(part 2)

They compromised. Neither of them were really up to the task of furniture moving, so Blair called a couple of students who could use the work, and then bullied Jim into going to bed.

Jim woke hours later to the sound of voices. One was Blair. There were two more, male, probably the students. Jim debated whether to lie there and leave them to it, or whether he should go down there and help direct the traffic. While he was still trying to make up his mind, he fell asleep again.

The gentle sounds of nature trickling into a stream of music greeted his ears when Jim woke again; doubtless one of Blair's meditation CDs. The scent of something cooking wafted to his nostrils -- tomatoes, garlic, onions, fish?. Noises from the kitchen told him that, yes, it was Sandburg doing the cooking. His stomach rumbled, and he opened his eyes. The direction of the light coming through the windows made him realize he'd slept most of the day away -- no wonder he was hungry.

This morning seemed like an age ago. God, how could he have lost it like that? Like he was an emotional yo-yo. What was wrong with him? Well, I just got out of the hospital today, I'm still on sick leave, I just got so tired I slept through the middle of the day... So tired he'd been a complete wreck? Jim wished he could just pretend none of it had happened, but somehow he didn't think that would fly. Besides, however exaggerated Jim's reactions had been this morning, the things behind them were still true. And he and Blair definitely needed to talk.

Time to get up, lazybones. Jim dragged himself out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and made his way down the stairs.

"Jim!" Blair called out. "Glad to see you're awake. What sort of pasta do you want - spaghetti or spirals?"

"Toss a coin!" Jim returned, and went straight to the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, washed, dressed and feeling more like a human being, Jim came out and assessed the transformed living area. Most things were back in their usual places, though the shelves were mainly empty, and there were still boxes on the floor. Most importantly, the music system, the TV, and the VCR all appeared to be hooked up and working.

"I see you managed the moving without me," Jim said, joining Blair in the kitchen. He wasn't sure whether to be peeved or pleased.

Blair looked up from the pot he was stirring. "You needed the rest," he said. "I think everything's back the way it was."

Jim considered the possible double meaning of Blair's last words. "Not quite," he said. "But maybe it shouldn't be. It's time for a change."

Blair gave him a level gaze. "It's your place."

"It's our home," Jim returned. He couldn't read the mix of emotions that played across Blair's face. Surprise? Fear? Relief? It's our home. It had felt so right, to say that. But was it really true? He wanted it to be.

Then Blair shook himself. "Food first, serious talking later." He waved at the already-set table. "Sit. Or the pasta will be al-mooshy instead of al-dente."

They ate, discussing trivial things like the pasta recipe, the weather, and the Jags' chances against the Blazers. They skirted around the subjects they were planning to talk about later, but the unspoken things hung in the air like the aroma of the pasta sauce. Finally, the dishes were left to soak in the sink, and they settled on the couch for the "serious talking" part of the evening.

"No beer," Blair decreed. "I want a clear head, and you need to keep drugs -- including alcohol -- out of your system for at least a week. I know we figured it was an interaction between those pain-pills and Alex's potion that put you in the coma, but I don't want to take any chances."

Jim gave a wry smile. "Yes, mother."

"This is serious, Jim."

"I know," Jim replied. "I know." He leaned back in the couch and stared into the middle distance, looking at nothing. "Sometimes I get so tired of it... walking on a tightrope, not sure whether one step or the next is going to take me down..."

"You aren't alone, Jim," Blair said. "I'm here."

Jim gazed at Blair. "I know," he said. "But for how long? When you finish your dissertation, what then?" So many things hung on the answer to that question. His future. Blair's future.

But Blair picked up on something else. "Jim, you mustn't let that nightmare colour your perceptions," Blair said. "I told you that stuff was impossible."

Jim shook his head. "That isn't it, Blair. The problem is, we never really discussed your dissertation. I didn't want to. It made me uncomfortable, I wanted to forget it existed. So if it takes a nightmare for me to stop avoiding the issue, then I damn well better let it colour my perceptions," Jim said with determination. "You said before, that you were stalling on the diss. If you stopped stalling, how long would it take you to finish?"

Blair blinked at Jim in surprise. "A - a couple of months, I guess," he answered. "I'd have to toss that first chapter anyway, even if Alex hadn't skewed half my data -- my advisor trashed it. Said it read more like psychology than anthropology."

Jim smiled dryly. "You mean it isn't supposed to be all about me?"

"Well, I only had one example of a Sentinel at that point," Blair said. "Though what happened with Alex raises almost as many questions as it answers. She was much more tuned into the mystical side of being a Sentinel than you are. Why? Was it because she was a woman? Or because she was an artist? Or some other reason?"

"Surely the fact that she's crazy makes the rest of it academic," Jim said. He remembered Alex's words with a shudder. Once I've cleansed the world and you've left your flesh behind, maybe then you'll understand what I've seen. She had been ready to destroy them all.

"Academic? But that's just what it is. Approaching it academically... I think that's my way of coping with it," Blair mused. "If I analyse it, understand it, put in perspective, it doesn't... scare me so much."

"It scares the hell out of me, Sandburg," Jim admitted. "What happened then... it was like I was a puppet. First getting all territorial, when she was here, then, when we were in Sierra Verde -- I had to protect her, even though I knew what she'd done, what she was."

"If she hadn't been a criminal, maybe there wouldn't have been a conflict," Blair said. "Your visions of the spotted jaguar, they were warnings, about another Sentinel in your territory. Now maybe Sentinels are so territorial that they can't cope with another Sentinel there, or maybe you sensed she was hostile. Or maybe you sensed that she'd try take away your Guide -- me. And it got all tangled up, because here I was, I'd been consorting with your enemy--"

"And I threw you out, and had the dream about the wolf because throwing you out was the worst possible thing for me to have done," Jim interrupted.

"Jim, if I ever meet another Sentinel, I promise I will run, not walk, straight to you. And get a police check done!" Blair declared.

Jim sighed. "But how will that help if my instincts take over again?" he said. "I don't want that to happen again." He clenched his fists without noticing it. "I don't want it to be possible for that to happen again! I don't want to throw you out again. I don't want to betray you again."

"You didn't --" Blair began, then stopped. "In the end, you chose the right path. You saved me and Megan. You stopped Alex from killing us all. You didn't lose the way."

"I came too damned close," Jim growled.

"Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if we'd talked before acting," Blair said. "I held out on you, you held out on me." Blair shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Maybe what we need is a talking-stick -- or a toad."

Jim gave him a quizzical look, relaxing a little. "What are you talking about, Sandburg?"

Blair sat up straighter. "When the Mamut Indians have a tribal meeting, any adult member of the tribe can speak. To keep things orderly, they have a talking-stick, a special carved staff." He gestured to illustrate his example, holding his hand up, curled around an imaginary staff. "Whoever has the stick, has the floor, so to speak. No-one can interrupt. This assures that everyone's voice can be heard."

"And the toad?" Jim asked.

Blair grinned. "Now, that's a much more modern manifestation of speaking your mind. A family ritual of a couple of friends of mine, Chris and Jean. They own, among other things, a floppy bean-bag toy which they call the toad. Personally I think it looks more like a frog than a toad, but they call it the toad. When one of them is pissed off at the other, or feel there's something important they need to talk about, but they don't actually feel up to saying anything, they put the toad on the bed. Nonverbal communication, to ease the way to talking things out."

"And did it work?"

"Well, they're one of the happiest married couples I know," Blair grinned at him.

"We aren't married, Sandburg."

"But we are living together," Blair pointed out with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

Jim considered his brief, failed marriage to Carolyn. Yeah, he'd loved her, but he'd always held himself back, always kept part of himself in reserve. Light's out, no one home, Carolyn had said. Or if there is, how would I know? Because he wouldn't talk about his problems with anyone -- not even her. Especially not her. Had he been afraid of seeming weak? Was there this image of Jim Ellison that he'd been trying to live up to? The strong, silent type, who didn't need any help, who was never at a loss, who was never afraid, who never failed? What a fool.