soda?"

 

"Just some water, please. Water would be great. There's a bottle in the fridge over there."

 

Jim Ellison retrieved a bottle of Poland Spring, twisted off the cap, and handed it to the teacher who was ensconcing himself between two of the couch pillows.

 

"Please tell me what happened, Mr. Sandburg. The first officers on the scene reported that at approximately 8:30 this morning, you were assaulted by the father of one of your students who took his son out of the classroom. Is that right?"

 

"That's pretty much it. Jorge Osavedo took Jamil. I tried to stop him."

 

Jim Ellison referred to a small notebook he'd taken out of his pocket. "I understand that Osavedo is a gang member."

 

"Yes, of the 357s."

 

"He has a long rap sheet. Lots of assaults. He's almost 6' tall, and 180 lbs."

 

"Maybe a little more these days."

 

"Why would you have tried to get in the way of someone that big? He could have hurt you much, much worse. Killed you, even."

 

"I had to, for Jamil. There's a restraining order out on Osavedo, sworn out by Jamil's mother a few months ago. Contact is supposed to be only with court appointed supervision. What a terrible birthday." Seeing the confused look on the handsome detective's face, Blair Sandburg explained. "Today was Jamil's seventh birthday." The teacher's voice became as sad and as replete with regret as Jim Ellison had ever heard. "We were going to have a party... God! Has anybody called Nina Martinez yet?"

 

"Nina Martinez is --"

 

"-- Jamil's mom. She's going to be terrified. She's scared as hell of Jorge Osavedo as it is."

 

"We're issuing an A.P.B. on Osavedo and Jamil."

 

"All Points Bulletin, right?"

 

"Right.  He was seen leaving the building, carrying his son, and getting into a black van. You don't know what kind of vehicle he drives, do you?"

 

"No. I'm sorry."

 

"We have the father's previous mug shot, but what about a photo of the boy? A class picture, maybe?"

 

Blair hesitated for a moment, seemingly embarrassed. "We don't usually... the school can't..."

 

"So, you don't have one?"

 

"No, I do. I took them a month or so ago. They're in my desk. I was going to give everybody a copy for 'graduation'." Jim Ellison finally caught on to the drift of the conversation. Blair Sandburg had taken pictures of the second graders himself. Jesus, I didn't know there were teachers like this guy still around.

 

"That's... a pretty nice thing to do, Mr. Sandburg."

 

"Everybody should have a picture of himself or herself." Jim Ellison wondered what in Blair Sandburg's background made it so important. If he had more time, the detective was intrigued enough to find out.

 

But finding Jamil Osavedo was more important.

 

 

"Well, the sooner I get it, the sooner we can have it on the street."

 

"Detective... Jorge Osavedo may have done a lot of terrible things in his life, but, I can't believe he'd ever hurt his son."

 

"The relationship with the boy's mother may factor into it, Mr. Sandburg. If Osavedo hates her, it could make -"

 

"No! He loves Jamil! He'd never, ever hurt him."

 

In his lifetime, Jim Ellison had seen the very worst side of human nature and what people could do to one another, first as an Army officer in the elite Ranger unit, and now as a Major Crime detective. And yet, he believed that this second grade teacher could read people better than most police officers could.

 

"You're probably right, Mr. Sandburg. But we still have to find the two of them. C'mon. I'll take you back to your classroom."

 

"Detective, you'll keep me in the loop, right?"

 

"Sure. It would be good if you came down to the station and made a formal statement. I can take you now -"

 

"Could I do it after school hours? I'd like to spend some time talking with my kids."

 

The tall detective looked down at Blair Sandburg's earnest, open face, and blue eyes like two lapis supplicants. "Sure." The word was out before Jim realized he'd said it. Suddenly, Ellison was struck with a weird, overpowering need to protect the man he'd just met. The detective wanted to find the low-life scum who had hurt this gentle stranger, and use all of his covert ops skills to make Jorge Osavedo pay - to "even the score" in spades.

 

The teacher's voice brought Jim Ellison back to the present. "Detective? You with me? I said, should I ask for you?"

 

"No one else, Mr. Sandburg." Jim Ellison had never meant anything in his life more.

 

***

 

Blair Sandburg showed up that afternoon, looking the worse for wear. Two hours on Cascade Public Transportation's finest would do that even to a veteran commuter like himself.

 

Seeming not to notice the school teacher's disheveled appearance and appallingly wet condition, Jim Ellison felt ruffled, and just to the left of aggravated that Blair Sandburg, no more than a kid himself, didn't understand the importance of filling out police reports.

 

"Hiya, man."

 

"I'd just about given up on you, Sandburg. What took you so long to get down here?"

 

Blair shook himself like a cocker spaniel, removing some of the excess water. "The buses don't run real well on days like this, Detective Ellison. Not everybody has a car, you know."

 

The hard-nosed cop's attitude changed abruptly as he really looked at the young man standing in front of his desk, shifting from one wet foot to the other. Jim Ellison threw down the pen he was holding, feeling like a thoughtless, 24-carat jerk. Only a hard-assed son-of-a-bitch would have ragged on the damp, blue-eyed puppy puddling in front of him.

 

"I didn't know -"

 

"Hey, Detective, it's no biggie."

 

"Jesus, you're drenched. Come with me."

 

"Where?"

 

"Just come with me, Mr. Sandburg."

 

Ellison stood up, grabbed the smaller man by the elbow and navigated him around the squad room desks down the hallway toward the police locker room. The protectiveness the detective felt was apparent to the other detectives in the bullpen. They'd all looked up, first when Blair Sandburg made his appearance and now as their colleague hustled the small man out. Partners Brian Rafe and Henry Brown exchanged looks, both wondering silently who the young man was and how he had apparently slipped under the famous Jim Ellison radar.

 

Once inside the changing area of the locker room, Jim Ellison threw Blair one of his own towels. "Here, Chief. I'll see if I can find something for you to change into."

 

"You don't have to-" Sandburg interrupted his own sentence with a sneeze of respectable proportions.

 

"Do it." Jim Ellison ordered. "Hang on. I think Connor has a hair drier you can use."

 

"The police let this Connor guy wear his hair long?"

 

"Don't let Megan hear you call her a 'guy.'" Ellison chuckled. "That wouldn't be a pretty sight. Here. These may be a little big, but at least they're dry." Jim handed him a navy blue shirt and pair of jeans.

 

Blair eyed the slacks and answered with a good-natured laugh of his own. "These aren't yours, man. Unless you were going to leave a suicide note before you tried to zip them."

 

"No." Ellison closed his locker. "They belong to a friend of mine."

 

"He won't mind?"

 

"No." Jim Ellison couldn't even begin to tell the young man standing in front of him about Danny Choi, the police officer who had been like a younger brother to him, and who had been killed six months earlier during an undercover sting operation.

 

Several layers of flannel and non-flannel shirts became a wet pile in the middle of the tile floor. The detective realized that he was staring at a now shirtless Blair Sandburg. Both men became self-conscious, but for different reasons. Jim Ellison decided to give the teacher some privacy.

 

"Uh, well, come on out once you've changed and we can fill in those reports."

 

Blair Sandburg watched Jim Ellison leave the locker room, even as every well-defined muscle of the detective's torso rippled under a tight-fitting gray police tee-shirt. The door swung shut, but the image of the tall man's hips and rock-hard buttocks lingered in the teacher's mind's eye. The cold from his damp clothes did nothing to cool parts of Blair's body that had just become red hot. Sandburg could still feel the detective's laser blue eyes scanning him from head to toe. He'd never felt so naked, so exposed... and so excited in his life. "Down, boy," 'Big' Blair muttered to 'Little' Blair as he shucked off the wet jeans.

 

***

 

There had been no additional word on either Jorge Osavedo or his son, Jamil. A police cruiser patrolled Nina Martinez' street just in case Osavedo decided that Ms. Martinez needed to pay for calling down the wrath of the police on his head.

 

Blair Sandburg's incident report was completed in less than an hour. Throughout, both men stole glances at one another. At one point, Jim Ellison's thumb rested on his computer's spacing bar while he watched the teacher's tongue which seemed to have a life of its own. Its tip moved lightly back and forth over both full lips. The result was a one and a half blank pages in the middle of the report. "Oh, hell." The detective muttered under his breath as he corrected the error.

 

"Everything okay, man?" Their eyes locked.

 

"Right as rain," Jim Ellison replied with a diversionary non sequitur. What he'd wanted to say was, "Everything would be A-fucking okay if you'd let me take you home and into bed and never let you out." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the windows on the Houser Street side of the Metro building. "It's pouring out there. Let me drive you home, Mr. Sandburg."

 

"You don't have to."

 

"I know I don't 'have' to. But I'm pretty much finished. You want the ride or not?" The gruffness in the voice belied the smile on Jim Ellison's handsome face. "C'mon, Chief, you look like you're ready to fall on your face. And your face can't take too much more today, you know?"

 

Blair's expression was one of hesitance mixed with shyness, but, ultimately, he agreed. "Well, okay, if it's not out of your way. And it has been sort of a long day."

 

The detective turned off his computer screen and found himself grinning despite a concerted effort not to. "Let me just tell the - oh, Captain Banks, I'm signing out for the day. This is Blair Sandburg, the teacher from-"

 

"Rosa Parks. The Osavedo case?"

 

"Yes. I'm going to drop him off." It seemed that Jim Ellison needed to explain in more detail. "It's raining... and he doesn't have a car... and I'm done here."

 

"Yes, Ellison, I noticed the rain." The tall black man seemed to tower over the diminutive Blair Sandburg. But he smiled around the unlit Macanudo in his mouth, first at the teacher, then his best detective. "Well, thank you for coming in and giving us your statement, Mr. Sandburg."

 

"You'll call me if -"

 

"We'll keep you posted. I'm sure Detective Ellison will see to it. And take care of that." Simon Banks gestured toward the gash under the butterfly bandage.

 

"I will."

 

"He will."

 

The two voices answering in tandem made Banks throw a cautionary look at Jim Ellison. The look that flashed on the Captain's face said, "Be careful."

 

The one on Ellison's shot back, "Always, sir."

 

Out loud, Banks said, "Good night, then, to the both of you. See you tomorrow, Jim."

 

Watching the teacher being escorted out of the bullpen with Ellison's large, protective hand on the other man's shoulder, Simon Banks sighed as he pulled the cigar from his lips. Hell, he wished he could still smoke in his office --or any damned place in the building. Situations like this one called for a smoke and some of that 12 year-old scotch Simon kept in the credenza behind him.

 

In his six-year tenure over Major Crime, Banks had never asked "the" question about the personal lives of any of the men or women under his command. Ellison was a damned thorny package. Even though there had been a "Mrs.," they'd called it quits over two years ago. Carolyn Plummer now headed the Forensics Department in Santa Clara, California. The stories and rumors about the whats, whys and wherefores of the breakup still provided fodder for a lot of people at the PD. Simon just hoped that there wasn't something going on between Jim Ellison and the undeniably attractive male witness. As he watched the two men standing by the elevator with detective's eyes, Simon Banks caught a look on Ellison's face and knew it was five minutes past too late.

 

The last time he'd seen anything remotely approximating such intensity and sheer hunger, it had been on the face of a large cat - the zoo's one and only black panther.

 

Simon Banks honestly didn't know which was more frightening.

 

***

 

Even though victim Blair Sandburg and detective Jim Ellison had known one another for less than 24 hours, they drove toward the teacher's neighborhood in a surprisingly comfortable silence, as though it had been years.

 

"The north side isn't the safest place, you know."

 

"It's what I can afford."

 

"Do you have good locks on your doors?"

 

"Well -"

 

"After dinner, I'm coming up to check on them."

 

"Dinner?"

 

"Yeah. You want to grab some dinner first? You're probably starved. "Suddenly, Jim Ellison's face softened. His voice grew... the only word Blair could affix to it was "young." It was so like the way Sandburg's students sometimes asked for things they weren't sure they could have. "That is, if you don't have other plans. And if you want to."

 

"Well, uh..."

 

"Come on. I hate eating alone."

 

"Me, too." Blair smiled. "Yes. I'd like to have dinner with you, Detective."

 

"Well... good." As Jim Ellison pulled his Ford truck into the freeway exit lane, he turned on his latest CD. The teacher's face looked slightly puzzled.

 

"Sounds familiar."

 

"It's Santana."

 

"Santana? Get out of town! I'd never have pegged you for a 'golden oldies' kind of guy."

 

"As far as I'm concerned, it's last good group worth listening to."

 

Blair started to laugh. "Have you ever heard that thing about 'variety being the spice of life?'"

 

Jim Ellison snorted. "As far as I'm concerned, 'Variety' is a cereal pack from Kellogg's. I like what I like and I stick with it. So what's wrong with that?"

 

"Nothing. Nothing at all. There's something to be said for being...."

 

"Dull?"

 

"I was going to say 'reliable.'"

 

Ellison chuckled at the good-natured ribbing from the young man sitting on the truck seat next to him, whose legs were tucked comfortably under the small, compact body.

 

"It's okay, Sandburg. I've been called worse."

 

"Who in his right mind would call you dull, Detective?"

 

"My name's-"

 

"Jim. Yes, I know. I have your card." Blair self-consciously patted the pocket of his borrowed shirt.

 

"Right. Well, my ex, for one. Carolyn once told me she could get more out of her toaster than out of me."

 

"Way harsh, man."

 

"Yeah. Well, that's why she's my 'ex'."

 

"But, don't you, like, miss a lot being so... 'reliable'?"

 

"I've had enough ups and downs to last me several lifetimes. 'Reliable' isn't so bad, Mr. Sandburg."

 

"'Blair.' And I guess being a cop's tough."

 

"The Army was no picnic, either."

 

"You were in the - wait a minute. Ellison... Ellison... the Army Captain who was rescued in Peru! That's who you are!"

 

Jim grunted noncommittally before he answered, "Guilty as charged."

 

"I remember reading all about it."

 

"I don't."

 

"Don't what?"

 

"Remember much about it."

 

"Well, I'm no psychiatrist, but a year and a half spent in the bush... the sole survivor of your unit...that sounds pretty damn traumatic to me. And trauma tends to get repressed."

 

"I... guess."

 

"I 'know,' man. I've been in therapy since I was in Pampers."

 

"Rough childhood?"

 

"No. Unorthodox is closer to the mark. Maybe the next time, I'll tell you about it."

 

'The next time'? There was going to be a 'next time'? For a man who had lived through some of the toughest, fiercest situations that could be imagined, Jim Ellison felt his stomach flip in a kind of nervous anticipation.

 

The detective turned onto Ainsley and pulled up in front of Alfeo's, a jewel of a neighborhood Italian restaurant. Blair looked genuinely impressed at the beautiful faux villa, and not a little anxious.

 

"Gee, Jim, This is 'way' nice. I don't think I'm dressed -"

 

"You're fine. Trust me."

 

"Why do I think coming from you, those are two of safest words in the English language?"

 

Inwardly, the detective was outrageously pleased with the compliment. Outwardly, he just smiled, opened the ornately carved wood doors to let Blair Sandburg in, and nodded toward the little rotund man rushing over to greet them.

 

"Hello, Alfeo."

 

"Buona cierra, Signore Ellison! It has been much too long!" The owner of the restaurant grabbed Jim's hand, pumped it frantically, at the same time looking at Blair, and the way the tall detective had his hand comfortably resting on the smaller man's back.

 

"I've brought a friend with me tonight. This is Blair Sandburg."

 

The two men shook hands. "Ciao, Signore Sandburg. Thank you for bringing my old friend back to see me. May this be the first of many visits to my humble trattoria. Come! I have a wonderful booth for the two of you."

 

A few minutes later, Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg were comfortably tucked away in the back room, its walls adorned with exquisite murals of the four seasons in Tuscany, Italy. A fireplace cheerily warmed the room. The weather had kept most diners at home, and so they found themselves alone in the beautiful surroundings.

 

Once settled, menus in hand, with Jim Ellison sitting against the wall and Blair Sandburg at his left, the men felt strangely familiar and undeniably contented to be in one another's company.

 

Jim impulsively reached out with his thumb and gently touched the area near the cut over Blair's eyebrow, an ugly reminder of the violence perpetrated earlier in the day. "You're lucky Osavedo didn't hurt you worse. What were you thinking?"

 

"You asked me that before. I needed to protect the kids in my class."

 

"I understand, but -"

 

"These kids depend on me, Jim. For some of them, I'm like the only little bit of stability they've got - an adult who's on their side. One they can count on."

 

Jim Ellison looked at the blue eyes, caring and sincere despite the bruising around them. He could feel the earnestness through his skin.

 

And something else. There was an air around the teacher, something secretive, intoxicating, that excited Jim Ellison in a way he hadn't been in ages. He was probably out of his mind, but the detective sensed that Blair Sandburg was interested in him, too. Hell, the teacher wanted him. Jim Ellison could practically smell the craving.

 

For his part, the detective wanted to return the favor. If only he could bury himself in the hidden depths of this beautiful, passionate stranger sitting at his elbow, to nestle in that mane of hair. It was amazing how the curls prismed a rainbow of colors from the candlelight like a halo...

 

"Jim! Jim, are you all right?"

 

"What?"

 

"I asked if you were okay. I was talking, and suddenly your face went... well, sort of slack. Then I touched you and you were back here."

 

Jim looked down at the smaller hand tightly covering his own. The detective fought the urge to bend down his head and kiss each of the well-formed, surprisingly strong fingers, to suck them into his mouth and... no, he couldn't do this. He couldn't take advantage, even though he'd give what was left of his world-weary soul to try. It wasn't fair to Blair Sandburg.

 

"Excuse me, Chief. I'll be back in a minute." Jim bolted from the booth, past Alfeo, and into the adjoining room. He rested his head against the wall that was covered with heavy burgundy-colored fabric. It smelled of countless patrons and the dinners they'd enjoyed. He jerked his head away.  Heart pounding, blood racing, Jim Ellison moved closer to the front door of the restaurant. He took several deep breaths to regain control over himself.

 

What the hell had just happened? It was the same damned thing all over again, like when he'd first gotten back from Peru. Shit! His freakish senses were going to make life a living hell. Why hadn't it been that way in Peru?

 

Peru, a lifetime ago. The last time he had really cared about anyone. After all his men had been killed in a helicopter crash in his Army unit, Captain James Ellison vowed never again. Caring meant being hurt...

 

"Jim, man, you're scaring me here." Blair Sandburg's voice, awash with concern, shook him from yet another fugue-like state. "It's like you sort of zoned out. Are you okay?"

 

"Sure, Chief. I just... wanted to check with the station... see if there were any updates about Osavedo and his son." The detective hoped the subterfuge wasn't as transparent as it sounded even to his own ears. Ellison fumbled to open the cell phone in his hand. "Go on back to the table. I asked Alfeo to bring us a bottle of wine and some of his special focaccio bread. I'll be there as soon as I'm done." The smile on his face drew a matching one from Blair Sandburg's.

 

"As long as you're okay." Blair patted the detective's arm, an otherwise innocuous gesture that somehow transformed into one of surprising intimacy.

 

"Go on. I'm okay." As he watched the young man walk back into the other room, Jim Ellison whispered under his breath, "I'm better than okay when I'm with you, teach." Suddenly, Jim Ellison just knew everything would be all right. He would be all right.

 

As if it couldn't wait for its owner to punch in "No. 1" on the speed-dial, the phone rang. On the other end was Simon Banks, with news guaranteed to bring a smile to Blair Sandburg's face.

 

And making Blair Sandburg smile was fast becoming the most important thing in the world to detective Jim Ellison.

 

***

 

"I just got off the line with my Captain. Jorge Osavedo brought Jamil back to his mother's apartment about 20 minutes ago."

 

"That's like so great!" Blair radiated a happiness that Jim Ellison rarely saw in adults. No wonder the children in Sandburg's class loved the young teacher.

 

But the big detective was caught off guard when the other man jumped up and wrapped his arms around his taller companion. Jim hugged back. He needed to hug back. The contact between the two bodies was more than electric. It was as though a circle was being completed.

 

Suddenly, Blair remembered where they were, and released Jim. Self-consciously, Sandburg sat down again and draped the linen napkin back across his lap.

 

Sliding back into his own seat, Jim Ellison tried to pick up the conversation as though nothing earth-shattering had happened, which, of course, it had.

 

"You want to hear why he brought the kid back?"

 

"Absolutely."

 

"Well, first of all, he'd wanted to take Jamil out for his birthday, but Ms. Martinez had said no. So Osavedo decided he was going to do it anyway."

 

"I knew it was something like that." Blair tore off another piece of the bread and dipped it into a dish of olive oil. "So how did it all end?"

 

"The kid was upset - really upset -- that his father had hurt you. He stood up to Osavedo and told him he'd done wrong."

 

"Wow."

 

"You seem to wield a lot of influence with your students. You're something else, Chief."

 

Blair Sandburg flushed at the compliment. "What's going to happen now?"

 

Jim bit into a piece of the warm bread. "Osavedo will be brought up on charges and Jamil will be back in class tomorrow or the following day, depending on what his mother wants to do. So, you were going to tell my about your childhood. Is the way you were raised the reason you're a teacher? You're a smart guy, Blair. I can't understand why you're at Rosa Parks. You could be teaching in a..."

 

Blair took another sip of the expensive wine that seemed to sing on his palate as he thought about the question. "At a better school? Maybe out in the suburbs?"

 

"Well, yeah."

 

"If I walked out, who'd take my place? Somebody who stays for a semester and then bails, like everyone else has, that's who. I'm GOOD at what I do, Jim." Blair smiled slightly as he dialed down the passion in his rich, baritone voice. "My students need me. For one or two in my class, nobody else seems to care. Isn't that like so sad?"

 

The big detective struggled against his impulse to grab the young man sitting next to him, squeeze him to his chest and tell him that everything was going to be all right for the students in Blair's second grade class.

 

Jim knew better. The deck already seemed stacked against those poor youngsters. "Hey, calm down, Chief. I see your point." Jim's eyes softened. "You really love teaching and the kids, don't you?"

 

"I can't pull anything over on a cop, can I? Wanna hear some terrific stuff?"

 

"What kind of 'stuff'?" Jim Ellison raised an eyebrow.

 

"A homework assignment I gave them."

 

The detective didn't have the heart to say 'no.' "Sure. But let's order first. I'm starved."

 

Out of thin air, a mustachioed elderly waiter materialized. Jim always wondered if the old gentleman had served God a meal when He was a boy. "Gaetano. Good to see you. How are you these days?"

 

"Bene, Signore Ellison, bene. What good would complaining do? Are you and your guest ready to order?"

 

"You bet. Blair, what's your pleasure?"

 

The teacher gulped at the loaded question. He took a cursory look at the menu and hesitated for a few seconds before speaking. "I'll just have some paste et fagioli soup, please, Gaetano. And some more of this great bread when you get a chance?"

 

They didn't pay detective Jim Ellison "the big bucks" for nothing. He immediately noticed the other man had glanced at the prices before ordering.

 

Blair Sandburg was eating what he could afford.

 

Ellison spoke up. "And my friend will follow that up with the house salad, an order of veal parmegiana and your special capellini with basil and fresh tomatoes."

 

When Blair began to protest, Jim smiled. "Don't argue. It's my treat. Besides, you look like you could stand some fattening up. And I think I'll have the same."

 

"Of course, Detective. I will bring your salade as soon as Senore is finished with il minestra. And more pane immediately!" The old man bowed gallantly to the two diners, turned and spoke softly in Italian to a younger waiter standing unobtrusively in the corner.

 

Blair smiled brightly. "Well... thanks. It's been a long time since I had veal. Meat, come to think of it."

 

Gaetano came into the room carrying a second bottle and a wine stand. He interrupted their conversation momentarily. "Scusa, Senore Ellison. Alfeo would like you and your dinner companion to have this special vintage from his private cellar, with his compliments." He showed it to Jim.

 

"1969. God. That was a wonderful year."

 

"I was born that year."

 

Ellison smiled. "You and the truck. That's pretty damned..."

 

"Coincidental?"

 

"I was going to say 'frightening.' Anyway, thank Alfeo for us." Gaetano opened the bottle with an old-fashioned single corkscrew, and poured a small amount into the detective's glass. Jim sniffed the full-bodied valpolicella appreciatively, and nodded. "Multo bene."

 

Gaetano's face beamed with pleasure as he filled both men's glasses, put the bottle into the stand, and then took his leave as silently as he had come.

 

Blair Sandburg took a sip of the expensive wine. "God! This is incredible! I don't think I've never had anything from somebody's private cellar before. They certainly seem to like you here, Jim."

 

"They're good people who had gotten into some trouble."

 

"Which you helped them out of?"

 

"You could say that." Jim Ellison thought back for a moment to his first meeting with Alfeo, after the restaurant had been firebombed by a competitor who was "connected." The detective worked overtime to bring the perpetrators to justice. After that, he was regarded as the neighborhood "guardian angel" - or, at the very least, "guardian." But Ellison felt self-conscious about sharing the particulars. Instead, he brought the conversation back to a less challenging - and revealing -- topic.

 

"So, you usually don't eat veal. On principle?"

 

"Well, there's that - and the fact that it's so damned expensive."

 

"I guess teaching doesn't pay as well as other professions."

 

"Tell me about it. Still, I do get benefits and a decent amount of vacation time."

 

"Which you use for..."

 

Blair Sandburg took a sip of Pellegrino water. "My summer job - whatever it is. I always have to find something that doesn't interfere with the tutoring I do and any other part-time things I have scheduled."

 

"Damn. I'm tired just listening to you. It sounds like you have a lot of irons in the fire. Either you can't sit still," the statement accompanied Blair Sandburg's unfolding his legs and then refolding them in their comfortable booth, "which might be the case, or you're paying off a ton of student loans."

 

"I'm not that young, man."

 

Jim Ellison wanted to say, "What? You're more than 15?" But he decided to hold his tongue, which was going to get him into so much trouble with the handsome young man sitting next to him if he kept on talking.  Blair Sandburg answered the question that seemed to be in the detective's eyes.

 

"Twenty five. I'm 25."

 

"My God, you're ancient."

 

"So, how about you, Jim?"

 

"I'm not 25."

 

"No?"

 

"Sandburg, I've got pants that are older than that." Blair's laughter was more intoxicating than the wine. Jim Ellison's keen eyes noticed that whenever the teacher smiled or chuckled, the color of his cheeks and tip of that small, perfectly formed nose seemed to be brushed with a warm apricot color. But when he laughed, the palette of Blair's skin took on an iridescence, as though there was some special inner light shining - no, radiating - part of the young man's soul. Jim Ellison was powerless as he drank in the teacher's beauty. He couldn't stop himself. The gaze apparently turned into a stare, which made Blair Sandburg stare back. The pupils of the sapphire blue eyes began to widen. Suddenly, the teacher dropped them downward as if Jim Ellison's scrutiny made him feel even more self-conscious -- and vulnerable.

 

Quickly Blair reached under the table and picked up his backpack. "Uh, so, let me read what my kids wrote. I gave them an assignment. - you know, the one they were working on today when you came into my life... uh, I mean, my classroom." If the detective caught the Freudian slip, he didn't acknowledge it.

 

But Jim Ellison had caught it like the last touchdown of the big game.

 

Had he known Blair Sandburg less than 12 hours? It was impossible, thought Jim Ellison as he gulped more than he had intended of his drink. "So, what did you have them do?"

 

"I asked them to answer this question. 'What does love mean to you?'"

 

Jim whistled. "You don't ask the tough ones, do you, kid? So, what did they have to say?"

 

"You really want to hear - or are you just being polite?"

 

"No, I mean, 'yes.' I'd like to hear them."

 

Blair Sandburg's face was so open, so inviting that the detective was hard-pressed not to look away, embarrassed at how...positive his finely-tuned body which always obeyed him was now reacting to the other man, how out-of-control he felt.

 

The grade school teacher pulled several pieces of yellow, lined paper out of the bag, laid them on the table, straightened the pile neatly. Before he started reading, he adjusted his glasses. Ellison wondered what it would be like to see Blair laying those little glasses down on the nightstand next to Jim's big yellow and blue bed in the loft. The detective shivered at the thought.

 

Sandburg was concentrating on the material in front of him, and didn't notice. He started shuffling papers. "Here's Becca's. 'When my grandma got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. Grandpa Joe does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love.' Latasha said, 'Love is when your dog licks your face even after you left him alone all day.' Here's Seijin's. He's this Korean kid who's smart as a whip. It's hard for him to make friends, what with the language barrier and all. I'm trying to draw the little guy out, to get him to participate more in class. He usually ends up sitting all by himself in the back of the room..."

 

Jim Ellison heard a catch in Blair Sandburg's voice. It was easy to see how the teacher could identify with a too-small-for-his-age, too-smart-for-his-own good outsider. Sometimes, Jim reflected, 'smart' wasn't everything - especially when you had to eat your P.B. and J. sandwich alone.

 

"So, what was his?"

 

"'Love is when you give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.'"

 

"He's right."

 

"You've given your French fries away, detective?"

 

"Once or twice. What else have you got there?"

 

 "Janine wrote that 'Love is what makes you smile when you're tired.'" As the young man continued reading the little essays, Jim Ellison couldn't help 'listening' with his eyes. The teacher's face was awash with pride in his students. And the soothing tone of Blair's voice was becoming more addictive by the minute.

 

"Tell me when you're getting bored, Jim, and I'll stop."

 

"Hey, Sandburg, it's a nice change from reading police reports. So, go ahead."

 

 

"Okay. Don't say I didn't warn you." Blair's smile lit up the room -- and places in Ellison's heart where the fire had long since been extinguished. "Anyway, Anthony's one of the few kids in my class who lives with both parents. 'Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my poppy and she takes a sip before she gives it to him, just to make sure it tastes real good.'" Isn't that great?"

 

"People could learn a thing or two from your second graders."

 

The teacher beamed at the compliment. "I know. There's something so pure, so joyful about them." He sobered, and then spoke haltingly. "But a lot of them are going to lose the spark. It's the poverty, the crime..." Sandburg reached for Jim Ellison's sleeve and held on, as though for dear life. "I just wish...."

 

Jim patted the back of the other man's hand. "You wish you could save them all."

 

Blair relaxed his grip and picked up the wine glass again. "Do I sound like a damned Pollyanna?" Sandburg looked down into the ruby depths, as if the answer to every question in the universe could be found there.

 

"No. You sound like somebody who cares. Maybe too much."

 

"But I have to try, Jim. Oh, man, does that smell great or what?" Blair's pasta and bean soup arrived at the table. He picked up a spoon and took a small sip. Pleasure washed across his face. The savory liquid obviously met with Sandburg's approval because he began attacking it with gusto as though he hadn't had a decent meal in days. Jim wondered how often the young teacher skipped lunch or dinner to save a few dollars - dollars he, no doubt, used for his kids. The soup was gone a few minutes later.

 

"I guess you liked it, huh, Chief?"

 

As Gaetano, the waiter, removed the empty bowl, then placed salads in front of both men, Blair Sandburg looked directly at Jim.

 

"I like 'everything' here, Detective Ellison."

 

***

 

"That was probably the best meal I've ever had. I am like 'so' stuffed. Thanks, Jim."

 

"Alfeo'll be pleased he has another convert. I haven't been here for a while. Italian food doesn't agree with me these days."

 

"Oh, man, you don't have an ulcer, do you? I understand that's an occupational hazard in your line of work."

 

"No, knock on wood, no ulcer. Just sensitive taste buds. Sensitive everything when you come right down to it."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Sometimes smells take me down for the count and keep me there."

 

"Taste... smell... what about your eyes? Sensitive, right? That's why you were wearing sun glasses inside the school this morning."

 

"That's pretty damned observant. You should be working with the PD. Most people wouldn't even have noticed."

 

"Well, you're a hard man not to notice." Suddenly, Blair looked stricken that he'd actually said what he'd been thinking. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

 

Jim's reaction caught the teacher off-guard. "You noticed?"

 

"No... yes...I -"

 

"Relax, Chief. I didn't mean to bust your chops. How about something to finish off the meal? The tiramisu is the house specialty."

 

"If you're not careful, you'll spoil me, Jim."

 

"And that would be a bad thing?" The detective waved to Alfeo who promptly set about cutting two large pieces of the delicious chocolate dusted, cream filled cake.

 

As the two dug into the decadent dessert with appropriate abandon, Blair continued asking questions. "What about your hearing?"

 

"Same thing. Sometimes, sounds get to be so painful; I can barely hold it together. Being a cop has its disadvantages. I can't wear earplugs - it'd be just too dangerous."

 

"Have you ever considered -?"

 

"-if you're going to say that 'it's all in your head,' just stop right there, Chief." Jim spat the words out, inches short of angry. "The Army doctors thought that." Months spent in an unfocused, drugged haze induced by the military psychiatrists was something that still haunted Jim Ellison. "Their solution was almost as bad as the problem. Believe me." He'd never let anybody do that to him again.

 

"I was actually going to say 'meditation techniques.' They might help you get your senses under control. It was a godsend when Naomi-" The smaller man stumbled over the words - "my mom died a few years ago."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"Me, too. I wish you'd known her, Jim. Naomi was a terrific lady, one of the original flower children."

 

"She raised a terrific son."

 

"Thanks, man. It was tough - she was sick for a while. I have no brothers or sisters, so it was always pretty much Naomi and me. How about you?"

 

"One brother, Steven. I hardly ever see him. It's a long story."

 

"That's too bad. Family's important. Just ask Tony Soprano. Or Ozzie Osbourne." The almost-funny comment lightened the tone of their conversation and stopped it from turning a dark corner.

 

"Hey, Sandburg, I want to see you clean your plate."

 

Blair smiled, and ate the last forkful of the superb dessert. "Jeez, a cop with super senses." Blair stared off in space for a split second, and then refocused on the man next to him. "Don't take this the wrong way, man, but you're a monster -- a human crime lab with organic surveillance equipment."

 

"Offended, me, Chief? Just because you called me a freak?"

 

"Cut it out! You're not a - you're missing the big picture! Your gifts make you even more special than you already are. Don't fight them. You should be trying to harness them. Use them, not the other way around.  Jim, man, you're the real deal... the brass ring."

 

The detective swallowed hard, having no answer to Blair Sandburg's intriguing statement. Suddenly, nearly-forgotten words came flooding back. "You struggle so, Enqueri, to hold the clouds. When will you realize that you are the sky? Until this lesson is learned, what you can be is enslaved by what you are." Riddles wrapped in enigmas - and all in the Chopec language. Incacha always urged him to accept the powers that were his and his alone.

 

Sitting in an Italian restaurant, 5,000 miles away from that small South American village, Jim Ellison was again being urged to accept his five heightened senses. This time, by... a second grade school teacher. Well, hell, since Jim Ellison was often chided by his ex-wife, his police captain, and even by family members, for acting like a big kid sometimes, it seemed strangely appropriate. The thought made him want to laugh out loud.

 

"What?" Blair caught the look on his dinner companion's intense face. "Do I have stuff hanging from my mouth?" The smaller man quickly groped for his napkin and ran the linen vigorously over his full lips and straight white teeth. Jim treated Blair Sandburg to another rich, full laugh.

 

"You sure you're not a witchdoctor? It's just that what you said was like an echo from the past, from someone..."

 

"You cared about?"

 

"Someone who was a... good friend."

 

"Oh. Not..." Blair stopped short of saying someone you loved. If the answer were "yes," it would have been too hard to even think about.

 

Seeing the change in the teacher's body language - one that said 'fear' or a hundred different variations -- Jim Ellison knew intuitively that he had to clarify, to make certain this special man understood.

 

"His name was Incacha. He was the tribal shaman I lived with in Peru."

 

"The Chopec, that's the name of the tribe, right?"

 

"You have a good memory."

 

"To live with the shaman is an honor."

 

"Even more so in my case. Incacha was a truly great one. His powers were enormous. It wasn't until later that I found out his reputation was known all over the region. The villagers felt blessed with his presence. They knew Incacha would make the tribe strong and prosperous."

 

"Like having the Dalai Lama live with you if you're Buddhist."

 

"Good comparison." Jim Ellison sipped his water, then said quietly, "The Chopec even thought he was the reason that I showed up."

 

"What? A U.S. Army captain?"

 

"No. A... protector."

 

"Didn't they have a protector before you?"

 

"Maybe 'protector' isn't the right word. 'Sentinale' is actually what I was for the tribe."

 

"Sentinale...'sentinel'? They called you a... sentinel?"

 

"You sound as though you know -"

 

"Jesus! How could I be so dense? Senses all over the chart... problems with light... and smells... taste buds haywire... and I bet I know one more thing..." Blair Sandburg reached over again and this time ran his nails over the back of Jim Ellison's outstretched hand. The detective jumped like a scalded cat.

 

"Fuck, Chief! What the hell are you doing?"

 

"Confirming that you have a hyperactive tactile response."

 

"A what?"

 

"Extra-sensitive touchy feely. Am I right? Jesus. Richard Burton must be spinning in his grave!"

 

"Richard Burton, the actor?"

 

"No. 'Sir' Richard Burton, the 19th century British explorer. He wrote that in all tribal cultures, every village had a sentinel. This was someone who patrolled the borders."

 

"You mean a scout."

 

"No, more like a watchman. See, this watchman - this sentinel -- would look for approaching enemies, change in the weather, and movement of game. Tribe survival depended on it - and him. Sentinels were chosen because of a genetic advantage -- a sensory awareness that could be developed beyond normal humans. A sentinel's senses were honed by solitary time spent in the jungle. What's really wild is that most 'sentinels' probably have only one or two hyperactive senses. But someone with all five? God, Jim, you 'are' the real thing."

 

"The truth is I don't remember much of anything about Peru. I do remember one thing, though. Incacha promised that someday someone would come into my life to help guide me along. He promised that when 'it' happened, when I said my 'guide's name, it would 'belong to my tongue only.'"

 

"Belong to your tongue?"

 

"It's the best translation I can do. My Chopec's a little rusty these days." Jim Ellison cast laser blue eyes downward, as it was now his turn to laugh self-consciously. "And I'm still waiting."

 

"You are?"

 

The detective nodded. "Yes. For Enqueritacu."

 

"'Enqueritacu.' What's it mean?" Blair Sandburg wished it meant 'second grade teacher' or 'short, long-haired man.'

 

"It means 'beloved of Enqueri.' Enqueri's my Chopec name." Jim Ellison covered Blair Sandburg's smaller hand with his own. This time, he held it in place so there would be no break in the connection between the two of them. "Sooner or later, you're going to have to tell me just how a second grade school teacher knows as much as you about heightened senses, indigenous South American cultures, 19th Century Victorian explorers and Sentinels. Let's get out of here and go somewhere where we can talk. Your place? And I'll check the locks like I promised."

 

"Is that a question or an order, Detective Ellison?"

 

"Which will get you into my truck faster?"

 

***

 

By the time said detective and the school teacher left Alfeo's Restaurant, the rain had mercifully stopped. They drove back to Blair Sandburg's apartment under an incredibly beautiful, star-filled sky. The two men rode in companionable silence, listening to the oddly appropriate words of Carlos Santana's SMOOTH.

 

The day's worth of rain had almost succeeded in washing away much of the grime from Rhawnhurst Avenue. A bright, full moon had decided to make a special appearance, and its pale rays ghosted bewitchingly over the neighborhood, making it look almost magical.

 

Or maybe it was something else, thought Jim Ellison. Maybe it was the beginning of... the detective shook himself from the realm of impossibilities and back to the supposed task at hand as they pulled up in front of the old house in the Cascade Estates section of town. Once an elegant area dotted with large, stately mansions surrounded by iron gates and beautiful, tree-lined streets, it was now a mere shadow of its former glory.

 

Jim Ellison let the Ford coast to a halt in front of Blair Sandburg's building, the "Friedman Arms" and turned off the truck engine. He grunted loudly and an unmasked look of disapproval flashed across the detective's chiseled features.

 

"Christ, Chief. You didn't tell me you lived in the Bates Motel. Is Norman the damned handyman here?"

 

"Hey, man, don't knock it. Where else can I rent an apartment for only $385 a month?"

 

"You could move in with me, and it wouldn't cost you anything," almost tumbled from Jim's mouth. Instead, he fell back on making a slightly less-charged observation. "Jesus, for a few bucks more, you could probably get a warehouse down by the waterfront."

 

"How would I get to work? Nah, this place is just perfect for me. It's walking distance to my job. I have a bedroom big enough for a bed -"

 

"You have full-sized furniture in there?"

 

Blair Sandburg snorted, and ignored his driver's jibe. "Well, not to fit 'giants," he shot back, "but a full-sized futon that works for me. And a sitting room/dining room/library combination thing going on in the other room. Oh, yeah, and a... well, kind of small bathroom. With hot and cold running --"

 

 "-- vermin, I bet."

 

Ellison was singularly unimpressed. For his part, the school teacher should have been offended but he wasn't. In the short time he'd known Jim Ellison - was it really less than a day? - Blair Sandburg had come to understand that the detective wouldn't say something to be mean or unkind. Jim Ellison just told the truth -- as absolute and as black and white as he saw it.

 

And the banter was so wonderful. It had been one week short of forever since there had had anyone who cared enough - or hung around long enough - to enjoy talking just about day-to-day things with Blair. It was more than wonderful - it was like water to a desert plant.

 

"Lighten up, man. Mrs. Friedman has an exterminator in, at least once a month."

 

"For coffee?"

 

"Very funny." 

 

They sat motionless in the semi-darkness of the truck cab. Finally, Jim spoke up. "So, let's go, Chief."

 

Blair slid out of his side of the truck as Ellison picked up the teacher's backpack and walked around to join him on the uneven pathway. Several rickety steps later found them face to face with a front door that, like the area, had seen its heyday too many years ago to matter. There was a porch light, but the bulb had blown out.

 

Not that Jim Ellison needed any additional illumination. "Let's have a look-see at these locks, Chief. What is it?"

 

Blair finally asked the question he'd been puzzling over all day. "I was wondering... that nickname... you've been calling me 'Chief'..."

 

"Sorry, it seemed sort of natural... listen, I'll stop if it bothers you."

 

"No." Blair felt his face redden. "It's just I haven't had anybody who... it's okay, man. I... like it... a lot."

 

It was Jim Ellison's turn to color. "Well, all right, then...good..." Fumbling for words was proving to be habit-forming for the two of them.  The detective turned back to the door. "This lock is pre-war - 'Civil.' I didn't think you could find anything this old except in a museum."

 

"It's not that bad - is it?"

 

Ellison answered the teacher's question by taking one of his business cards out of his pocket, passing it under the no-name door lock once or twice. It popped open in less than three seconds.

 

"Wow." Blair shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and amazement.

 

"Wow' isn't what I'm going for, Sandburg." The detective clarified. "At least, not with the lock." The words hung in the night air, a cross between a wish and a promise. Jim waited for some sign of acceptance.

 

It didn't come. Uncertain now, that perhaps he'd misread the whole situation between them, Jim Ellison retreated behind a familiar wall of silence. Maybe the grade school teacher was just being pleasant to a police officer who'd bought him a meal and given him a ride home after a bad day.

 

"Let me see the ones on your apartment door, and then I'll get out of your hair."

 

Blair chuckled as he brushed away the riot of curls that the humidity had seemingly turned into a living entity. Jim Ellison's veneer cracked ever so slightly as he watched the young man pushing the auburn mane away from the shining face.

 

"You know what I mean."

 

The steps up to the second floor proved even more daunting than the ones they'd navigated to the front door. "I'm surprised you haven't killed yourself on those." Jim Ellison threw a backward toss of his head. "Let me have your - this door is unlocked!"

 

"Yeah, sometimes, I leave it that way so that Mrs. F. can come in and take care of my ficus. Come on in. Mi casa es su casa."

 

"Thanks." A single stride brought Ellison dead center in the tiny apartment's 'living room.' He secretly wondered if it had originally been a closet for the room on the other side of the wall. Either that, or if Blair Sandburg had sublet from elves. There was a small couch, a small tufted chair, a small desk with a small lamp on it. Around a small half-wall was the smallest kitchen Jim had ever seen. Even someone Blair Sandburg's size would probably have trouble moving around it except to make a cup of coffee or heat something in the small table-top microwave.

 

There wasn't a place to eat, per se. The tall detective guessed that any place you sat in this apartment would be the breakfast nook/lunch bar/dinner table. As Ellison pivoted to the left to let Blair Sandburg move past him, the two men momentarily brushed against each other and found themselves dancing in one another's personal space. A current - emotional, sexual, who knew? -- ran through the tiny apartment, flowing from one to the other. Its unexpected intensity caused Jim to literally jump backward away from the smaller man, and into an open desk drawer he hadn't noticed. The piece of furniture seemed to be the sturdiest thing in the whole building. It caused an agonizing pain to shoot up Ellison's long leg.

 

"Son of a bitch!"  Jim bent over to rub his gashed ankle.

 

"Oh, God, Jim, I'm sorry! A big guy like you has to be careful around here. Let me see." Blair dropped to his knees and pulled Jim's pant leg up enough to see that the skin was broken and bleeding freely. "Hell, slide down, man, and let me take care of that for you." 

 

As Jim Ellison looked down at the figure kneeling more or less between his legs, he felt desire surge through him, fast obliterating his reason and common sense. How could this... 'connection ' have happened so quickly? Sure, Blair Sandburg was beautiful, with a face and body that could easily have starred in any and all of Ellison's wet dreams. But it wasn't lust.

 

Well, it wasn't just lust. There was the oddest resonance between the two men. Ellison had never been so... territorial in his life. Not with the Chopec, not with Incacha, nor any of the women or men he'd been involved with, not even with Carolyn. But Blair Sandburg pushed Jim's buttons hard, and in a way no one else ever had - or ever would again, Ellison suspected. The offshoot of the detective's protectiveness - now idling somewhere in the stratosphere - was that the teacher seemed to come on-line, as though he'd been roused from a deep, disturbing sleep. Sleeping Beauty among seven-year-olds. But no matter how much the kids loved their Mr. Sandburg, detective Jim Ellison knew the truth of the situation.

 

Blair Sandburg was his - and he was Blair Sandburg's. It didn't matter that they'd known one another less than 24 hours. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four days. Twenty-four years. Twenty-four lifetimes. Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg were destined to be flesh of each other's flesh, bone of each other's bone. Ellison couldn't wait one more minute to seal the bargain. He grabbed the young man around his upper arms and pulled him roughly to his feet. Blair winced.

 

"Sorry, Chief, this isn't the way I should be doing this but... ah, hell." Jim lowered his head, and claimed a surprised Blair Sandburg's lips. He milked the open, astonished mouth, even as he gauged the changes in Blair's inviting and receptive body. There, Ellison found no fear, no hesitance, only want and need, mirroring his own. The waves of pheromones excited the detective, made his head spin, and turned his hardening cock into a lethal weapon. "Say you're okay with this, Chief," Jim gasped, "while I can still stop."

 

"You and me? Come here, big guy. Let me show you how okay I am with it." And just that quickly, Blair pressed himself against Jim's taut, primed body, ready to be taken in lust and love. How could he do anything else? The man standing over him was breathing in his scent, using all of those incredible senses to map and memorize every inch of Sandburg's body. He was being made Jim Ellison's private territory. The young teacher moaned at the pleasure and the wonder of what would come next. It was all the signal that Jim needed -- the covenant between possessor and the one being possessed.

 

Ellison sank both hands into the mass of long, silky hair that was flying everywhere, and pulled the shorter man's head back, exposing the throat to his will. Jim chose a place on the skin, right over the pulse point, and bit down hard, marking Blair Sandburg for the first time, making him his own forever.

 

The two men tumbled into the swirling, heady fog of kissing one another savagely. Finally, when the lack of breath literally 'made' them stop, Jim and Blair held each other at arm's length. A split second later, Jim found his filled with Blair Sandburg, as the shorter man climbed Mt. Ellison, wrapping his legs firmly around Jim's waist and holding himself in place, submitting yet demanding everything the other could offer.

 

Ellison had little time to revel in the sensations as Blair ripped Jim's shirt open and scattered buttons across the floor. He began kissing Jim's neck and left a zigzag line of marks along the collarbone. His tongue darted out and licked them, before turning his attention to the rosy nipple nearest his lips. He alternated between blowing on the flesh gently and biting down hard. Jim arched up, his body on fire with the stimulation provided by Sandburg's wicked, talented mouth. No one had ever made Jim Ellison feel this good before.

 

And then Blair upped the ante. He brushed his hand, tentatively at first, then more aggressively, over the bulge in Jim's pants. Ellison's erection tried to escape - to come out and play -- but it was trapped in the detective's tight chinos. Jim moaned into Blair's neck.

 

"Sandburg, bed." Jim wrapped his arms tightly around the teacher, steadied himself before carrying him into the smaller inner room where a futon sat next to the window. The nightstand held a lamp, an alarm clock and nothing else. Ellison placed his lover down and climbed over the prostrate body, muscular thighs resting on either side of Blair's.

 

Kneeling above the teacher, Jim Ellison smiled with anticipation down at the banquet laid out in front of him. The next kiss he planned to lavish on Blair Sandburg would celebrate two souls merging into one. He lowered himself atop the smaller body. As they began exploring one another, Jim pushed his tongue forcefully between Blair's parted lips, willing participants that had given him an open invitation. Jim felt the link between them evolving, binding them together as mates. As corny as it sounded, Jim Ellison's heart was so full, he thought it might burst. He rolled off Blair and down beside him to drink in the sight of the young man, flushed and breathless.

 

"You're so fucking beautiful, Chief. I wish I had the words to tell you."

 

"Don't tell me - show me."

 

The lovers broke all land speed records for scrambling out of their clothes. Now, with nothing between them, they feasted their eyes on one another. Jim Ellison's magnificent body was a warrior's: broad shoulders, sculpted arms, washboard abs, incredibly muscled legs, hips and buttocks. Several scars from what probably were bullet wounds on the otherwise smooth skin attested to Jim Ellison's previous incarnation as a soldier, and his life now as a Major Crimes detective. The cock that jutted impatiently out from the torso was large, plumb-tipped and as impressive as everything else about Ellison.

 

Blair Sandburg's body was a revelation. Smaller, more compact, it was, to Jim Ellison's keen eyes, a perfect complement to his own. The most intriguing feature was the golden-tipped hairs dusting it all over and forming a vee-shaped arrow on his surprisingly long torso. It pointed downward to a fleshy, rose-hued treasure some lucky s.o.b. might be permitted to visit, to touch, to kiss, to claim as his own.

 

Jim Ellison was that lucky s.o.b.

 

Blair smiled invitingly as he wrapped his left hand wrapped around Jim's freely-leaking erection and began stroking hard. The indescribable feeling was a cross between a loving caress and pure animal friction. Ellison began to move closer and closer to the precipice where all reason disappeared. And then Blair Sandburg removed his hand and replaced it with those incomparable lips which ran back and forth over the glistening dick. Ellison again threaded his hands through his partner's hair, holding on for dear life as he plunged in and out of that open and inviting mouth. As his partner approached orgasm, Blair took a deep, relaxing breath, hollowed his cheeks, and sucked for all he was worth. Jim Ellison jolted upward, screamed wordlessly, and spilled his seed down his lover's throat. Still shuddering, the spent detective took several minutes to come back to his senses. Sated and smiling, eyes closed, Jim laid there next to his new/forever partner. He was about to say something trite, like, "I'm really glad you have that whole oral fixation thing going for you, buddy, " when he was treated to the most pleasant of sensations -- Blair was licking him clean. Once done, Sandburg kissed the tip of Ellison's penis, moved up to Jim's relaxed face, leaned over for a kiss to share the other man's own taste. Jim returned the favor and removed any traces of come from the smaller man's lips and face. They might have settled back and talked, but for Blair's stiff-as-a-board dick that was trying to tunnel its way into Ellison's upper thigh.

 

"I think I owe you one, Chief." Jim bowed his head, took the rigid organ in his mouth. He felt the every vein on its surface, and sampled the salty pre-ejaculate, mixed with a flavor that could only be described as "Blair." As Jim sucked away, the teacher tossed his head from side to side, moaning loudly while fisting the blanket beneath him. Again and again, Ellison brought him up to the brink, but wouldn't push him over. The exquisite torture might have lasted longer, but for Ellison inserting a finger into the smaller man's puckered anus. When Jim found the magic little nub deep inside Blair's body and raked his long finger over it, Blair screamed dramatically and exploded in Jim's waiting mouth.

 

Exhausted by the intensity of what they had just done, the two men finally sunk back onto the futon, wrapped tightly around each other. As they drifted to sleep, nothing was said.

 

Nothing needed to be.

 

***

 

As far as Jim Ellison was concerned, the morning arrived too soon. After that first hurried rut, the two had settled down and made true love to one another. And after the second interlude, the detective spent the rest of the night just watching the beautiful young man sleep peacefully. With his head resting on Ellison's shoulder, Sandburg's small nose twitched and his eyelids fluttered once or twice. Jim shushed him gently and brushed errant locks of hair away from Blair's face. The simple touch helped to settle his lover's body down immediately.

 

Sometime before dawn, it started to rain again. The sound of it hitting the roof woke Blair up. Looking slightly disoriented and thoroughly edible, he seemed almost surprised to see Ellison still there in bed with him.

 

"Hi."

 

"Morning, Chief. How ya doing?"

 

"Okay. You?"

 

In answer, Jim swooped down like a predator and claimed Blair's lips with his own. The kiss deepened, and for several seconds, there was nothing else but the comfort and promise of whatever the fates had in store for them. Then both men pulled away slightly and smiled.

 

"Mmmm. Nice way to start the day."

 

Blair ran his hand over his lover's chest. "Jim..."

 

"Yeah, Chief?"

 

"I just wanted to say..."

 

"What?"

 

"That... if we don't see each another again...well... thank you."

 

"...if we don't..." Jim's blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"

 

"I mean... I know what it's like to be lonely - so lonely that you need somebody to be in your life... someone to be close to... even if it's only for a little while. Or even one night." Blair swallowed his words, but Jim Ellison heard them. "They were like the sound of the bullet that had the detective's name on it.

 

So Sandburg was giving him the classic "kiss off" - with those two full lips the color of summer strawberries. Lips that had sucked on his body. Lips that had lied to him.

 

"Are you saying you want me to leave? That last night was -"

 

"Oh, no, Jim!" Blair bolted upright, and threw his arms around the detective's corded neck. "That's not what I meant! What happened between us... what we did...I didn't want you to feel obligated to stay because you felt sorry for me." His pinched face was pressed against Jim's shoulder, the outpouring of words muffled against the solid flesh. "The others... didn't."

 

"Then, they were fucking fools. Come closer, Chief."

 

"We're pretty close now, Jim."

 

"Not nearly close enough..."

 

"I'm practically behind you..."

 

"Hold on to that thought..."

 

***

 

The two men lay on the futon, tangled in one another's space, listening to soft jazz coming from somewhere on the next floor. Blair lazily brushed his strong, square hand back and forth over Jim's broad chest playing with the rosy nub of each nipple.

 

"You keep doing that, Chief, you know what's going to happen." Jim grabbed the younger man's fingers and started pressing them one by one to his lips, kissing each tenderly. Then he nibbled at the tips, before sucking them into his mouth. Jim Ellison felt playful. Jim Ellison felt young. Hell, Jim Ellison felt reborn.

 

And Jim Ellison felt as sexually primed as he could ever remember feeling.

 

But something in the back of his mind troubled Jim Ellison, even as his young lover rolled toward him to again lay claim to his mouth as effectively as he had laid claim to the detective's heart. The long, languid kiss was neither rushed nor lusty. Not a prelude to sex, but, rather, a destination of its own. As Jim's mind cleared, his thought was that Blair Sandburg could teach fucking master seminars in kissing. For all of that, there still seemed to be something bothering the younger man in the gray early morning hours of their first day together as lovers. Jim wondered if Blair was again having second - or third - thoughts. After the terrible exchange at dawn, they had talked for hours about everything -- about hopes, ambitions, and the dreams they still had.

 

Everything except love.

 

Neither man had found nerve enough to use the word. For Jim Ellison's part, expressing emotion had always been difficult. Hell, he'd recovered from gunshot wounds easier. Then he looked into Blair Sandburg's eyes, and he was struck with the unequivocal knowledge that those eyes that would never lie to him.

 

Jim Ellison saw it, even if it wasn't spoken.

 

"Hey, Chief, where'd we leave your duffel bag?"

 

"My bag? Why do you want to know?"

 

"You never read me what the Osavedo kid wrote."

 

"I don't have to read it, Jim - I know it by heart. 'When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that it's safe in their mouth.'" Blair's eyes misted over.

 

No one had ever had the good sense or good fortune to say Blair Sandburg's name 'that' way - to love him the way he should be loved. It was a situation that needed remedying. Right away. Ex-Army Ranger and Cascade Major Crime Detective Jim Ellison was the right man for the job.

 

"Blair."

 

"Yeah, Jim?"

 

"Blair."

 

"What, Jim?"

 

"'Blair.' How does your name sound coming from my mouth?"

 

"Oh, wow..." Second-grade teacher Blair Jacob Sandburg thought It's true as he fell headlong into the certainty of love with Detective James Joseph Ellison. His name did sound different. Blair had no doubt that his name would always be safe in the mouth of Enqueri, the man who would forever be his blessed protector.

 

His Sentinel.

 

His love.

 

 

The end

 

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Author’s Acknowledgements: Thanks to all the Mongoosians - writers, betas, artists, and all-around madcap zanies -- who continue to shake their collective pom-poms and encourage me in my TS efforts. We all came out bloodied but unbowed getting this puppy out, didn't we?