"I'm real sorry about this, Profess—um, Mr. Sandburg, but I was told specifically to be here the whole time."
Blair smiled faintly and maneuvered the empty box through the door. "Hey, Ralph, I understand." He set the box on his desk and sighed, turning to the elderly security guard.
"I won't be that long. Most of this stuff belongs to the U anyway. Thanks again for letting me in this late."
Ralph hitched his pants over his wide hips and leaned against the doorframe. "No problem. Sorry about taking your keys away."
Blair swallowed and shrugged as he began opening drawers and sorting through the contents. Of the vast amount of humiliations he'd recently experienced, giving up his office keys was pretty minor.
Silence descended as he sifted through the top drawer, not finding much of interest in the nest of paperclips, pens and sticky note pads. He found a long lost phone number of a fellow researcher and started to toss it in the box, then realized with a sick sensation that they now had nothing in common. The little scrap of paper landed in the waste basket.
He was just opening the second drawer when the phone on his desk rang. Habit had him reaching for it, but then he paused. He was pretty sure there wasn't anyone on the other end that he wanted to talk to. He let it ring.
"Uh, you gonna answer that?" Ralph inquired.
Blair shook his head. "Nope. Wrong number."
Ralph started to reply but thought better of it, and the room again grew quiet.
Half an hour later, Blair straightened up and closed the bottom drawer. "Okay, that's it for the desk."
Ralph ambled over and looked in the box. "Not a lot in there—you sure you got everything?"
Blair nodded. "Yeah. I guess I haven't been around here all that much lately. Got some books I need to grab, though." He moved over between the shelves, scanning the titles for the ones that belonged to him.
"Oh, shit," he murmured, pulling down one slim volume.
"Hunh?" Ralph looked up from the National Geographic he'd started to thumb through.
"What? Oh, nothing—just found a book that belongs to a friend of—someone I know. He loaned it to me and asked about it the other day. I'd better give him a call and let him know I found it. I hope I still have his number in the cell's memory."
Blair crossed to his backpack and dug around until he pulled out his cell phone. With only the slightest hesitation, he thumbed it on and started paging through the saved numbers, frowning when he realized it wasn't there.
"Okay," he said, setting the phone down. "Must have it at home. I'll take it with the rest of my stuff." He moved back to the bookshelves, intent on getting this over as soon as possible. He knew he wasn't taking as much care as he should, no doubt leaving behind things he once thought he couldn't get along without.
Now it all seemed pretty pointless.
He was just putting the last book on the little stack he'd gathered when his cell phone rang, causing both of them to jump. For a second, Blair stared at it, cursing himself for not turning it back off. A quick glance at the caller I.D. told him all he needed to know.
Taking a deep breath, he answered, praying it was just his mom. "Hello?"
"Where the hell are you?"
Blair turned away from Ralph's curious gaze and moved as deep into the recess between the shelves as he could. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against one of the metal brackets, resigning himself to having this conversation.
"Just doing some errands, Jim, same as the last time you called."
"That was two hours ago, Chief. Why'd you hang up on me, anyway?"
"Yeah, well, things have been kinda crazy, you know? And I didn't hang up on you, we just lost the connection. It's a cell phone, it happens."
There was a little pause and Blair knew Jim was evaluating the truth of his words.
"Okay. You coming home soon? Your mom and I are trying to decide what to do about dinner—"
"You guys go ahead. I'm still tied up here and I think it's gonna be a while."
"Where's here?"
"Jim," Blair sighed, rubbing his forehead wearily. "I just—I have stuff to do, all right? Can't you let it go at that?"
Blair was surprised to hear no answering impatience in Jim's softening tone. "C'mon, Chief, let us help. Your mom's going nuts here and I'm right behind her."
Blair chuckled, a sad, forlorn sound even to his own ears. "Great. My posse, a well-meaning mother and a lame cop. Might as well go out and conquer the world, right?"
"Blair, don't—"
Blair slammed the base of his palm against the shelf. "Enough, okay? Just—don't. I'm fine, tell Naomi I'm fine. I'll be home later."
"Wait, you don't have to—"
Blair disconnected the line and turned the cell off with one hand, his other clenched around the edge of the unforgiving metal bookcase. He'd told Jim he was going to be a while when in reality he was almost done packing up the scarce remains of his academic life. This lying thing was getting easier.
He just knew he wasn't ready face them, either of them. It had taken every thing he had just to walk through the doors of Hargrove one last time tonight, to come back to a place of great joy—and great pain—and know he'd never return.
As hard as that was, it was nothing compared to the pain he imagined lay ahead of him. If leaving Rainier hurt this badly, how was he ever going to survive the next step—leaving the loft?
One hour later
As soon as he opened the door, Blair knew he was alone. Even though he'd seen the Ford parked in its usual place, the loft was empty, devoid of Jim's strong presence and Naomi's fluttering attention.
How did he get so lucky?
Uh, scratch that.
He'd left the boxes from his office in the Volvo; he couldn't really see any point in bringing them up only to move them again. Pulling off his jacket, he started to hang it up, only to pause and then sling it over his arm.
Not knowing how long his reprieve was, he tossed his jacket on his bed and went back out to the kitchen to begin filling the kettle for tea. There were no dishes, clean or dirty, and no aromas lingering in the air, leading him to believe that Jim and Naomi had gone out to dinner together.
His abused palm slammed down on the faucet. He was really going to have to stop doing that, he thought absently as the newest onslaught of pain welled up inside.
Jim and him mom. God, how perfect was that. Throughout this entire farce, Jim had treated Naomi so gently, forgiving her almost immediately, while taking every opportunity to lash out at Blair. Blair didn't blame him—well, not much, anyway. He knew he'd screwed up big time and he'd wanted so badly to fix it. But Jim wouldn't listen, wouldn't give him a chance, and yet could still be kind and understanding to the catalyst of the whole disaster.
And now they were having dinner together.
The kettle bubbled and he poured the water into his—Jim's—mug, letting the scented steam rising to tickle his nose. He dunked the tea ball a couple of times, watching idly as the hot water grew opaque. Finally seeing a shade of brown that he liked, he tossed the ball into the sink and headed into the living room, sinking onto the middle of the couch and drawing his legs up beneath him.
Cradling the mug, he blew on the steam and sipped carefully. The heat felt good against his bruised palm. The warm liquid slipped easily down his throat, easing the tightness in his chest as he contemplated his next move.
Whatever it would be, he knew it couldn't include the two most important people in his life. To Jim, he was now just a liability, an over-educated albatross living in his spare room. As for Naomi, although Blair could honestly say he still loved her, he knew he needed space—preferably a continent or ocean—between them.
Which left him exactly nowhere. No job, massive student loans to repay and probably lawsuits for grant money issued to him over the years just waiting in the wings. This wasn't the kind of stuff that you could just skip town and ignore, no matter how enticing that idea was. No, he knew his actions at the press conference had only diverted his problems, not solved them.
The mug was dry when he heard a key turn in the lock. He tucked his hair behind his ears and pinned a welcoming look on his face, mentally erecting a façade to get him through the next few hours.
To his surprise, a tired looking Jim limped in alone, leaning heavily on his cane and carrying a plastic bag emblazoned with the logo of the corner hardware store.
"Hey."
Blair rose, the empty cup dangling from his fingers. "Hey, Jim. Where's my mom? Did you guys get something to eat?"
Jim didn't answer right away, instead setting the bag on the counter before peeling off his coat and hanging it up. Picking up the bag, he pulled out a box with the image of a phone on it and set it down.
"No, we didn't," Jim finally replied, eyes intent on the box he was opening. Blair joined him, watching as Jim proceeded to slide the styrofoam-encased phone out of its box.
"Okay, well then, where is she? She coming back tonight?"
Jim unwrapped the phone pieces, his eyes never meeting Blair's. "No, I don't think so."
"She left?" Blair's voice rose an octave and he stopped, taking a calming breath.
Jim nodded silently, leaving the now assembled phone to unhook the old one and gather up the cord. Blair watched him, only half paying attention to his actions while trying to figure out how he felt about Naomi leaving without saying a word. Part of him sank a little deeper into the anger he carried towards her; she knew the two of them needed to talk through everything that had happened and she'd opted out.
But a larger part was swamped with relief, glad he didn't have to face down all that hostility he carried towards her. He felt vaguely cowardly about that, but internally, he just shrugged. Their day would come and they'd work it out, same as always.
In the meantime, he had Jim to worry about. Jim, who was single-mindedly replacing a perfectly good phone with a new phone—one that he just had to go out and buy that evening? At least Blair assumed it was a perfectly good phone, but when Jim passed him on his way to the garbage, Blair saw there was no handset.
"What happened to the phone, man?" he asked quietly.
For the first time since he'd returned, Jim looked him in the eyes. "It broke."
Blair held that gaze, surprised that there were no walls clouding Jim's eyes. There was fatigue, sure, and a little sadness, but the wariness was gone.
Blair nodded, knowing there was more to the story of the broken phone than Jim let on, but deciding it was better to leave it alone. For now.
"Okay," Blair replied easily, "whatever. Tell you what, I'm gonna fix a sandwich or something. You want one?"
"Sounds good," Jim said, gathering up the packaging and storing the box in the linen closet.
"Right, okay, couple of sandwiches coming up. You know, you need to get off that leg, man." Blair hustled into the kitchen, glad to have something to do. Yanking stuff out of the fridge, he gathered up all the ingredients and starting putting them together. Jim moved around the edges of his vision, but he kept his head down and intent on his task, talking to fill the air.
"Probably should elevate it, too. I know they gave you some pain meds—after you eat, I'll grab them for you so you can take 'em on a full stomach. I checked them out—you've had them before. They'll be okay."
He assembled the sandwiches exactly as he had hundreds of times before. Baby Swiss and yellow mustard for Jim, pepper jack and chutney for Blair. Roast chicken, lettuce and tomato all around. He could do it in his sleep.
He shifted the food onto a couple of plates, then started rummaging in the cupboard for some Kettle Chips. He checked the shelf where they usually kept them and not finding any, he turned to ask Jim.
"Hey, Jim—Jesus, man! How long have you been there?"
Jim was standing next to the coat hooks, right hand pressed against the wall for support. He didn't answer right away and Blair took a good look at him. He had something to say and Blair was pretty sure he wasn't going to like it.
Here it comes, he thought feverishly. My walking papers. He clutched at the cupboard; now they were both anchored for whatever Jim had to say.
"Sandburg—Blair, I—damn it, I don't know how to tell you this."
Blair cleared his throat. "Well, straight out, man. Don't sugar coat it, okay?"
Jim nodded. "Right. About Naomi—I, uh, I told her to leave. Pretty much kicked her out, to tell you the truth."
It was so completely not what Blair expected to hear that he didn't get it at first. His mind was already furiously calculating how much gas he had in the Volvo and how many boxes he would need. He shook his head a little and released his grip, taking a step toward Jim.
"You told Naomi to get out?" he asked numbly, not quite taking it in.
Jim was pale, his jaw tight as he nodded. "Yeah. I'm sorry."
Blair grabbed a towel and wiped his hands, a frown crossing his features. "Why are you sorry? Did you guys have a fight or something?"
Jim looked away and didn't answer.
"Oh my God, you did! Oh, crap, Jim, I'm sorry. I know I've been saying that a lot but if you want me to talk to her—"
"Whoa, hold up there, Chief." Jim straightened and leaned on his cane, taking a step closer to Blair. "I'm not sure you understand. I was way out of line tonight. Told her to leave you alone. I know that's not my place—"
"To leave me alone?" Blair took a shallow breath, planting his hands on his hips. "You were mad at her—for me?"
Jim started to reply but winced instead as he put too much weight on his bad leg.
"Jesus, let's get you down, okay? C'mon, lean on me." Blair stepped to Jim's side and pulled one arm around his shoulder. Together, they moved slowly over to the couch and Jim sat down with a sigh, stretching his injured let out in front of him with a little grunt of pain.
"I'm thinking meds now, Jim. Let me get them."
"No, wait." Jim grabbed his wrist. "Sit down a sec."
Blair perched on the end of the cushion, muscles tensed to move and acutely aware that Jim's fingers had remained wrapped lightly around his wrist. He waited as Jim shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position. Finally, Jim sighed and settled in, his body turned slightly towards Blair.
"Like I said, I'm sorry about your mom. I—lost my temper."
Jim looked so woebegone, Blair had to smile. "Hell, took you long enough. I reached the totally pissed off stage right after I provided that soundbite for the five o'clock news. I mean, don't get me wrong, I still believe she thought she was doing what was best for me. It's just that Naomi's ideas of what's good for me seldom coincide with mine."
Jim's fingers tightened perceptibly. "So you're not angry with me?"
Looking into Jim's worried eyes, Blair felt the rigid ball of pain he'd been carrying since his mom had come to town begin to uncoil a little. Despite their brief conversation in the hospital, Blair had been pretty sure that Jim had no use for him anymore, but now he was beginning to think differently. If Jim was getting ready to cut him loose, why would he be so concerned about Blair's opinion?
Maybe it was time to test this burgeoning theory.
"Nah, of course not. To tell you the truth, I'm actually pretty relieved. God knows what else she'd try to fix around here, given half a chance. She's deep into feng shui now and I saw her eyeing the living room again."
Jim smiled slightly and closed his eyes, releasing Blair's wrist as he leaned against the back of the couch. "Well, thank God for small favors. Maybe the next time she visits she'll be into something useful, like weather-stripping the windows."
"So, you're, uh, saying there's gonna be a next time?" Blair asked hesitantly.
Jim opened his eyes, looking puzzled. "Sure, why not? I'm thinking the next millennium will be soon enough, though. Work for you?"
Blair returned the smile, relief and something else beginning to warm him inside. "Totally works for me." He stood and pulled the coffee table close enough for Jim to prop his leg. "Okay, I'm gonna go get some happy pills for you. And food. "
Jim closed his eyes again. "Food would be good."
Blair grabbed the two plates and brought them over to the coffee table, then slipped into the bathroom for the meds. After a quick swerve to grab a couple of bottles of water, he rejoined Jim on the couch. Jim reached for the pill container but Blair shook his head and opened it himself. With half a grin twisting his lips, Jim held out his hand and Blair carefully tapped two of the capsules onto his palm.
Replacing the cap, Blair spoke nonchalantly. "So, you wanna tell me happened to the phone?"
Jim paused in reaching for his plate, then smoothly finished the movement. "Like I said, it broke," he replied. Then his voice took on a more serious tone. "But—do me a favor, okay?"
Blair froze, then covered his resurgent nervousness with a gulp of water. "Sure."
"Don't hang up on me anymore."
"I didn't—" Blair started to protest but when Jim looked him straight in the eye, the lie he was preparing to tell simply evaporated. The moment stretched between them and Blair had the feeling that a bridge of some kind was about to be crossed—or burned. As he looked into the sharp blue eyes, Blair had no choice but to acknowledge that they suddenly had come to a impasse of sorts. If they were going to start to rebuild a life—their life—then it was time to stop with all the hidden dreams and half-told tales that surrounded them like a dark fog. If he could take this one small step, then maybe the next one, whatever it was, would be that much easier.
"Okay," he vowed softly. "I won't."
Jim inhaled deeply and then nodded, finally offering Blair a little grin. "Good thing. Those phones are expensive and aren't worth a damn after you hurl them against a brick wall."
Blair's eyes widened. "You hurled the phone? Against the wall?"
Jim shrugged and reached for his plate as Blair watched a pink stain spread over the high cheekbones. As Blair continued to stare at him, he tried to eat but finally gave up and turned back to Blair with a sigh.
"Yes, I took a perfectly good phone and threw it as hard as I could. The crash was less than satisfying but I'm too attached to the coffee maker." Jim rubbed wearily at his eyes. "And before you ask me why, I'll just tell you."
He shifted painfully, leveraging himself with a hand on Blair's thigh and leaving it there. When he was sure that he had Blair's undivided attention, he continued.
"You shut me out, Chief," he said quietly. "You've never done that before, not like this. All the crap we've been through, you've never stopped trying to communicate."
"It's what I do, Jim."
The hand on his leg contracted gently. "I know—that's why it was killing me, not knowing what was going on with you. For the first time in four years, I had no idea where your head was at."
He paused, finally adding with a frown, "And I didn't like it."
Blair leaned heavily back into the couch cushions. "So—" he swallowed and started again. "So, you're saying that we need to work on our communications skills."
Jim gave his leg another squeeze before removing it. "Not exactly."
Blair shook his head. "I'm not getting what you're saying here, Jim."
"What I'm saying here—is that I missed you, Chief."
Blair opened his mouth but nothing would come out. His eyes traveled sightlessly over the loft as he tried to absorb what Jim had just said. Jim sat and watched him, one side of his mouth quirked in a little smile as if reading his partner's mind.
"J-Jim," he finally stuttered, "I don't know what to say."
The smile widened. "Well, we know that won't last. Look, just promise me you won't do anything until we've talked about it."
Blair shook his head. "Sorry, man, too late. Cleaned out my Rainier office today—uh, that's where I was when you called. And I've already phoned Rhonda and told her I'd be coming in to get my stuff next week."
Jim winced. "Okay. Got any other plans?"
Blair chuckled humorlessly and stared down where his hands rested on his knees. "Yeah, right. Nothing beyond avoiding reporters and dodging phone calls from people wanting a piece of my hide."
He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up at Jim, who was gazing back at him with stern affection.
"Don't worry. We'll get through this."
"Right," Blair countered. He wanted to believe Jim, but their track record sucked when it came to this stuff. "There's just one thing."
At Jim's nod, he continued softly, "You gotta promise me that you'll talk to me, okay? What we had going, when all this went down? Can't do that again, Jim. The fallout about the faked diss is gonna be rough, really rough, and if you're not prepared for that, then maybe it's better if I take off."
"No! No way. We made this mess together, we'll fix it together." Jim spread his hands and shrugged. "I don't know, Chief—think of today as a point of departure for that trip you wanted us to take."
Blair allowed himself a little smile. "Sounds good in theory, but you weren't ready then and lately I figured you'd never want—"
"I know," Jim interrupted. "I know. A couple of days ago, I would've helped you pack, I was so pissed off. That won't happen again."
"C'mon, Jim, you can't promise that!"
"I can. I do."
"How?"
"I just do."
"Not good enough, man."
"All right." Jim took a deep breath. "I know because—you're my friend. You've proved it over and over and I don't want to lose what we have. Arguing with your mom tonight made me realize we have something—something special."
"Jim, you're my best friend, you know that!" Blair said the words almost desperately, afraid that if he didn't immediately reciprocate, Jim would get the wrong idea—again.
"Right—and best friends, they see each other through good and bad. We've had a hell of a lot of bad and knowing us, there's probably more on the way. But if we stick together, we'll be fine. Got it?"
Blair flushed, blinking hard; he'd allow himself time later to savor Jim's plain declaration.
"I said, you got it?"
"Yeah, I got it," Blair breathed. A teasing smile broke across his face. "It'll be a lot easier on the appliances this way, anyway."
He was rewarded with an answering grin. "Damn straight. Now c'mon, let's eat."
They picked up their plates and balanced them on their laps. Blair waited until Jim had a mouthful of sandwich before striking.
"So," he inquired casually, "tell me about you and Mom."
Jim swallowed. "No way," he replied flatly.
"Jim!" Blair was outraged. "You just said—"
"Kidding, Sandburg, just kidding."
"Funny. Ha. Your sense of humor doesn't improve with medication, does it?"
"No, and neither does my toleration of your feet on the coffee table."
"Yeah, you're communicating all right," Blair grumbled, shifting his legs beneath him.
"Get used to it."
Blair caught his breath, then grinned. "I can do that."
"Good."
Oh, yeah, Blair thought happily, digging in to his dinner and slapping Jim's wandering fingers away from the chips on his plate. Thank you God, I can do that.
Part of a larger story, this was adapted for friends as an entrée into their lovely society. Thanks again, K!
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