The Bright Touch of the Moon

~Forever - Part 2 ~

(Please note that you will need to read Forever ~ Part 1 to understand this story This story can be found at my story page)

Warnings:. As part of the past story line, it has scenes which re-tell rape and torture. If you are uncomfortable reading about these subjects, please do not go any further.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to StarWatcher and Bobbie for not only your invaluable beta help, but for giving me your opinions and letting me bounce ideas off you. The input I receive from you both is of an enormous benefit.

Note: The character of Doctor Peter Mitchell once again returns in this story. To get an understanding of who he is and his relationship with both Jim and Blair, it is advisable to read, Once a Medic first. This story can be found at my story page.

Summary: This story is a continuation of Forever. As Blair struggles to regain control of his life it becomes apparent that his demons are not the only ones hanging over his head.

Ratings: This story is rated a MA and I've also labeled it as pre/slash.

Feedback: Always welcome.

~oOo~

Ring-around-a-rosy ... ashes, ashes ... "all fall down."

"Blair?"

Blair's head jerked up from where it rested on the back of the seat. "All fall down," he repeated, the words of the nursery rhyme Naomi used to sing to him as a child skipping through his head like the unbroken chain it represented – until they all fell down.

"You're not going to fall, Blair." Jim's arm was now draped around his shoulder. "I won't let you."

Letting his head relax again, awareness slowly filtered back into Blair's world. Sitting in the front seat, squeezed in between Jim and Pete, he felt the closeness of them both. His head rested against Jim's arm, leaving a feeling of warmth against the back of his skull – a warmth doubled by the hand that was tracing a light pattern across the top his shoulder. He wondered briefly what Jim's fingers were feeling. Was his skin warm to the touch and, if so, what was it conveying? Was it telling a tale of hope, of a man with a life and a future? He closed his eyes. How could it? How could a heart that was essentially dead possibly pump anything but ice?

Then his body, as if recanting his thoughts, set his limbs afire. Pain, intense and seemingly set with a purpose, left him with no option but to feel, and in no doubt of the fact that he was indeed very much alive. He arched off the seat, unable to bear the pressure on his tailbone. His hands betrayed him next, sending what felt like short, sharp jolts of electricity from the pads of his fingertips to the base of his wrists. "Jim," he rasped, but Jim was one step ahead of him. The arm that provided a drop of warmth in an ocean of cold was now wrapped around him. His legs were drawn up onto the seat and settled across another pair of legs and Pete's hand squeezed his calf muscle. The pain flared again and he tried, without success, to bite back the pitiful sound which escaped his lips. Jim's arm tightened its grip and, like a babe cradled in his mother's arms, he was drawn in and held. His cheek settled against Jim's chest and a waft of deodorant, as well as a scent that was far more familiar, engaged his sense of smell. He breathed in deeply, wanting more, needing more. As if their thoughts were in sync, Jim tugged on the collar of his shirt, exposing more of his skin. Blair reacted on instinct, burying his face in the nape of Jim's neck and breathing in the essence of the only tenable hold he had left on life.

~oOo~

Pete pulled to a stop, yanked on the handbrake and pushed open the car door. He rounded the front of the jeep quickly, pulling open the passenger side. "Gently," he said, his hands now supporting Blair's torso, as Jim aided in sliding Blair's body across the seat. As soon as Pete became responsible for all of Blair's weight, Jim pulled himself from the car. There was an urgency to his movements and he didn't attempt to take Blair from Pete's arms. Blair was panting – quick, short, successive bursts – which, combined with the fine stream of sweat that was now trickling down from his temple, told them both that Blair was fighting a battle with pain. Grabbing the medical bag from the back of the jeep, Jim bounded up the front stairs. "Key in the same place?" he called.

"Yeah." Pete paused at the bottom of the front stairs and readjusted Blair's weight. It would have been a hell of a lot easier to throw the kid over his shoulder, but Blair's breathing was a little erratic and somewhat constricted; at this point he didn't want to put any pressure on Blair's diaphragm.

Jim flung open the front door and bounded down the stairs. He placed a supporting hand on Pete's back as the older man made his way up the stairs. "Which bedroom?" he asked.

"Your room," Pete answered. While those two simple words had been unconsciously spoken, it suddenly brought home to Jim the very real significance of the time he'd spent in this house. But now was not the time to focus his thoughts on anything but Blair; his hand remained on Pete's back as they made their way to the bedroom at the end of the passageway. He opened the door to the smell of clean sheets and the unmistakable perfume of frangipani. "Neighbour at the other end of the beach came by to stock the place up," Pete said by way of explanation. "You wanna pull back the sheets? And I got a feeling it'd be a good idea to grab that towel."

Snagging the towel from the end of the bed, Jim yanked down the quilt and then scooted back up the length of the bed. "Easy, Chief," he said, as Pete lowered Blair into his arms. Blair groaned miserably and Jim managed, just in time, to get the towel between Blair's mouth and his lap before the younger man's stomach muscles contracted, bringing up a mixture of bile and water.

Jim shifted his hand to Blair's face and palmed away the sweat that was now making his hair damp. "Pete?" he said, not even trying to mask the concern in his voice.

"It's been a long day, son." Pete's bag was now open and he was preparing a needle. He placed it on the bedside table and reached down to touch Blair's leg. "Kiddo, I'm going to give you something for pain, but first I need to know where it's hurting."

Blair's eyes were closed and, although he was still conscious, Jim doubted that he was fully up to comprehending what was happening to him. His doubt was immediately repudiated and his gut feeling about Blair's growing dependency on pain medication was reinforced when Blair answered Pete without hesitation. "Everywhere," Blair panted. "Need a shot, now."

Pete briefly met Jim's eyes before running his hand up the length of Blair's leg. "Blair, I need you to be a little more specific."

The tone of Blair's voice left little doubt that he was in pain and, as if to prove as much, he pulled his legs up and wrapped his hand around his stomach. "Just inside," he rasped, burying his head further into Jim's lap. "Please, Pete, make it stop."

"It's gonna be okay," Pete replied softly. He moved his hand to the top of Blair's cargo pants, snapped open the button and pulled down the zipper. His eyes once again met Jim's. "Tomorrow," he said, and Jim nodded in agreement. Tomorrow they would all start afresh.

Pulling Blair's pants down just enough to expose the fleshy part of his rump, Pete inserted the needle. Blair flinched and Jim reacted by tangling his fingers in the now damp strands of Blair's hair. "How long?" he asked.

"A few minutes." Capping the needle, Pete got to his feet and pulled open the window. The ocean breeze swept through the room and, although it carried with it the afternoon heat, Jim instinctively shivered.

"You okay?" Pete asked.

"Yeah." Jim briefly closed his eyes. "I'm fine."

Sitting on the mattress again, Pete trailed his hand up Blair's back. "Kiddo, I'm going to have to examine you and chances are that you're going to be a little out of it when I do. Do I have your permission, Blair?"

Blair didn't turn his head, choosing to leave his face where it couldn't be seen, in the security of Jim's lap. "Don't care," he muttered. "Just make me stop feeling."

"It won't be long, now." Pete continued to rub Blair's back until his breathing finally slowed and his shoulders dropped, releasing the tension they'd been holding.

"Jim, he's pretty much out of it now. You don't have to stay, son. I can handle it myself."

"Yes, I do," Jim replied quietly.

Rising to his feet, Pete reached for his bag and started to unpack what he would need. "You have nothing to prove, Jim. Not to Blair and certainly not to me."

"But I still have to prove it to myself." Jim's fingers massaged Blair's scalp. "I can't fail him, Pete."

With what he needed now neatly lined up on the table beside the bed, Pete retook his seat. "And you won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know you."

"Then you must know the thoughts that still go through my head."

"I do." Pete reached out and tapped Jim's chest. "But I also know that the feelings you carry in your heart for this kid will eventually win out against any demons lingering in your head."

"And what happens if 'eventually' is too long?"

"Then you rely on me to bridge the gap." Pete's hand settled over Jim's. "Son, this is not going to be easy, but for you to get through this, you know that you're going to have to let go."

Jim shook his head. "No. No way ... no way I let him go."

"I'm not talking about him, I'm talking about yourself, Jim, and that anger that's churning your insides like a witch's brew."

If it wasn't Pete sitting before him, Jim would have quite freely responded that he had no anger left; that his rage had been left back at the hospital, back on the shower room floor the day he'd told himself that he'd been freed from his self-doubt and self-recrimination. The day he promised to show Blair nothing more of himself than love. But while he'd made a lifetime career out of lying to himself, lying to Pete never seemed to work. "Are you so sure?" he asked. Lifting his hand, he scrubbed his thumb across the scar over Pete's left eye – a natural action because, just as it was with Blair, when it came to Pete, society's artificial boundaries didn't exist. "Look what I left behind the last time I let it go."

Pete smiled. "Yeah, well, middle age has made me grumpy, so I wouldn't be expecting me to let you off so easy this time, if I were you."

"Easy?" Jim replied, lightly. "Last time you broke my knuckle."

"Well, you should have known better than to take a swing at someone with such a hard head." The smile fell from Pete's face and his attention returned to Blair. "I'm going to do the hardest part first, Jim, so if you feel the need to get some fresh air, now's the time."

Jim let his hand drop back on to Blair's head. "No," he said, his fingers winding themselves once again in the strands of Blair's hair. "I'm staying."

Without another word, Pete took hold of the top of Blair's pants, manoeuvring them past Blair's hips, down the length of his legs and over the bandages on his feet. He looked up as the word 'fuck' left Jim's mouth, seeing instantly the reason for the reaction. The back of Blair's boxers were dotted with blood and, while the amount staining the material gave Pete no undue cause for concern, his examination would now have to be far more personal. He'd been hoping to avoid that situation, especially with Jim in the room. He was on the verge of suggesting, once again, that perhaps Jim should leave, but the look on the other man's face told him that it would be a futile attempt. The Ellison mask was firmly in place but, while the exterior was calm and almost unemotional, Pete knew that the interior was waging a war. If he wasn't careful, Jim would end up being the major casualty.

"It's nothing to be overly concerned about," Pete said, attempting to make some impact on Jim's inner turmoil. "It was a long flight and the road up here wasn't exactly all that smooth." Pulling Blair's boxers completely off, Pete slipped on a latex glove and removed a tube of antibiotic cream from his bag. Without saying a word, he angled Blair's leg up and began his examination.

Blair let out a small moan at the intrusion into his body, but his breathing remained steady and his eyes stayed closed. "It's okay, kiddo," Pete soothed, as he concentrated on feeling for any new damage. Finding nothing more than a slight tear near one of the internal stitches, he withdrew his finger and pulled off the glove. Donning another with practiced ease, he lowered Blair's leg and continued his examination. The irritation from the hospital catheter was minimal, and as he pressed down on Blair's groin and manipulated his damaged testicle, he felt no undue swelling or reason for concern.

He glanced at Jim to get an indication of how he was doing, and his internal alarm bells started to clamour. Jim had paled considerably and, although his eyes were now closed, Pete had the distinct feeling that Jim's other senses were more than compensating for the lack of sight. "Jim?" he asked, but the only response was a change in Jim's breathing pattern. It was low, calm and strangely ominous, making Pete feel like he was about to step into the eye of a hurricane.

Turning his focus back to Blair, Pete un-bandaged, examined and re-bandaged the wounds on Blair's feet and his left hand. His right hand was more of a concern; it had been x-rayed again the day before they'd checked out of the hospital, because it hadn't responded as well to treatment. Due to the nature of the damage, his hand was encased in a half cast and the moment Pete unwound the bandage, exposing the palm of Blair's hand, Jim's eyes shot open. Blair's hand was still red and inflamed and, for a man with Ellison's senses, the smell of infection would have been enough to push him from the eye of the storm and straight into the fray. "Jim, I need your help," Pete said, already on the offensive. When there was no answer, Pete spoke again, with a little more authority. "Jim! I need your help." He didn't get an answer, and he wasn't really expecting one, but the look in Jim's eyes told him that, at the very least, he had Ellison's attention. "In the storage room you'll find an IV pole, and there are IV antibiotics in the refrigerator. I need you to bring me both."

A secluded house on a pristine Hawaiian beach didn't come cheap. A high court judge, a defence lawyer, and a retired neurosurgeon made up the list of neighbours who shared the twenty-mile stretch of paradise. The retired surgeon, who these days simply went by the name of Murray, and whom Pete had known for more years than either of them cared to remember, had stocked the house and provided the list of medical supplies that he had asked for.

"He needs to be taken back to the hospital." Jim eased Blair's head out of his lap. "He should never have been discharged."

"Maybe not," Pete agreed. "But who was going to keep him there? You would have failed and so would I, so that leaves the guard at the door and a handcuff on the bedrail." While he knew he was over-dramatizing, sometimes sharp and straight to the point was the only way to get Ellison's attention. "I need those supplies, now, Jim."

The moment Jim stepped from the room, Pete repositioned Blair on the bed, giving him better access to the wound. He examined the edges where the nail had been driven through. The wound was more tender, more swollen and, judging by Jim's reaction, more infected than the day before. Snapping open the buttons on Blair's shirt, he pressed against the lymph nodes under Blair's arms and repeated the same with the glands in his neck. Both areas were showing signs of a body fighting infection.

When Jim returned to the room, it was as if he were functioning on autopilot. He had retrieved everything Pete had asked for, and he was now methodically and meticulously going about preparing the IV. The only real indication to the depths of his anger were the hands that refused to stop shaking.

Pete drew himself off the mattress. He took the capped needle from Jim's hand. "Go," he said.

"No," Ellison replied.

"Not a request, son." Pete moved to stand in front of Blair, blocking Jim's view. "Get out of here and get rid of everything you need to get rid of before you come back." He held up his hand. "And before you decide to fight me on this, you just stop and think what your emotions are doing to him. It's bad enough that you could destroy yourself, but don't take him down with you, Jim. Right now he doesn't have the strength to fight back."

Reality hit Jim like he'd been stabbed in the gut. He sucked in a gulp of air that never seemed to reach his lungs and then, without a second glance, he turned and left the room. Strong, decisive steps quickened in pace and, by time he'd reached the end of the passageway, those steps had broken into a run.

As Pete inserted the needle into Blair's arm, he heard the screen door slam. As he taped the tubing down and checked the pace of the drip, he heard nothing but silence. Then, as he applied the last bandage to Blair's hand and pulled the sheet up to cover Blair's chest, he heard the breaking of glass. "Damn you, Ellison."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Pete mentally prepared himself for what was coming. As he got to his feet and made for the door, he knew that he was about to fight a war – but the only objective was to save Jim from himself.

~oOo~

"Stop." Ignoring the blood-tipped shards of glass that lay on the deck, Pete reached out and roughly grabbed Jim by the arm, before spinning him around. Instinctively, Jim's hand balled into a fist and without any real comprehension of what he was doing, he raised it, ready to strike. Acting before Ellison had the chance to lash out, Pete encased Jim's knuckles within the palm of his hand, spun him back around and slammed him, hard, into the timber-clad wall. "I mean it, Ellison," he warned as he brought his knee up and dug it firmly into the small of Jim's back. "Get it under control." The sound of Jim's heavy breathing kept a rhythm with his own and, as he waited for a response, Pete could feel Jim's muscles straining against his own. For the moment, he had the upper hand, but it wouldn't take long for Jim to work his way out of the hold, so he added more pressure in the hope of keeping Ellison contained for a few moments longer. While he had, in the past, been guilty of teaching Jim a lesson or two with the power of his fists, that was a long time ago and under an entirely different set of circumstances. The last thing he wanted to do now was to hurt Jim any more than he'd already been hurt.

"Are you with me?" he asked, steadying his own voice. Receiving an answer, not in words, but by the slight release of tension in Ellison's shoulders, he lowered his knee and leaned in until his chest was heavy against Jim's back. "Jim, I'm going to step back and when I do, I want you to go." Taking the chance, he unfolded his hand from around Jim's, his thumb briefly pressing against the bleeding cuts across the width of Ellison's knuckles. "I want you to take off down that beach and I don't want you to come back until you've got this out of your system." Jim's shoulders dropped even further, and Pete played his trump card. "He needs to heal, son, and he needs to do it on his own terms. Those terms don't include being swallowed up in your anger." Pete took a single step back; the only physical connection he now had with Jim was the hand he settled in the middle of Ellison's back. "Go," he said, with a slight tap. "Go and run this down."

The moment Pete removed his hand, Jim took off. Without a single word or any kind of acknowledgement, he bounded down the stairs and hit the sand running. Pete tracked him down the length of the beach and, although he lost sight of him when Jim rounded the base of the bluff, he didn't divert his gaze until Jim's blood, wet and slick and settling in the creases of his palm, stirred his memories. Drawing his eyes away, he turned and went back into the house, making his way slowly into the kitchen. Stopping at the sink, he turned on the faucet and ran his hand under the water. Jim's blood washed away easily, but there had been a time when that wasn't the case, when it pooled in his hands in such copious quantities that he thought he'd never be able to remove the colour of it from his skin. But, as time did what time is meant to do, it had passed through his life, taking the punch from the bad, and leaving behind the strength within the good.

Picking up a kitchen towel and drying his hands, Pete unconsciously rubbed at the scar over his left eye. He'd fought back against the bad, both physically and emotionally. But, while he might have gained a brief reprieve from the war being waged, there had never been total victory because, at the end of the day, it was Jim who was supplying the ammunition. Turning his gaze toward the passageway, his thoughts settled on the man who lay in the bedroom beyond. For the first time in a very long time, he felt hope. Blair would have a long way to go in conquering his own demons, but he was stronger than Jim and he was certain that Blair's strength would eventually become Ellison's silver bullet.

~oOo~

In Pete's eyes the beauty of a Hawaiian sunset had always held a sense of magic. No matter if it were the first, or the hundredth, it had the power to hold and captivate the observer, never giving them the chance to become accustomed to its awe-inspiring beauty. For a few precious moments at the end of each day, it would keep the night sky at bay and paint the colour of life against a canvas of fading blue. And on the cusp of darkness, seconds before being forced to retreat to the waters of the horizon, it threw out one last burst of radiant energy that revitalized the soul and recharged the senses. As he sat on the top step of the porch, waiting for Jim to return, Pete closed his eyes and let the sunset weave its magic upon his tired soul.

"It never ceases to amaze, does it?"

Pete's eyes remained closed, stealing a few more precious moments. "And it never will." He opened his eyes and watched as Jim took his own seat, two stairs down. "Blair hasn't woken."

"I know." Jim held out his hand, ready to catch the beer Pete now held in his. "Sorry about the window. I'll fix it tomorrow."

"You're right about that, and lucky for you, there's still a pane of glass in the shed from last time you broke it."

Jim's interest shifted from the horizon and toward the darkening sky. The first star, the evening star, shone dimly in the twilight, making him wonder what would happen if he did make a wish.

"You feel like sharing?" Pete asked, quietly.

"You really think it's wise to open Pandora's Box any more than it's already been opened?"

"Oh, I think I'm wise enough and just about tough enough to handle anything Pandora throws my way."

Jim swivelled around until his hip hit the kickboard. He stretched his leg out along the length of the step and looked up at Pete. "I don't doubt it." He paused for a moment, his head once again tilted towards the heavens. "It makes me angry."

"What does?"

"The thought of what's been done to him and what he's going to have to go through, not just to heal, but to be able to live the rest of his life with some semblance of normality."

"Jim, Blair will be fine."

"Fine?" Pete was not an ill-considered man and, normally, neither were his statements. He'd seen what Blair had already been put through and he knew damn well what lay ahead and 'fine' wasn't a word to be associated with either.

"Fine?" Jim repeated again. "How the hell did you come to that conclusion?"

Pete took a slow swig from his beer bottle, considering with care his next statement. "Blair will be fine because he's strong."

The tone of voice said it all. "You mean stronger than me."

"Yeah," Pete replied simply.

For a surreal moment, time stood still before speeding up and leaving Jim with a profound sense of failure. After all this time and after everything he'd put Pete through, he couldn't blame the man for reaching the end of the line, for finally realising that their friendship was essentially made up of a set of weights and balances. Pete was the balance and he was the weight that would eventually drag them under. He shifted his leg again to the stair below and turned back to face the setting sun. He'd already heard the words and he didn't need to see it reinforced by the look on Pete's face.

"Jim." The stair creaked, settled and creaked again. Pete reached out and touched Jim's shoulder. "When I say he's gonna be fine, I don't mean that tomorrow he'll wake good as new and go tiptoeing through the tulips, because he won't. He needs to heal, both emotionally and physically, and I have no doubt that between now and then, we'll both be put through the wringer dealing with his anger and his hurt." Pete's touch increased as he began to work at the tension Jim was so good at storing in his muscles. "But what Blair won't do is allow himself to wallow in the past. He'll move on, son, and when he does, his past won't follow."

"He'll never forget, Pete. No matter how much time passes, he'll never forget."

"I'm not saying he will, but he will embrace an ideal stronger than memories."

"Which is?"

"He'll realise that what happened was an event beyond his control and beyond his burden of responsibility. None of it was his doing and none of it was his fault. The memory will always be there, but it will be part of his past and he won't let it define his future."

"Unlike me?"

Pete hesitated. While Jim and Blair might share a close, cohesive relationship, they were men who looked at the world through very different sets of eyes. Blair lived for the here and now, and for the future. He looked for the positive, not letting the negatives of the world ever become heavy enough to hold him back for long. Jim, on the other hand, was a thinker, although Pete realised it wasn't a label many would attribute to Ellison. But no one knew Jim as well as he did and no one knew just how profoundly Jim's thoughts affected him, or how badly these same thoughts kept him trapped, at times, within his memories.

"I'm getting better, you know," Jim said, as if somehow reading Pete's mind. "I can go weeks, even months, without thinking about it."

"That's what time is meant to do, son."

"Not time, Blair. The closer I let him get to me, the harder it is for the memories to catch me." Jim rolled the beer bottle between the palms of his hands. "Kind of ironic, isn't it? Ever since I've known him, he's been fighting an enemy he never even knew existed."

"He knows," Pete answered. "He might not know the details, but he knows." Slapping Jim lightly on the back, Pete slowly got to his feet and stretched his muscles. "Why don't you hit the shower and when you're done, I'll patch up your hand."

"Pete," Jim said, before Mitchell moved away. "I don't think I've ever told you."

"And you don't have to." Making his way up the stairs, Pete once again turned his attention toward the sky. "You might be the centre of Blair's dissertation Ellison, but you're already my degree."

Jim smiled. "Nice to know I'm good for something."

As the screen door slammed shut, Jim heard Pete's quiet words. "More than you know, son."

~oOo~

Blair had been restless. He had kicked off the sheet, leaving him naked from the waist down and forcing Jim to confront the uncomfortable nakedness of his memories. Reaching for Blair's bag, he unzipped it and riffled through the contents until he found a pair of shorts which, in effect, would serve to cover them both.

Blair stirred the moment his leg was touched. He rolled from his back to his side, making Jim's task more difficult, but not difficult enough to deter. With gentle patience, he manoeuvred the shorts over Blair's bandages and pulled them up the length of his legs, stopping briefly when Blair moaned. "It's just me, Chief," he comforted as Blair's eyes struggled to open.

Balancing on the fine line that separated awareness from confusion, Blair mumbled. "What ... doing?"

"Just putting your boxers on."

Awareness stayed at arm's length. "Why?"

"Why what?"

The warmth of Jim's hands on his skin and the touch of material sliding up his legs and over his hips brought no additional clarity; he'd laid down with his boxers on. "Didn't take ... 'em off," Blair finally managed.

Jim rested his hand on Blair's thigh. "Pete did."

Blair's eyes now struggled to focus. "Why?"

Not really wanting to recall earlier events, Jim grabbed the sheet and began to pull it back up. "You need to rest. Close your eyes."

Indignity and humiliation finally broke through the confusion and Blair rolled onto his back, relying now on anger to protect him from the harsh reality of both emotions. "Why?"

As the events of earlier in the day flashed across Blair's vision, the full impact hit him as, unmercifully, the scenes replayed in lifelike detail. Then his feelings intensified, as if a deaf man had been left in charge of the remote, turning up the sounds and sensations to a deafening volume with no second thought to the chaos they were creating. Intellectually, he realised with unquestioned certainty that the hands which had touched him on such a personal level belonged to a man whose only intention was to heal. His emotional responses, however, allowed for no such distinction. Pete's hands were Forsythe's hands, and his fingers were so very much more. He sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the side of mattress. "He had no right."

"Chief."

Acutely aware that Jim was sitting directly behind him, Blair resisted the urge to pull away when Jim's touch brushed across his shoulder.

"He did ask you, Blair. He asked you if he could examine you, and you gave him permission."

Blair shook his head "No," he replied. "He didn't and no, I wouldn't."

Jim's hand settled on Blair's shoulder. "Blair, do you really think for one moment that I would have let him touch you if you had said no?" Jim inched his body closer. "And do you really think he would have gone against your wishes?"

"I don't have to think, I know!"

Blair had unwittingly explained the problem. He didn't have to think because all his reactions were ruled by his heart, not his head. As if to further demonstrate his mindset, Blair's next thought was ruled by his desperate desire to forget. "Where is he? I need to see him."

"He's asleep, Chief. He's exhausted."

"Wake him. I need to see him."

Jim placed both hands on Blair's shoulders. "Why? What's so urgent that it can't wait until morning?"

Blair's head dropped and his hair fanned out, covering his face. "I need his help," he said softly.

"His help, or the help of what he has in his syringe?"

Blair shook his head and drew in a ragged breath. "Don't. Just don't."

Jim closed the gap which separated them. "Chief, this is not the way. Believe me, it's not the way."

"It's the only way." Blair's voice trailed off into a whisper. "I can't do it alone."

"Then don't." Jim slid backward to sit completely on the mattress, and pulled Blair back against his chest. "Lean on me."

Blair's body didn't resist the action, but his mind resisted the idea. He shook his head. "No."

"Why?" Jim wrapped his arms around Blair's chest. "Why won't you let me help?"

"Because," Blair whispered, "you can't. You have no idea."

The muscles in Jim's arm flexed as he tightened his hold. "No idea of what?"

"Of what it feels like to be me," Blair replied, softly.

The moment of truth had arrived and, while Jim yearned for nothing more than to share his truth with Blair, his own demons held strong. "I might not know how you feel, but I do know you," he said.

Blair looked up and fixed his eyes on the wall. "Then you know I'm not strong enough."

"That's where you're wrong." Without releasing Blair from his arms, Jim started to move up the length of the bed.

"No. I just need Pete."

Jim didn't stop moving. "Let's just try this first, okay?" Slowly he lay down on his back, taking Blair down with him.

"No," Blair protested. "I don't want to lay down."

"Just be for a minute," Jim replied.

With one arm still wound around Blair's chest, Jim's shoulder effectively became a pillow and, when Blair didn't put up any physical resistance, it didn't take too much effort to get him to turn to his side.

"Why are we doing this?" Blair whispered, his breath warm against Jim's skin.

Making sure the IV was still flowing freely, Jim took hold of Blair's hand and settled it against his chest. "Because you need to feel."

"I do feel," Blair said flatly.

Jim ran his hand down Blair's arm. "What do you feel, Chief? Tell me what you feel."

The silence seemed vast and cavernous and Jim held his breath until Blair finally broke, choking out the words he so desperately didn't want to hear. "Nothing ... I feel nothing."

All I want to do is to take Blair away, lay him down on a bed, cocoon him in safety and stay perfectly still until we are both strong enough to move. Jim's thoughts came flooding back and now was his chance; his chance to not only implement those thoughts, but the chance to hold on for both their lives. His cheek came to rest upon the top of Blair's head. "You will," he said. "If I promise you nothing else in this lifetime, I promise you that you will feel."

It was only a single drop, one solitary tear, hot against his shoulder, but for Jim, it was a pool deep enough in which to drown. How could he even begin to save Blair when he wasn't even strong enough to save himself? His only chance lay in the hope that Pete was right. Blair didn't need saving because he was strong enough save himself. Jim himself was head deep and out of his depth, but Blair was the man with two feet firmly planted on the shore.

Without a word, Jim reached down and pulled up the sheet to cover them both. Blair's only reaction was a shaky inhale of breath and a tenseness which seem to band in every muscle.

"Close your eyes," Jim whispered. "I promise tomorrow will bring a new day."

~oOo~