He was seated in the middle of a long row of plastic seats, head nodding to the music coming from his CD player. Hair tied back, the Jags flight bag I'd given him two years ago at his feet, he was facing the tarmac and watching the planes take off and land. I fingered the phone in my jacket pocket, taking a moment to shove away any feelings other than bleak satisfaction that I'd found him before he boarded his flight.
When I touched his shoulder, he jumped but turned around with a smile on his face—a smile that faded when he saw who it was standing behind him.
I pulled his cell phone out of my pocket as he slid the headphones off to let them rest around his neck. He was wearing a necklace that I hadn't seen in a while, a leather strip threaded with some kind of flat, silverish bead. Also making a reappearance were his two silver hoop earrings. The indigo denim jacket he wore over a lighter blue shirt darkened his eyes to almost black, even in the harsh lights of the airport concourse.
Or maybe it was just anger causing those shadows in his eyes.
I held out my hand, the phone resting in my palm. "Here. You forgot this."
"No, Jim," he replied firmly, "I left it. See the difference?" He yanked the headphones off and gathered them together with the player, stuffing them in the outer pocket of his bag.
My mouth settled into a thin line. "I see it. Take it anyway." I pushed it towards him but he made no move to take it from my hand, instead rising to stand with the chairs still between us.
"Why? So you can chew me out long distance? No thanks."
"Sandburg—" I broke off, frustrated more than ever and struggling for control. Another flight had just arrived at his departure gate and people were milling around us, noisily reuniting with loved ones or barging through the crowd, anxious to get out of the airport. "I'm not going through this again with you. Take the damn phone so I can reach you if I need to."
He smiled but there was no warmth in it. "Yeah, well, that's exactly why I left it. Now, if you had brought it so that I could call you in case I needed you, that would've been different. But since you're still so pissed off at me—"
"I'm not—" I came back hotly, then lowered my voice, "I'm not pissed off at you."
"Yeah, well, you're doing a damn fine imitation, man." He stuck his fists on his hips and sighed, looking down at the ground before meeting my eyes. "Fine. I'll take it."
He reached out and snagged it from my hand and stuffed it in his inner coat pocket.
"Happy?"
"Delirious. By the way, I told you I'd give you a ride to the airport."
"Gee, thanks, Jim, but you're not the greatest company right now and you're twice as annoying in the morning. I'd rather pay to park, given the choice."
That hurt, but I'll be damned if I was going to let him see it. He picked up on it anyway and became even angrier.
"Damn it, Jim," he whispered fiercely, "c'mon! Simon forgave me—why can't you?"
I stared at him, then looked past him to the hills on the other side of the runway. "There's nothing to forgive," I replied stiffly.
"Then why do I keep saying I'm sorry?" he said, and there was something in his voice I'd heard only rarely—defeat. My heart started hammering as I forced myself to meet his eyes. He stared back at me, obviously still mad and hurt, and I knew that I was as close to losing him as I'd ever been.
I looked around and extended my hearing in search of some place private. Finding a large pocket of dead air, I reached over the chair and grabbed the straps of his bag.
"Let's go."
He quickly moved around the row, vibrating with antagonism. I knew I was being heavy-handed but his flight was going to be called soon and I didn't want him to leave with this between us.
Short of yanking his bag out of my grasp, he had to follow me as I stalked down the wide corridor. I reached a door with a brass plaque on it that said "White Cloud Club". It was partially ajar with a thick orange power cord snaking its way through the opening.
Pushing my way in, Sandburg still on my heels and silently fuming, I verified with my eyes what my ears had already told me—the room was under renovation and currently empty. Whoever was supposed to be working inside was temporarily gone.
"All right," Sandburg said as he shut the door behind him, "what the hell is going on? I mean, you shouldn't even be here! This excuse about bringing me my phone—"
"You're right," I interrupted. "I'm pissed off as hell at you and I don't know what to do about it."
That stopped him cold. I doubt he ever actually expected me to admit it.
"Ok," he said slowly, mind turning over this change of events. "That's progress. Sort of." Then he looked at me with narrowing eyes. "Wait a minute. Why are you mad at me?"
"You tell me," I countered.
He made a grab for the bag I still carried, but I held it away.
"I don't have time for this," he muttered. Then, louder, "Look, ok? I did what I thought was the right thing. I didn't follow procedure! I didn't wait for backup, I didn't let you know where I was and I let the bad guy get away. Simon's already reamed my ass over this, I'll probably get a reprimand in my file and if we hadn't been able to pick Decker up later, I'd still be out looking for him. When are you gonna cut me a friggin' break?"
His voice had risen with each sentence and so had my temper. When he finished, I dropped the bag and took a step towards him.
"You're not some goddamned wet behind the ears rookie, Sandburg!" I bellowed, the rage and fear I'd been suppressing for the last two days roiling to the surface.
"The hell I'm not!" he yelled back. "Maybe you need to remember that!"
I stepped closer and dropped the bag, lowering my voice carefully. "And maybe you need to remember that there are people who care about your skinny ass and who die a little inside every time you pull this shit!"
"Oh yeah? Well, welcome to my world, Jackie Chan! I've had to live with that fear for four fucking years, watching you try to save the world and never knowing if the next time would be the last time!"
He took a deep breath and stepped closer, two fingers jabbing me in the chest in time to his words.
"And I forgave you every single goddamn time!" His hand dropped and his tone changed to one of honest bewilderment. "I don't understand—why can't you do the same for me?"
I scrubbed my hand over my face, trying to hold on to my irritation. The one thing I hadn't asked myself was whether I would've done the same thing in the same situation. Hadn't asked because I was afraid I already knew the answer.
"That's not the point—"
"Great. Fine. Then tell me what is the point so we don't have to have this conversation the next time. And you know goddamn well there will be a next time."
His tone had come down considerably even though his eyes were still bright with anger. I took a calming breath and nodded, agreeing to the truth in his words but hating that truth as well.
"I'd rather there wasn't, Chief."
"Tell me about it," he replied, setting his hands on his hips.
The anger I'd been carrying inside me dissipated. We'd been heading towards something like this ever since Sandburg had officially become a cop, but until this last case I'd managed to keep my fear suppressed. When I'd lost contact with him two nights ago while working a drug case, the familiar grip on my gut had tightened unbearably. Yeah, it had all come out all right in the end, but to say I had some bad moments would be an understatement. It was only after he'd told us what he'd done that the fear inside me had coalesced into cold, hard rage.
Simon had been livid as well, hauling Sandburg behind closed doors and reprimanding him long and loud. Sandburg had done a little yelling of his own, but pretty much within the bounds that Simon allowed us. Sandburg had emerged looking angry but grimly satisfied, as if he'd at least made Simon see his side.
He had no such luck with me.
I started in on him as soon as we were home, something reasonable along the lines of "what the hell were you thinking"—and it never got any better. We sniped at each other until he went to bed, then we started again at work the next day. I only wanted him to concede that he'd foolishly placed himself at risk, not that he'd almost screwed up the case, but I could never get it to come out that way. For his part, he stubbornly stuck to his belief that although he'd gone against procedure and turned gray what little hair I have left, he was justified in his choice.
Needless to say, it had been an uncomfortable couple of days. The timing of the plans he'd made with Naomi to go to some weird-ass version of family camp couldn't have been better.
But as I looked at him now, a bundle of pissed-off self-righteousness and hurt confusion, I forced myself to relax and tried to feel what all that anger had been masking for so long. He was close enough that I could see the scar on his forehead, a little gift left over from the Ventriss mess—another time we hadn't communicated well. Tilting my head a little, I reached out and brushed my fingertips over it, then glanced back at his eyes. They'd widened almost comically and I could tell that he was holding his breath.
"You're right," I murmured, dropping my hand. "I'm sorry."
I stepped back and away, taking a turn around the room with my hands shoved in the front pockets of my Levi's. Above the noise of the terminal I heard the first boarding call go out for Sandburg's flight—and I knew that I'd run out of time.
"The thing is," I said, my back turned to him. "I was mad because I was scared. And I'm getting a little more scared every day."
"Why now?" he asked, voice hushed. "What changed?"
I fixed my eyes on the floor, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "Nothing."
That one stark word dropped between us like a stone, but it wasn't until I heard him pick up the bag and move towards the door that I realized what it had sounded like. I whirled and caught his arm, pulling him back into the room.
"No, no, that's not what I meant," I rushed the words out, the fear spiraling back up at the fury in his eyes. "I just meant that I've always been scared."
"Of what?" My hand was still on his arm and I let it slide down to take the bag from him, setting it back on the floor.
I shrugged and gave him a lopsided grin. "Of you."
I watched as a reluctant smile drifted across his mouth and disappeared. Then his expression changed, his anger fading away and replaced by amusement—amusement tempered with enough tenderness that I realized he knew exactly what I was talking about. He took a deep breath and lowered his eyes to his feet, chewing slowly on his bottom lip. Finally reaching some kind of conclusion, he raised his head to meet my worried gaze.
"Feeling's mutual, you know," he said quietly, then lifted his hand to my cheek. He stroked it lightly, then slid his fingers to the back of my neck and exerted gentle pressure so that I'd lean down. "But maybe now we can finally admit why."
He pressed his lips against mine with a touch so light my breath caught. Before I could react, he moved again, laying a feather-soft caress against the side of my mouth.
"It's not fear, you idiot," he murmured, the vibration from his words tickling my cheek.
I closed my eyes as I pulled him into my arms with a surrendering groan. He came easily, fitting against my body as if he'd done it a hundred times.
"I think fear would've been easier," I said on a broken laugh.
His hands moved soothingly up my back. "No doubt," he answered with a shaky chuckle of his own. He was warm and pliant, giving me a full body caress as he moved gently against me. I was just pulling back to take his mouth in our first real kiss when I heard the general boarding call.
"Damn it," I breathed, letting my forehead rest against his.
"What now?" he said, humor still lacing his voice.
"Your flight's boarding."
He stiffened. "Oh, no! Oh, man, this sucks!" He tried to pull back, but I tightened my arms. He was going to be gone for three days and there was no way I was letting him leave without making one thing perfectly clear.
"Blair," I started, but his mouth was so close, his scent so sharp and clean, that I decided to let actions speak louder than words. I caught him up and kissed him hard, letting my mouth and hands do all the communicating for me. He responded eagerly, his lips parting at once to let me inside. All the fear and anger I'd held inside for so long was obliterated in that first intense connection, leaving something infinitely more valuable in their wake.
The kiss went on and on as Blair continued our silent conversation. I welcomed his tongue into my mouth, excited by the playfully dominant touch. God, he was so damn good at this. My mind reeled with the stunning realization that we were where we'd always belonged—and then I heard final call.
I broke away and planted a kiss on that old scar. "Time to make a run for it, Chief." I snagged the straps and handed him the bag, smiling as I took in the bemused look in his eyes. His lips were rosy and swollen and I was pretty impressed with myself for being the reason why.
He shook his head and gave me a brilliant smile. "Ok, but when I get back—"
"You'd better believe it," I finished, then took him by the shoulders and turned him around. "Now, move it."
I gave him a swat on the butt and he took off at a trot, tossing me another grin over his shoulder. I remained where I was, tracking him the whole way and smiling when I heard him flirt with the gate attendant when she gave him grief for being late.
Three days.
Three days of waiting until Blair came back, three days of worrying that what had happened at the airport was a stress-induced fluke, three days of wondering what our lives would be like when he returned.
Three days of hoping that he didn't regret it.
I did some typical Saturday running around, just as I'd planned before I'd found Sandburg's cell phone on the kitchen table. It was funny—every stop I made only went to prove how integrated my life was with his. At the dry cleaners it was my gray suit and his corduroy jacket. Same story at Wal-Mart—Sandburg wanted to try making fondue, so what did I do? Buy a ninety dollar fondue set that we'll probably only use twice, along with batteries for the remote, The Mummy on dvd and two different kinds of Paul Newman's popcorn since Sandburg doesn't like the good buttery kind.
I was just pulling into the parking lot at Top Foods when my cell phone rang. When I saw the number on the display, my stomach did a little flip.
"Hey."
"I'm here."
"Obviously. How was the flight?"
"Guess what—" his tone turned intimate "—I don't remember much of it."
"Yeah?" That new voice had me shifting in my seat. "How's your mom?"
"She's good. She says hi. Um, you know that once we get up into the hills I probably won't be able to call you on the cell, right?"
"Yeah," I sighed. "I know."
"Right, so—hang on—yeah, Mom, I'm coming. Ask Thistle to put my stuff in the Land Rover and I'll be there in a second."
"Thistle?"
"Yeah, I know, believe me—he looks like a Thistle, all three hundred pounds of him. Hey, listen—" his voice dropped low again and I could imagine him cupping the phone close to his lips. "Jim, man—I just ache inside, you know? It felt so good but now—God, this hurts so bad."
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the back window of the truck. "I know, I know, me too. But it's just three days."
"Yeah, three days of power yoga and tofu cakes."
"C'mon, you love that stuff."
"No, I love you." There was a tiny pause, then he continued with a little catch to his voice. "See the difference?"
I swallowed hard. "Between me and tofu cakes? Yeah, Chief, I see it."
Another silence followed, but it was by no means empty. We breathed together for a few minutes, both of us taking comfort in the soft sound. Finally, Blair sighed and spoke.
"They're ready to go. Guess I'll see you Monday night."
"I'll be waiting."
"I know."
I managed to fill the next two days with the minutiae of life—cleaning, watching TV, listening to the Ms on the radio while I washed the truck—but my mind was somewhere in the Sierras. Late Sunday afternoon, I started to feel a hole of worry open up in the pit of my stomach. We'd crossed over a line and then, due to circumstances, we'd had to retreat from that line. After three days of belly-button contemplation, Blair might begin re-thinking a commitment that he'd never actually made. Of course, knowing him, he was probably more worried about what I was thinking.
As Sunday afternoon turned into Sunday night, my worry became an obsession. He had to know I loved him, right? But I hadn't said the words—and words are Sandburg's bread and butter. By not saying it, had he gone off thinking that I didn't?
I went to bed Sunday night convinced that my less than stellar communications skills had screwed everything up. Monday morning I awoke with the resolve that when I saw Blair that night, those would be the first words out of my mouth. It was like an imperative in my head—to clear up any misconceptions and then move on with our lives. The day still began kind of rough; not having Sandburg to maneuver around in the morning was always unsettling. The day just doesn't seem to start out right without an elbow in my ribs while I shaved.
The important thing was that Sandburg was coming home that evening. After our one conversation I hadn't heard from him; the brochure from the retreat had said that phones were available to the staff and could be used by the guests only in case of emergency. Something about keeping distractions to a minimum during their "spiritual cleansing." And, as much as I wanted to hear his voice, what I really wanted was for Monday to be over and to see Blair walking in the door.
I followed his timetable in my head as the day went on. Connor helped me sort through some leads on one of our cases and went with me to question some witnesses but in the back of my mind, I imagined Blair leaving the retreat and heading in to Sacramento. After dropping off some friends, he and Naomi had to get to San Francisco International to catch their separate flights—Naomi to Savannah and Sandburg back to Cascade. His flight left at 6:30, due in at 9:00 and he should be home by 10:00.
Except nothing ever seems to go that smoothly for us.
Connor and I returned to the bullpen around 4:30. Taped to my computer screen was a pink phone message. I didn't recognize the name and number, but I didn't need to—the message also said it was from the director of Camp Luna. The cold void in my stomach changed into a hard knot of dread.
I dialed the number and it was answered on the second ring.
"Thank you for calling Camp Luna, a gentle place for nurturing your inner—"
"This is Detective Jim Ellison calling for, uh, Mary Victor."
"Yes, Detective, I'll put you through."
"This is Mary."
"Ms. Victor, Jim Ellison returning your call."
"Yes, Mr. Ellison, thank you for calling me back! Your partner—"
"Where is he? Is he all right?"
"Yes, of course he is!"
"Then is it his mom? Naomi Sandburg?"
"No, no, she's fine, she's with him."
"With him where?"
She laughed—an annoying, tinkling sound that raked my already shredded nerves. "That's why I called. There's been a little trouble in one of the other facilities—some of their guests went for a hike and a couple of them seem to have gotten lost. Blair and Naomi and some of our other participants are helping the local authorities in the search. I've been calling their families and letting them know that they'll be late getting home."
"God damn it," I muttered, sitting down heavily and shielding my eyes with my free hand.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I said, when do you think they'll be done?"
"Why, when they find them, I suppose."
I took a deep breath and counted to ten—or tried to, anyway. I only got to three. "Will you tell Blair to call me the minute he gets back?"
"Of course. May I ask that you tell his employer what's happened?"
"Yes," I ground out, "I'll tell his employer. You won't forget to tell Blair to call me, right?"
"I won't. Bye, now, thanks for calling!"
I stared at the receiver in my hand.
"What are you informing whose employer, Jim?"
Simon was standing by my desk, a bundle of reports in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.
I grimaced and hung up the phone. "You know that feel-happy retreat that Sandburg's mother dragged him off to this weekend?"
"The one down near Lake Tahoe?"
"Yeah. Somebody went and got themselves lost and now he and Naomi are part of a search team." Simon couldn't miss the disgust in my voice.
"Well, Jim," he said reasonably, "better the searcher than the searchee, right?"
I shrugged and rose to my feet. "My one consolation is that since he'll be with professionals, he shouldn't get lost. His sense of direction stinks."
"That it does," Simon chuckled as I followed him into his office.
I spent the rest of the afternoon praying for the phone to ring and working with Simon. I'm sure he noticed that every time a phone rang somewhere on the floor, I'd listen in to see if it was Sandburg. Simon didn't say a word about it, though—he's learned.
Finally, at six, we called it a night. I said my goodbyes and went home, stopping for food that I wasn't really inclined to eat. My disappointment about not having Blair home with me that night was nothing compared to the worry of not knowing where the hell he was. I passed the evening watching the game and manfully refraining from checking for dial tones every half hour.
I fell into a fitful sleep on the couch, some unreasonable voice inside of me saying it wasn't right to be sleeping comfortably upstairs while Blair was outside somewhere, probably cold and tired.
When the phone finally rang, I was having a disturbing dream that faded instantly. I grabbed the phone from where I'd laid it on the coffee table as I ran my tongue around my dry mouth.
"Sandburg?" I croaked.
"Hey," came the tired, much-missed voice. I sat up and scrubbed my free hand over my face.
"You ok?"
"Yeah, I'm ok."
"Naomi?"
"Yep, ok, too. Another group found the missing couple. They were stuck down in a ravine but aside from some scratches, they're fine. We just got back into camp about half an hour ago."
I looked across the living room at the VCR—1:27. "Jesus, Chief, you need to get some rest."
"I know, I know. I just—I just really needed to hear your voice."
Suddenly I felt ashamed for the all the doubts I'd had since he'd left. Like a swift kick in the ass, I was reminded that Blair was no tease—when he'd told me he loved me, he'd meant it.
"Yeah," I murmured, "I know the feeling. Been worried, you know?"
He laughed softly. "No kidding, Jim, like that's a revelation. Although, you know I would've called you despite the note I have in my hand that says to call you immediately, underlined three times, exclamation point. But like I said, we're all good. Gonna catch some sleep and then head out early in the morning and try to rearrange our flights at San Fran. With any luck, I'll be home tomorrow afternoon."
"Sounds good. Call me and let me know what's going on, ok?"
"Will do." He paused and I heard the unmistakable sound of a yawn. "God, I'm wiped. Gonna go lay down for a bit, ok?"
"Ok, Chief. Sleep well. Talk to you later."
We hung up and I leaned back into the couch. He was fine. He was coming home. I could go to bed.
Sandburg did what I asked, so that I knew when he was on the 5:15 flight. That got him in at 7:45 and at 8:37, I heard the Volvo come down Fifth and turn on to Prospect. I had dinner ready, wine open and—maybe a little prematurely—clean sheets on the bed upstairs.
I didn't go down to meet him, but I had the door open when he walked off the elevator. He took one look at me, dropped his bag and stepped straight into my open arms.
"Welcome home, partner," I whispered, squeezing him tight.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he mumbled against my chest. I leaned back so I could see his eyes.
"What for?"
His cheeks turned a little pink. "For really making it a welcome home and not just sitting on the couch watching TV when I walked in the door."
I shook my head and smiled. "Hunh? Sorry, Chief, I'm not following."
He sighed. "It's just that, well, I was afraid that you'd been regretting what had happened between us before I left, and that you'd try to just blow it off and pretend nothing had, um, changed."
I stared at him, a little stunned by his honesty. Seems he and I had been thinking along the same lines this weekend, both of us tortured by the thought that we'd misinterpreted something.
He wasn't looking at me, even though we still had our arms wrapped around each other in the hallway. I realized that this was the opportune time to tell him that I loved him, to try to lay his fears to rest.
"Guess what?" I whispered, smiling as he brought his eyes back to mine.
"What?"
"I bought us a fondue pot."
He frowned at me in confusion, but when I didn't elaborate, he started to grin.
"Really? A good one?"
"Yep, top of the line all the way. You know what that means, don't you?"
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it means I'm cooking dinner, right?"
"No," I replied tolerantly, "wrong. It means," I lowered my mouth so that it hovered over his, "that I love you."
I closed the distance between us, swallowing his reply. I don't know what he wanted to say, but there was no misinterpreting his happy gurgle when my tongue glided over his.
We were both smiling when we parted just enough to see each other's face.
"So, did you get the one with the carousel tray?" he asked, mischief shining in his eyes.
I tightened my hold and gave him a little shake. "Didn't I say top of the line?" I growled, slipping in to press a kiss beneath his ear.
"Oh, yeah," he said dreamily, "that's right. Must really be true love, then."
I straightened up, all amusement gone. "It is. Don't ever doubt that."
Just as seriously, he replied, "I won't if you won't. Deal?"
"Deal." I coughed a little self-consciously and let him go. "C'mon. Grab your bag and come inside. I've got dinner just about ready."
When I turned around, Sandburg was standing at the end of the counter, unfastening the tie that held back his hair. He shook it out and smiled at me, the kind of smile that had me weak in the knees with anticipation.
"Jim," he said calmly, "do you mind if we wait on dinner?"
"No," I said, my voice a little hoarse. I reached over and turned the temperature down—the pasta was done enough so it could survive in a warm oven for a while.
"Good." He stepped around me and gave me a push in the small of my back. "I did not walk God knows how many miles with thoughts of your artichoke penne pasta keeping me going." He pushed again.
"Ok, just what did keep you going, Chief?"
I expected another push, but instead his arms went around me from behind, sliding across my waist as his cheek came to rest against my shoulders.
"Three guesses and the first two don't count."
I picked up one of his hands and kissed the palm. Without saying another word, I pulled him next to me and we walked upstairs together. We undressed each other slowly, taking time to explore each lovingly exposed limb and swath of skin. There was some fumbling, a little awkwardness, but laughter saw us through the rough patches. By the time Blair lay naked and wanting beneath me, the laughter had faded but the joy that can only be expressed physically still remained.
Making love with each other turned out to be just that—pure joy. No surprise, Blair was a generous, inventive, noisy, even bossy lover, who let me know exactly what worked and what didn't. Lucky for me, though, most everything seemed to work. Blair had the harder job communication-wise, since I'm not nearly as vocal, but as it turned out there didn't seem to be anything he could do wrong either. We learned so much that first night, but to the end of my days, I'll cherish the look of astonishment and mind-blowing love flowing from Blair's blue eyes when I came inside him the first time, crying out his name with all the love I held for this man.
Since that night, the fondue pot has actually been used fairly often. As I said, Blair is an inventive lover and once he explained to me what he could to do with a pot of warm chocolate, I swore the Ellison-Sandburg household would never be without one ever again.
Just as I privately swore that Jim Ellison would never be without Blair Sandburg—ever again.
Promo-Chick (hah!) wanted a story that had ::ahem::—realization, separation, angst, second thoughts, more separation, consummation.
I think this works.
For Sheryl, because she asked so darn nicely.
Feedback: email.