If time is a healer
Then all hearts that break
Are put back together again
'Cause love heals the wound it makes
"You know, Jim—I'm gonna miss this place."
"You know you can stay here whenever you want. You still have your key."
"Think maybe I could come down and catch a game sometime?"
"C'mon—you know you don't even have to ask that."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't mind me—got a lot on my mind."
"No problem. You want another?"
"Yeah, sure, thanks."
"Everything all packed?"
"For the most part. I have some boxes in my car, computer, stuff like that. I'll be staying in a hotel for a couple of nights—"
"No way—not that hotel."
"The very same. They've, uh, remodeled since I was there last."
"I'll bet they have."
"Where you goin'?"
"Open a window."
"You hear something?"
"No, not really."
"Then what is it?"
"Hang on—yeah, the wind's changed."
"The wind—what the hell does that mean?"
I turn away from the balcony and look at my old friend. He's sitting on my couch, arms spread wide across the back, one leg crossed with an ankle resting on the opposite knee. We're both worn out but nicely mellow from the party—a lot of emotions were flying tonight. A lot of tears. A lot of memories.
Now it's quiet, after midnight. I was glad he'd come home with me; even though I'm not what you'd call sentimental, I did want to have some time away from the rest of the crowd. I think he did, too—he said his goodbyes and we made our escape back to the loft, the scene of a lot of history, good and bad.
"Jim? What's this thing about the wind?"
I smile at him, a smile I know he's not used to seeing on my face. He thinks he's figured everything out and to a certain extent he has, but I can still see that look in his eyes—that same expression he gets any time he thinks something out of the ordinary is about to happen. I'm going to miss seeing that look because he's right on the money.
Guess that's why they made him Chief of Police in Rossberg, Washington.
My smile widens to a grin as Simon tries to scowl up at me, even as his eyes grow warm.
"It's Sandburg. He's coming back."
I'd forgotten what true quiet was like.
Living in the city, my ears never get a break. No matter how silent a night might be, there's always a siren in the distance, or a baby crying on the next block—or the soft exhalations of Sandburg asleep in the room beneath me.
Out here on the farm, the nights are about as quiet as I'm going to get—the true quiet of a place where people are scarce and a seldom used road is fifty yards away from my faded front door. When I'm here, my body clock resets itself so that I'm up later than usual, just so I can hear the world breathing around me. And it does breathe—the animals in the orchards and the fields beyond, the old dog I inherited with the house, the house itself. Built of wood that was seasoned and old before World War II, it moves and moans with the hours, always trying to settle but never quite there. At night, when I'm reading or working on the books, the farm house gathers around me, probably wondering what happened to the noise and spirit of the family that left it behind.
Buying an apple farm was the last thing I'd ever expected I'd do with my life. A year ago, all I wanted to do was retire some day on a cop's pension and go fishing—and I didn't think that was too much to ask. Whether or not I could actually hang up my cape and ignore what Sandburg called an innate drive to protect didn't matter—what mattered was whether or not he was going to be beside me when I did.
For a long time, it wasn't looking too good on that front. After the all the drama that previous spring, I was wondering if I'd even get the chance to buy him dinner on his thirtieth birthday, let alone have any kind of future with him.
Then I got lucky. Some how, some way, we not only made it through Blair's first year on the squad, we grew closer. Things got better. I relaxed, Sandburg rolled with the punches—and we both grew up. Hard to admit for a guy in his forties, but it was the truth. Grew up so much in fact that when the opportunity came to demonstrate how far we'd come and how deep the feelings went, I took it. Kissing Blair in that garage all those months ago was the smartest thing I'd done in a long time; leaving for the farm almost the very next day was one of the stupidest and I've been paying for that mistake ever since.
Simon left for Rossberg yesterday, Daryl at his side to help get him settled while he's on winter break. I hit the road early this morning, picking up supplies in town on my way in. After a full day of unpacking and settling in, I've been reading information on grafting apples for the last couple of hours but the lines on the screen are beginning to blur, so I power down the laptop and lean back in the creaky desk chair. Hell, I've oiled it half a dozen times but I can't get that final squeak out of the spring. Since I'm sure no one else can hear it, I think I'll just live with it—chalk it up to the 'charm' of the place.
My place. Soon to be our place, if I can just pry Sandburg out of New Mexico.
It's late, although I have no idea what time it is. I stay up longer but I don't check the time when I'm here—some days I don't even bother with a watch. I rarely turn on the TV but I do listen to the radio. It's on now, tuned to some talk show about relationships or some crap like that. I tell myself I only listen so I can hear the weather report but if I were being honest, I'd admit to having a sneaking desire to listen to people complain about personal lives stranger than mine. If Sandburg ever finds out about this, I'll never hear the end of it.
I rub at my eyes and then stretch my arms high over my head. Beezer, the ancient lab mix that stays with me here at the property, looks up from where he's stretched out on the sagging couch beside my desk. Seeing that I'm not getting up to go to the kitchen and maybe drop something interesting, he yawns and flops back down.
Six weeks. Blair had asked me for six weeks. By rights, he should have been home by the first of January. But six had morphed into eight, then ten. Blair left in November and here it was almost February—and I hadn't seen him since I put him on that damn bus.
I tried to understand but I wasn't doing a great job. The last time we talked on the phone, I know my impatience was evident and I told him that I was tempted to go down to Taos and haul his ass back personally—but we both knew that I wouldn't. Each time we talked, he sounded stronger, better, happier. He said the work was menial and the pay was a joke, but I could hear laughter in his voice again. There was no way I was going to mess with what was obviously a good thing, despite the fact that I kept hoping he'd be ready to come back to the good thing we'd started in Oregon.
A lot had happened since the night I'd yanked him off a southbound Greyhound. I never thanked Simon properly for giving me a heads up that Blair was gone, but I'm pretty sure he knew. Granted I'm not into making grand, romantic gestures—especially when I'm not sure they're going to work—but instinct drove me find Sandburg before he was completely immersed in his new life. It was the gamble of a lifetime to sabotage his escape, but it had paid off beyond my wildest dreams.
Not to say it had been perfect. Far from it. Blair hadn't been easy to convince and what made the whole thing even harder was that I got to see for myself how unhappy he'd been. Facing him made me face a truth I'd avoided all my life, that what I do effects the people that I care about—and sometimes it ain't in a good way. I could point to half a dozen people from my past who'd have been better off if they'd never met me; I couldn't have borne it if Blair ended up on that list.
So when he told me that he was still going to go to New Mexico and fulfill his commitment, I let him go and returned to Cascade—to find another life had been changing while I'd been wrapped up in the farm.
God—my farm. No matter how many times I said it, it still didn't sound right. Maddy had sold me the whole works, right down to the bed linens and the food in the refrigerator. Since she and her family had left in November, I'd spent all my available time here, cleaning and fixing everything I could lay my hands on. It was cheap therapy—it kept me from dwelling on things over which I had no control.
It's raining again, and that means I need to make sure the back door is closed properly. I haven't had a chance to rehang it yet and unless it's slammed hard enough to make the windows rattle, it'll leak. With a sigh, I push away from the desk and head into the kitchen, unsurprised to hear the staccato clack of toenails behind me. After I'm sure the door is secure, I glance at the clock on the stove. It's 1:30 a.m. and my thoughts, as usual, turn to Blair. He tells me his days are long and intense, spent mostly logging in artifacts and chasing down references for a friend who's bound and determined to find some tribe that disappeared off the face of the earth some three hundred years ago. I'd say let 'em be, but then no one's asked me.
I know he spends his nights writing to me. I've had almost thirty letters from him since the day he arrived in Taos. He actually writes them longhand, pretty amazing for a guy who lives and dies by the computer. Because of that, I've learned to judge his emotions by each stroke of his pen; I know when he's had a good day—the writing is big and sloppy, the pen strokes light; when he's frustrated or tired, the strokes dig into the paper and the writing becomes cramped and small. Most of all, I know he's missing me—he tells me so, not in so many words, but in the way he talks about the time when we'll be together again. It may be petty, but knowing that he's suffering almost as much as I am has made this separation just a little more bearable.
I give Beezer a treat while I try to decide if I should head to bed. There won't be much to do with the orchards for at least a few more weeks but I've been reading up on the subject as much as possible. It's been a long time since I've had to study anything but I'm determined to make this work, despite what other people may think about it. I think I've taken enough crap from my colleagues back in Cascade to last a lifetime, that's for sure.
As I turn out the lights and move up the stairs, I wonder if tomorrow will be the day. I know Blair's on the move; his gig ended yesterday morning but he'd made it clear that there were loose ends to tie up before he could leave. I told him I'd send him the money to fly back but he'd declined with a laugh, saying he'd come back the way he'd left. That sounded irrational to me but made sense to him, which is about how things usually go with us.
At least he knows to come to the farm instead of the loft. The plan is that he's supposed to call me from the bus station in Yakima so that I can come pick him up, so I make sure I have my cell on me at all times. Knowing Sandburg, the call will come in the middle of the night—and I won't mind at all. Well, maybe just a little, but I'll let him make it up to me.
It's still raining when I wake up. I lay in the narrow bed and listen for a while, my eyes closed and my body pleasantly heavy, reviewing the tasks I have lined up for today. The weather report says the rain's supposed to continue all week, so I'll be sticking close to the house until it's time to leave on Wednesday. I'd taken some extra time off once Sandburg had told me he was finishing up in Taos; the new guy hadn't been thrilled but what the hell—it was on the books and I'd earned it.
Time would tell if that situation was going to work out. Sandburg knew when he'd left that chances were slim he'd be brought back onto the squad; those odds had shifted dramatically with the change in command. Where that leaves him—or me, for that matter—was one of the many things that we needed to work out, but by no means the most important.
As promised, it pours all day. Normally, the slow rhythm of my days at the farm are soothing and restorative. I like the repetitive nature of maintaining the property; it's 180 degrees from the day to day volatility I'm used to back home. The mind-numbing tasks sometimes evoke memories of the jungle as I roam the orchards or work at cutting back encroaching vegetation. Even the task of feeding Beezer twice a day has its place—sometimes, the only way I know time has passed is when he presses up against my leg to remind me while he drools on my shoes.
Today is different. I can't comfortably settle on any one project and my senses are just short of being painfully extended. I try to rein them in but just when I have one under control, another one spikes enough to get my attention. Even the old dog knows something's up—when he's here he always keeps me in sight, but today he's sticking closer, sometimes even getting in my way as I work to replace some rotting baseboards in the screened-in sun porch. I've turned the radio off—reception wasn't good and the static was driving me up the wall.
It's while I'm on my knees, yanking out the last bit of moldy wood, that I felt Beez stiffen beside me. Usually he barks when someone comes on the property, a low, somewhat strangled yelp accompanied by a madly wagging tail. This time, though, he trots over to the screen door and whines, giving it a scratch and then looking back at me. Figuring it's one of the kids from the neighboring farm where Beez stays when I'm in Cascade, I glance through the screen—and freeze.
At the end of my road, waving goodbye to a fast-retreating half-ton pickup, is Blair.
I'm rooted to the place where I kneel. My eyes sharpen without conscious effort, soaking in the sight of him as he hitches his duffel bag over his shoulder and starts down the road. My first thought—when my brain starts functioning again—is that the idiot's getting soaked. My second, no less annoyed thought, is that he was supposed to call me from the bus station and doesn't he ever listen to me when I tell him what to do?
Then everything is blown away by the sharp, painful rush of joy that flows through me and rocks me back on my heels and up on my feet. I push the door open and Beez goes bounding down the steps in front of me, headed straight for the raggedy figure approaching with his down, leaning into the wind.
I want to follow that damn dog all the way to Blair's side, but something holds me back. Despite the calls and the letters, it's been over two months since we've seen each other. Two months since I've looked in his eyes. Two months since I touched him. Despite all that communication, I'm not sure how welcome my touch is going to be.
Beez reaches Blair, who immediately goes down on one knee—right into a puddle—to greet him, saying all the quasi-baby talk things people say to animals while giving him a good scratch behind the ears. I come out and descend the steps, stopping just short of where the overhanging eaves will keep the worst of the rain off my head. Sandburg stands up and brushes off his knee before continuing his trek toward the house with Beez loping contentedly at his side.
Another two steps and he sees me. Wiping the rain out of his eyes with his sleeve, he raises his other arm in greeting and gives me a wide, beautiful smile. Hair plastered to his head and rain dripping off his nose, he's the most wonderful thing I've seen since—well, since that bus station in Grant's Pass.
Rain and doubts be damned. I trot down the steps and cross the yard, stopping where the gravel of the driveway meets the dirt of the road. Bare trees stretch out as far as the eye can see on either side of the fences, framing Blair as he picks up his pace. My eyes are fixed on his and both of us are losing our smiles as he nears and the moment of truth is upon us.
That's when I see that his fear is the same as mine—the fear that what we shared in that two-bit hotel was transitory. Dark blue eyes look up at me, searching and guarded, assessing my reaction. I gaze back, just as questioning, rain running down my collar and my heart pounding hard in my chest.
Wordlessly, I hold out my hand. Blair blinks back the moisture still running into his eyes, confused by the casual gesture. After a moment's hesitation, he takes it and we shake, the rain making our palms slick. But when he goes to pull away I grab hard, not hard enough to get him off balance, but enough so that I force his gaze back to my face. When our eyes meet this time, neither of us are prepared for the flare of raw emotion that shoots between us. On a day that's about as gray and miserable as it can be, far away from everything we've known together, I realize that we've both come home today.
"Whoa," he whispers.
"Yeah," I reply, my tone hopefully making up for my lack of articulation.
Blair shakes his head, setting off a soft hail of water droplets, and we share a grin before I grab the strap of his duffel and pull it off his shoulder and onto mine.
"Didn't I tell you I'd come get you?" I ask as we turn toward the house.
Blair spreads his arms wide and tosses the sodden mess of hair out of his eyes one more time. "Well, yeah, but c'mon, Jim! Beautiful day like this? Nah, see, what happened was I rode the bus with this guy from Pasco and he said his brother could run me out instead of having you come all the way into town. Cool, hunh? God, I can't believe how much I've missed Washington weather!"
I grunt as I shift the duffel, wondering what the hell he's got in there—it seems a lot heavier than when I'd shouldered it down in Oregon. He's probably collected a bunch of junk and has a story attached to each one—stories I know I'll enjoy hearing, whether I admit it or not.
Blair jerks a thumb toward Beezer, who's waiting at the top step for someone to open the door.
"What's with the cool dog, Jim? Never pictured you as a pet guy."
I shrug and switch the strap to my other shoulder. "What can I say—I got used to having a short, hairy roommate around."
"What's his name?"
"Beezer. He came with the farm."
Blair reaches down and gently rubs Beezer's ears. "Beezer, hunh? Did you promise to stay for one week and never leave? Works like a charm, right, boy?"
Beezer thumps his tail against the step in enthusiastic agreement.
We trudge up the steps and I glance at Sandburg out of the corner of my eye. He's tan, fit—and his hair, even darkened with that liquid weather he's so excited about, shows the sun streaks he's earned from the harsh New Mexico sky. Beneath his old corduroy jacket I glimpse a shirt collar of bright blue and yellow; he's got the earrings going again and some kind of thonged medallion hangs around his neck. A day's worth of beard shadows his jaw, giving him an older, leaner look that breaks my heart and recaptures it at the same time.
As I follow him through the porch and into the living room, I wonder how I ever thought I could live without him.
Before I can say a word, Blair is turning toward me with shining eyes.
"Jim—" he stops and does a slow twirl before facing me again. "Jim, this place is amazing!"
I flush with the unexpected praise—this old craftsman is actually a mess. The rooms need painting, the floors need sanding and there's another twenty things I could name that require my attention, but Sandburg's looking around like he's just wandered into Shangri-la.
"Well," I say as I start up the stairs, "it's all ours, like it or not."
I don't even notice the slip until I turn around and look down at the foot of the stairs to see Sandburg staring up at me, one foot on the first riser.
"Ours?" he asks quietly, one eyebrow crooked upward.
I shrug and motion him up with my free hand. "You didn't think I was taking this place on all by myself, did you? Here—this is your room."
He's come up behind me now and follows me into the master bedroom. "My room?"
Some of the excitement has leached out of him. I know why—I'm sleeping in the spare room down the hall. None of my stuff is in here and he's seen that right off.
I nod and toss his bag on the big oak trunk that sits at the foot of the bed. "Yeah. You want to take a shower first before I give you the cook's tour?"
He's standing in the middle of the room, dripping on the braided rug. I need to tell him why I haven't been sleeping in here but practical matters take precedence. I think he realizes that because he relaxes and reaches for the bag.
"Sounds good," he says. "That was a long trip and I'm sure I'm not the freshest daisy in the bouquet, you know?"
I wrinkle my nose in agreement. "Got to go with you there, Chief. You smell—funny."
For some reason, that starts him laughing. "Funny? Funny? The greatest olfactory sense in the western hemisphere and all you can come up with is that I smell funny?"
What he really smells like is warm, sand-scented breezes, like clean air and sunlight—and a little bit of industrial strength soap.
My lips twitch before I allow myself a grin. "Only the western hemisphere?" He grins back, the ease between us returning with the gentle teasing. "Towels in the bathroom and more hot water than even you could possibly waste. You hungry?"
He's in the middle of dumping the entire contents of the duffel onto the white chenille spread that covers the king-sized bed. "Last thing I had to eat was some turkey jerky and a warm root beer so yeah, I'm starved."
"Okay. I'll throw something together to tide us over until dinner. Come down when you're ready."
He's already moving toward the adjoining bathroom, clean clothes in hand.
"Hey—Blair?"
"Yeah?"
"It's really good to have you home."
With one ear cocked toward the upstairs bathroom, I throw some sandwiches together in less than five minutes. He's standing under the spray and humming happily, so I know I have time to do what I have to do. I cover the food with foil and then head upstairs and into the room I'd been using since I first came to the ranch to help Maddy and her family.
It doesn't take long. I don't have much.
I think Sandburg's decided to take me up on my challenge, because from what I can hear, he hasn't moved to actually bathing yet. That gives me a chance to unpack his stuff as well, although most of it lands in a pile to be taken down to the laundry room later. There's some oddly shaped packages wrapped in thick brown paper—gifts, I assume, so I don't handle them too much in case one of them is for me and I ruin the surprise. I set them on the dresser next to my keys and wallet.
It's while I'm running the dirty clothes downstairs that I listen to him finally get down to business. Once he gets started, he moves quickly and in minutes I'm hearing the drone of the hair dryer that Maddy left behind.
That's when I realize that I can't wait any longer.
When he opens the bathroom door, the first thing he sees is me, leaning up against the wall with my head down and my hands behind my back.
"Jim?"
I look up at him and I know everything is in my eyes. He's shirtless, barefoot, and devoid of most of the jewelry, wearing only a faded pair of black jeans; he's just finished shaving and he swipes absently at the last bit of foam clinging to his chin with the towel wrapped around his neck.
But he reads me like a book and tosses the towel aside. It lands with a soft thwap on the linoleum but I'm diverted by Blair as he rests his hand on my arm. Of all the people in my life, he's always known how much I hate feeling this vulnerable, this naked. The gentle pressure on my arm tells me that I can take my time, that I can set the pace—and so I do.
He yelps a little when I pull him into my arms, a yelp that is quickly muffled as my mouth covers his in an onslaught of all the need and pain I've been suppressing for so long. The realization that he's finally here makes me angry for all the wasted time and I have to remind myself to gentle the kiss before I screw everything up.
But something in the desperate embrace kindles a wildness in him and he doesn't let me retreat. His mouth is just as demanding, just as angry, and we fight and cling through the kiss until we're both spent and panting, our arms wound tightly around each other like two men on a life line.
The kiss finally breaks but our lips rest upon each other so we can take in each other's breath. I've long since closed my eyes, letting my hands doing the seeing for me as they roam across the strong muscles of his back. I don't open them until I feel Blair's hand cupping my cheek and when I do, I see that tender, smart-assed smile of his and I feel the impact of this moment all the way down to my toes.
"Had me worried for a little bit, you know that?" he murmurs, stroking my cheek.
I lean against the wall and pull him with me, settling him between my parted legs. "Yeah? About what?"
"Uh, can you say, mixed signals?"
I decide to plead ignorance. "Mixed signals? Me? Nah."
"You," he states forcefully. "You're, like, the Grand Poobah of mixed signals, Jim. You have your own wing in the Mixed Signals Hall of Fame. When you look in the dictionary under—"
I place my hand over his mouth. "I get it, I get it." Sighing, I remove it and straighten up, dislodging him and stepping out of reach. He lets me go, reluctantly giving me space because I know he wants me to stick close.
"Look, I'm sorry about that. It's just that—"
This time, it's my mouth that's muzzled by a strong, blunt-cut hand. "Jim. Just this once—let's go with it, okay? I don't need to hear what's going on in your head—I know what's going on in your head. And I know you need time to get used to this." He removes his hand and smiles like he's just successfully explained the infield fly rule to a toddler while I stare at him, my mouth open. He's so far off the mark this time I have to bite my lip so that I don't laugh.
"Jesus, Sandburg," I say with a regretful shake of my head. "I have to say—when you miss, you miss by a mile."
When his face goes blank, I wrap a hand around his neck and reel him in, planting a kiss on the side of his head as he buries his face in my neck.
"I don't need to get used to squat," I whisper in his ear. "I don't need time, I don't need space, I don't need to get my head around anything. All I need is for you to know that I wasn't sleeping in this bed until you were sleeping in it beside me. It's that simple, it's that easy—and just how hungry are you, anyway?"
He pulls back to search my eyes. It takes him a minute to digest what I've just said, but I realize he's on board when he gives me a lopsided grin. "I'm starved—but I also have a very short attention span. What did you have in mind?"
I slide my hand into the gap between his skin and the waistband of his jeans.
"So much, I don't even know where to begin."
He guides my head down until our mouths touch.
"I'm listening," he breathes.
So I start telling. I just don't use any words.
It's either very late or very early. Beezer is snoring away downstairs but upstairs, we're still awake. The sandwiches I'd prepared for lunch were consumed at dinner, along with some good Pike Place ale and generous slices of marionberry pie. I know he's tired—hell, I'm tired after the past couple of hours—but neither of us want to sleep just yet. We're curled up together in the big bed and somehow my head has ended up pillowed on the soft fur of his chest with my legs comfortably stretched out for the first time in a long time.
"No way." Blair's still chuckling over my descriptions of Simon's going away party. "So Simon thinks you can smell me on the wind?"
I take a deep, appreciative breath of my scent on Blair's warm skin, closing my eyes to savor it. "Yeah. Seems I've developed this knack for non sequiturs while you've been gone." I don't add that given the right wind currents and air temp, I could catch his essence on a breeze; I'd rather not derail the conversation into mad scientist territory just yet.
"Uh, hunh." He's silent for a minute, then I hear a soft, regretful sigh. "I'm sorry I missed it."
I roll away and prop my chin on my hand so I can look at him. "Well, you called, that was the important thing. Made him laugh, too."
"Yeah, I guess."
Now I sigh and sit up. I feel for him—I've lived with this for a while and had the chance to see the changes already. He's coming home to a world radically different from the one he left; when a friend moves on, even under the best of circumstances, it's never easy. To console us both, I point out some obvious truths.
"Look, Chief—he's less than three hours away from Cascade. Or here, for that matter. And let's face it—how long do you think it'll be before he's calling us and asking for help? This is Simon we're talking about—he finds trouble almost as often as you and I do."
That gets a smile out of him, but just a small one. He drops his head and I reach over to push the hair out of his eyes. When he finally looks at me, I know we're shifting gears again.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you gonna stay with Major Crime?"
I've been waiting for this question—unfortunately, I'm no closer to having an answer. I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
"I don't know, Chief. With Connor leaving for home in the spring, you and Simon gone—it's just not the same."
"What if I came back?"
At first, I'm not sure I've heard him correctly. I shift back over until we're facing each other in the middle of the bed.
"Talk to me, Sandburg. What's going on here?"
Now he's looking uncomfortable. "Um, well, I sort of—talked—to Simon a lot while I was gone."
"Talked? To Simon?"
"Yeah."
"Why?" I think I'm hurt; he and I barely spoke on the phone because he said he'd be hard to reach.
"I was—checking on you." He's got his bottom lip caught between his teeth, trying to look remorseful but not really succeeding.
Narrowing my eyes, I scoot closer. "You. Were. What?"
Now he's openly laughing as I push him over and crawl on top of him, pinning him to the mattress.
"Sandburg," I growl, "I do not need a damn nanny!"
"No, you need a keeper, but we'll talk kinks some other day. But," he says, sobering a little, "just to recap here, Simon said that with all the changes, there could be room for me. That is, if you're still looking for a full time partner."
Inch by inch, I lower my body onto his. "I already have a full time partner who's also going to be a part time apple picker. What do you want?"
He raises his head and presses a hard kiss to my lips. "Besides you and world peace?"
I'd climbed on him to tease him, not start anything, but I'm getting distracted by the freckle that resides in the hollow of his throat. "Yeah," I say vaguely, "besides that. Those. Whatever."
He's wriggling beneath me and the burn is starting again. I know we should be discussing things, but for the life of me, I can't seem to concentrate. Judging by the flair of heat against my thigh, Blair is willing, but he frames my face in his hands to get my attention one more time.
"Is it okay if I just wing it for now?" His tone is light, untroubled by worry that I'll say anything other than yes, but first I want clarification.
"Wing it? Wing what, exactly?"
He slides the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, smiling just a little. "Not this, Jim. Never this, so stop frowning. No, I mean, the badge. Okay
if I think about it for a while?"
"Very okay," I murmur. I've had enough talking and I don't want to think about anything beyond the next few days. It doesn't take me too long to bring Blair around to my point of view and as we make love again, it's with the exhausted but determined enthusiasm of long-parted lovers.
We eventually settle for the night, Blair going unconscious almost immediately within the circle of my arms. I'm sleepy but my mind is still full of all the changes we've seen and the changes yet to come. With Simon gone, I don't know if I can face my job without having the kind of support he's given me all these years. Even with Sandburg at my side, I doubt we'll enjoy anywhere near the kind of tolerance that Simon granted us, sometimes at the risk of his own career—and his life.
Come the morning, I decide as my eyes get heavier, we'll talk. We'll plan, we'll argue, we'll figure it out somehow. And we'll call Simon and see if he's found the best fishing streams yet. That way, we'll all be reminded that some things—the best things—never really change at all.
I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls
My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day
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