~oOo~

It's been over three weeks now... since the book died (well yeah, fucking Oliver did too but you'd say more people care about the book, and care more about it).

You know it isn't in the loft, the Sentinel in you pretty had much bookmarked (and oh crap you can't believe that you thought that pun even to yourself) the smell of burned old leather and paper and glue that first night. Sandburg took it off to the University days ago, probably to show his friendly librarian, while you deal with the even friendlier - and scarier - one at the city library.

But it's worth it, and when he comes home tonight...

~oOo~

"Hey, Jim."

You try not to look like you've been tracking him all the way from the street, but somehow, from the way he looks at you, you know you failed that one. Again.

"Hey. Where's The Book?"

One eyebrow goes up. He may not have the senses, but he knows capitals when he hears them. "Still at Rainier." He flops on the couch, every inch of him saying 'tired and depressed and don't want to talk about it but can't help myself.' Well, saying it to his Sentinel, who knows body language when it's that loud, and to his partner, who from long experience knows he might not want to but can't help himself.

Sure enough... "The library's head conservator thinks they can get it back to about eighty percent of what it was, but that will involve paper restoration and complete replacement of the covers and flyleaves... and man, even for a member of Faculty that would cost more than you can imagine, Jim."

You don't have to imagine, but don't like to say so.

"Or," he flops, "just clean it, but leave the original material, even with the damage. Even that's gonna cost, man, and take time, but somehow..." His all-too-expressive face screws up in thought. "You know, Jim? Somehow I think... man, I know it's stupid, but I've been thinking that it's a part of the book now. Like, I don't know, battle scars, sort of like your last... uh, three or four scars. Or my whole.. well, one bullet wound." Another grin, this one knowing and not caring how stupid it might all sound to anyone else, appears on his face. "A new cover would be cool in itself, but it'd feel like a new book, not this one, not my old companion, friend, even teacher for all these years. You know, man?"

No, you don't know. A new book sounds great to you; to be honest (not a good idea right now, you think), the old one was pretty much declining and falling, and probably shedding paper dust if not actual pages, all over his bookcase and the loft before the shooting. But love's a funny thing, isn't it?

You'd buy him another old one if you could - and cheerfully listen to weeks of "man, you shouldn't have!" afterwards - but the damn thing's said to be rarer than the Collected Wit and Wisdom of Cascade's Finest. (Yeah, really. Someone published it. In the year 1959 and it shows. Simon's got a copy for the nights he can't sleep.)

Miz Flintstone told you that Burton's wife destroyed some of his books after he died. Maybe that's where most of the copies of this one went, though you don't see how - or why, from the bits you've read, it definitely isn't the Karma Sutra for Sentinels, you can vouch for that. (And Christ, if there were any Karma Sutra bits in it, you have this horrible feeling Sandburg would have not only told you, but read them aloud and suggested fucking tests).

But anyway, leaving that, you couldn't find one. But you could find...

"Anyway, I'm leaving it with them, Jim," and from the oddly touching, if overwrought, oddly absurd 'far far better thing I do' tone of Blair's voice, you know he really is gonna miss the thing. "For however long it takes. It isn't as if it's really a friend -"

Yeah right.

"And it isn't as if I don't know most of it by heart -"

Most, Blair? Try every word.

"- And why are you looking like that?"

Like - "Like what, Chief?"

"Like Naomi when she brought home a new karmic soulmate and she didn't know if I'd like or loathe them. What gives, man?"

"Well as a matter of fact..." - and god, you hope you've done the right thing - "I do."

And you pull what you and Miz Flintstone came up with out from under a cushion and hand it over. Yeah that's right, a new karmic soulmate... or at least, a pretty good facsimile.

And for the price, it should be.

~oOo~

"Oh man, you shouldn't have!"

And the words never sounded sweeter. Yeah, it is a facsimile, one of an edition from the thirties, and it's nearly as battered and even dirtier as his beloved was before the 'battle scars'. But he's looking at it like a kid who's got a new best friend, and the way he's touching and stroking it... fuck, if that sort of thing goes on in libraries, someone will probably make it illegal.

It's not the lifelong friend-companion-teacher, but you think it'll do just fine while the lifelong's in biblio-surgery.

And you can't help smugly telling yourself that the brilliant smile on his face is only partly because he'll still be able to bore you senseless with it on a weekly basis, without having to quote from memory. Nah, it's also because his Sentinel - you - found it for him.

His Sentinel may never understand, but his Sentinel does try.

-the end-