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Chapter One

"Dave, what the hell is *he* doing here?" Blair tried to keep his voice as low as possible, but Jim noticed. Of course, Jim noticed. Jim looked straight at him with what Blair used to call his "honest" eyes and then tossed his head and bent down again, gesturing grandly to the medical examiner.

Dave Michaelson stared at Blair. "What do you think? This is the fifth gang kid killed in seven months. If it's not a major crime, I don't know what is." He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I guess. And it's not like we've made a whole lot of progress." Blair rubbed his hands over his eyes. "Look at him."

He hadn't really seen Jim since he'd asked for first a leave of absence to "finish writing a paper" and then a transfer to work with Dave on the same basis he used to work with Jim. The two weeks he and Jim had spent as work partners had been disastrous. Jim kept staring at him with that hurt look and he could barely bring himself to talk to him. Simon must have been relieved when he left. He didn't know. He hadn't spoken to Simon since - since the day he left Major Crimes.

That was two months ago. He had his own place now. He had his own life now. Except that everyone kept asking him if he had called Jim or Jim had called him. He'd nearly exploded at TJ Martin a couple of days ago for asking after "Auntie Jim, " who hadn't been around for a long time. Funny how they'd divided their friends since the break up.

Now Jim was here, and Blair could not keep his eyes off him.

Jim was - not thinner. If anything, his shoulders were nearly bursting out of his gray silk t-shirt, and his thighs were clearly defined under the matching wool pants. Gray. Jim hated gray, even though it did things to his eyes that Blair thought were close to spectacular.

Don't think about his eyes.

There was something wrong, besides the color. There was something off.

And why was he wearing the same outfit he'd worn to Club Purple that first night?

"We have to talk to him, Blair. He's clearly in charge of this for Major Crimes." Dave took a deep breath. "You want me to do the talking?"

Blair shook himself back to reality. "I don't know. If it were Brown or Taggert or Connor - I don't know." His mouth became dry at the very thought of speaking to his - to Jim. "Damn. You're right, man." Blair rubbed his hands through his hair and, taking a tie from his pocket, tied it back away from his face. He pulled at the sleeves of his tweed jacket, the one Jim had given him the day he'd gotten his doctorate so that he'd look "professorial."

"You look *fine*, Blair. Stop primping." When Blair turned to Dave, he saw an annoying twinkle in his new partner's eyes.

"I am so not...Let's get this over with." He strode over to the body and to Jim. He could hear Dave running to keep up.

What should he call him? Jim? James? "Good morning, J - gentlemen."

Jim, who seemed to freeze at Blair's first syllable, thawed, stood and turned to face him.

Perhaps "thawed" was the wrong word. Blair felt the temperature drop around them when he saw Jim's face.

"*Doctor* Sandburg." Once upon a time, Jim's voice had been warm with love and pride when saying those words. Blair told himself to get over it.

Anyway, Jim had solved one problem. "*Detective* Ellison."

"Brr." Dave's whisper was harsh in his ear.

"What do we have here?" Blair indicated the body.

Jim's voice became professional. "Victim is an African-American male, pre-adolescent, wearing the colors of the Terror Kings. He appears to have been shot several times in the back by a large caliber weapon."

Blair stared at the lifeless figure of the small boy lying face down in his own blood. The green and black scarf was already black with it. There was something familiar about him.

The ME took pictures and bagging samples, while someone else carefully made the outline and took pictures from all angles. When she finished, she looked up. "Okay, guys. You can turn him now."

Jim nodded and turned the little body. When the face came forward, all three men gasped.

"Oh, dear sweet Jesus. It's Jamal." Dave stared at the body in shock.

"This is one of those children who killed Miss Freddy, isn't he?" Jim's voice was, if anything, colder.
This time, Blair felt just as cold.

Dave glared at Jim. "It was ruled manslaughter. I know the vic was a friend of yours - of both of yours, but it wasn't murder."

"Miss Freddy is still gone." Jim closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he shook his head. "And she would want me to find this child's killer." Blair nodded. Freddy would have called Jamal a cherub and scolded them until they found the perp.

Dave didn't seem to hear Jim at all. He'd turned back. As he did, Blair caught a glimpse of a tear. He touched Dave's shoulder. "You okay, man?"

Dave shook his head. "He was one of *mine*, one of *my* kids. You...Jamal was going to school every day, and making good grades. He never missed a meeting with his parole officer or his social worker, and Timothy told me he wasn't even running with the gang anymore." Timothy, a former student of Dave's, was the leader of the Terror Kings. He was going to community college now.

"Then why is he wearing the gang colors?" Jim tossed his head.

"Once a Tking, always a Tking." Dave would have sounded resigned, but there was anger behind his voice.

Blair nodded in agreement. "It's like becoming a member of a lot of groups. Once you're formally admitted, you can't leave without some sort of penalty." Like that none of his friends on Stonewall Street had returned his phone calls. He'd been shunned. He ignored the voice telling him he'd stopped trying to contact them.

Dave didn't seem to hear him. "If he'd left the group, stopped wearing the colors, he'd have been - been - we have to get this guy, Jim. He's killing my kids."

Blair squeezed Dave's shoulder. "We'll get him."

"I'm not going to sleep nights until we do. Jim, I need to hear this from you. You have to help my kids." Dave never took his eyes off Jim. Jim stared back.

Blair looked at his friend. "You're taking this very personally."

Dave finally turned back to him. "Of course I am. I told you back when we first met. Those kids are *mine*. They're my responsibility to help and to protect. I promised them and their parents this." He faced Jim again. "I know you of all people understand this. Understand what it means for them to be mine. I *know* you do."

Jim jerked his shoulders slightly, as if something had hit him. Then he pressed his lips together. "Freddy was my friend, my foster aunt. She saved my life."

"I know." Dave's whisper rasped across Blair's ears.

"She was mine. But." Jim paused, then gestured towards the body. "So were Jamal and the other two kids." He ran a hand over his hair. "And you. And everyone else in this city. Mine to protect." He spread his arms to indicate the city.

Dave nodded. "Yeah. Thank you. I needed to hear you say it. I never doubted you would do your best."

Blair looked from one man to the other. Something had happened. There was some connection going on that he had no part in, and it bothered him. It couldn't be jealousy - Dave was a married Kinsey one, who'd never had a gay thought in his life, and, anyway, he had no right to feel jealous about Jim.

"So everything is cool between you two?" He had to test, though. *He* had to hear it.

"So far as *I'm* concerned." Jim knelt next to the body again. "He had three shots from the back, but I can see only two exit wounds."

Taking a deep breath, Dave crouched next to him. He didn't check out the chest, though. "Oh, dear Lord. Look at his face. He was crying."

Blair fought down his nausea and looked. Tracks of tears marked Jamal's still too young for shaving cheeks. "He knew he was going to die. He was scared." He had to turn away.

Jim covered his mouth with his hands. "Oh, my God. The poor baby. Dave, I *promise* you, no *matter* what he did to Miss Freddy, I would *never* want this child to die like that."

"What about the other victims?" Blair kept his eyes on Jim, not Jamal. "This is the first time we've been called in. Did they have the same expression?"

"It's my first time, too, dar - Doctor Sandburg. The boys in Homicide don't seem to want to *share*." Jim looked over at a clot of men in ill-fitting suits and batted his eyes at them. Almost as one, they scowled and turned away. Jim had never forgiven them for screwing up on Freddy's murder, not to Blair's knowledge. And now the perp was lying at their feet. He grinned and snapped his fingers. "They will, however, just have to learn how to play with other boys. When I get my hands on the files, I'll make sure you girls get them, too. I'll call you later, Dave." With a toss of his head, Jim turned and strode off to confront the Homicide detectives.

"Um. Dr. Sandburg. You guys done here?" The coroner shifted her weight from foot to foot.

Blair shook his head. "I think those guys need to see the body, too. And get some pictures." He looked back at the crowd of cops. Jim was glaring at one man in particular and snapping his fingers in derision. The sun glinted off his silver earring - was that the one Blair had gotten him a year or so ago? Unlike Jim, he couldn't see that far. He turned away. "We'd better go, Dave. Her highness over there is going to be at it for awhile." He winced at the bitterness in his own voice, but let it go. He began walking back to the car.

Dave rushed to keep up with him. "What are you talking about?"

"James loves being the center of attention. He also loves having right on his side, so when he has a chance for both, like now, he milks it." Blair slid his keys out of his pocket and opened his door. Dave waited for him to lean over and unlock the passenger side.

"You know we have to work with him on this. This is not just *his* territory." Dave fastened his seatbelt. "It's mine, too. And mine, first. I'm just glad *he* put *his* feelings behind him." He looked pointedly at Blair.

Blair chose to ignore the look. "What was that about? All of sudden, you guys had this *thing* going."

Dave frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean, except that I was reminding him that he was a cop. You know, sworn to protect all of the city? I'm glad he got that hint. Gotta tell you, too...he looks better than you do."

"Just because he has all those muscles. Guess he decided he needed the edge to get the boys in the bars." As if Blair himself hadn't started hanging out at some mixed coffeehouses. He'd go there and nurse lattes all evening while trying to decide if he wanted girls or boys or anyone at all, and then he'd go home alone.

Jim came walking up before Blair could start the car. He walked to Dave's side and motioned for him to roll down the window. "Coroner's picking up the body. *Please* tell me you'll be at the station when the mother shows up, Dave."

"Of course, Jim." Dave didn't look all that happy.

"You'll be there, too, Professor?" Jim's face was unreadable.

Blair nodded.

Chapter Two

"I'll never get used to this. Look at him. He's so small." Dave turned away from the body on the table waiting for its autopsy.

Blair touched his shoulder. "I know, man. I've been doing this for years, and I still feel like losing my lunch."

"That's not it!" Dave turned his head so fast that his dreadlocks hit Blair in the face. "I'm just sick and *tired* of my kids, kids with *promise*, dying."

"We'll get this guy. James is the best." Blair put all the sincerity and belief he could in his voice in an effort to make Dave believe him.

"You don't get it." He took a deep breath. "It's not just this sick human being killing them. It's the wars and the drugs and the...half the kids I taught back when I was working in the schools are *dead* now. Some weren't doing anything. Little Tommy Gonzalez, just eight months ago, was caught in the crossfire, and he was a member of a third gang on his own turf. And he was the same age as Jamal right here. Damn it, Blair. I'm not doing any good at all." He rubbed at his eyes.

"It's okay, man. You have a right to feel this way. It's okay." Blair wrapped his arms around his friend. "You *are* doing good. I've read the stats. Fewer kids have died since you've been on the job. You are doing good."

Dave kept his arms at his side, but didn't pull away from the comfort. "I just wish I could believe that right now."

"Ooh la la." Jim leaned against the doorpost, his arms folded across his chest. "Careful, Dave. You may not be butch enough for our Dr. Sandburg."

Dave jumped back as if the words burned him.

Blair faced Jim full on. "What the *hell* is wrong with you, *detective?*"

Jim looked stricken. "I'm so sorry, Dave. You forgive me, don't you, darling?"

"Just shut up, Ellison. You, too, Sandburg. I don't need to be getting between you two right now. I don't have time to deal with any of your stuff." Blair felt Dave's glare, but he was too angry to say anything.

"I really am sorry, Dave. You're right. I can be a jealous bitch, but now is not the time or place." He sounded honestly contrite. Then he looked at Blair and deliberately jerked his head away. Blair took a deep breath and let it go, just in time to see Ben Nighthorse walk in.

Ben nodded to all the men before walking to the table and setting up his instruments. Dave was out the door before Ben could remove the sheet around Jamal's body, while Blair carefully turned his back. He'd figured out several years ago that there was no need for him to actually *watch* the proceedings. Listening to them was bad enough, especially when Jim started describing things he was *smelling*. Blair knew he was flitting around the table, following Ben or dancing out of his way, or leaning over the body for a delicate sniff.

"Okay, stomach time. Blair, you sure you want to stay for this?"

"I can handle it. I'm tough." He hadn't vomited during an autopsy in years, but Ben never let him forget the last time. It hadn't been his fault - James had made him eat two Wonderburgers and drink two shakes on a bet.

"Yeah. Keep the bucket handy, tough guy." He chuckled. "Okay. I'm opening the stomach. He'd eaten just before he died. Some sort of meat, with oil and dough."

"Like a fried dumpling?" Blair frowned. That was something common to a lot of cuisines.

"The meat smells...spicy. Bits of it look wrapped. And there's palm oil. Arepas." Jim sounded certain.

"What are they? They sound familiar."

"Latin-American street food. Deep fried dough around meat fillings. Remember? We had a version in Peru."

Blair remembered Peru, back when their relationship seemed so simple. Except it wasn't, even then, because back then he was pretending he wasn't in love with his straight partner, and his partner was pretending he wasn't gay.

"Oh, yeah. On our way to the airport."

"You can get them over on Janson Street." Jim named the local barrio. It wasn't large, but it did have representatives from most Latin American countries.

"That would seriously take Jamal out of Tking's territory."

"So how did he get them?"

Blair got up. "We'd better find Dave.

~~~

"Arepas? Are you sure about that?" Dave sat down by the table in the break room, a fresh cup of coffee balanced in his hands.

Blair nodded. "If J - Detective Ellison says something, you can bet on it." He took a sip of his own coffee.

"*Thank* you. At *least* you can trust *some* things I say." Jim tossed his head as he grabbed the furthest seat from Blair.

"There are *some* things I know are important to you." Blair tilted his head and smiled, and he made sure it wasn't a nice smile.

"Gentlemen. Don't make me tell you again what we are doing. Take your spats to your own time. Or find a room and make up." Dave was not happy.

Blair stared into his coffee. "Sorry, Dave."

"My apologies, David." Jim's voice was indistinct. There was a pause. Blair heard Jim take a deep breath. "Okay. We have a kid who has just eaten something out of his neighborhood. Dave, how likely is that?"

"I'd say pretty damn near zero. He has no money, no safe means of transportation, would have to cross several gang borders and it's not a food he'd be familiar with. Jamal is still very much in the cheeseburger and Mom's cooking stage. Was." Dave shook his head for a moment.

Blair frowned. "If that's the case, why would he eat it now?"

"I don't know." Dave shrugged. "I can venture a guess or two. His mama has had a hard time finding work, so there really wasn't much to eat in his house. But I'm not sure how he'd get it. His school doesn't draw from Jansen Street, so it wouldn't be a school friend."

"Would he hang out with non-homeboys?" Jim took another sip of his coffee.

"Not likely, except in class. And then he'd still avoid any non-brother - Hispanic kids are out."

"So. Not only do we have to figure out who killed him; we have to figure out who fed him arepas." Jim rolled his eyes. "I'd say they're related."

"Yeah, that's why you're a detective." Blair smiled. Jim smiled back. God, he was beautiful. How could Blair have forgotten just how brilliant his smile was? For a moment, it was like the past six months had never happened.

"Guys? Guys? Ladies?" Blair jumped. So did Jim. "What's our next step, oh great detective?"

"Um." Jim coughed a bit. "Autopsies. We need the other autopsies. And we need to talk to the other kids' parents."

"God, I hate that. The parents are still raw." Dave put his coffee cup back down on the table. "And we still haven't spoken to Jamal's mother." He fished out his cell phone. "I'd better find out if she's waiting for us." He dialed a number. "Hey, Jennifer. Is Tamika Lincoln there?" He took a deep breath. "Okay. Get her a cup of coffee or tea and I'll be right there." He stood up and poured the remains of his coffee into the sink. "You gentlemen care to join me? I don't think Ms. Lincoln would remember you."

Blair noticed that Jim stood up at the same moment he did. There was the oddest look on his face.

"You two go on ahead. I'll be down in a minute." Jim downed the rest of his coffee and strode out of the break room.

Chapter Three.

It took some time for the elevator to reach them. Jim was back, holding an old sweater, before they got on. They rode down in silence.

Tamika Lincoln sat in Dave's office, holding a coffee cup in one hand and a wad of tissues in the other. Her hair was arranged, as it had been last time Blair had seen her, in elaborate braids and twists. This time it made her look almost regal, despite her red eyes, the running makeup and the faint stains on her nurse's aide uniform. She looked up at Dave, dabbing at her face with the tissues. "Mr. Michaelson? Is...it's my baby, isn't it?"

Dave nodded. "I'm sorry, Ms. Lincoln."

"Do I...do I have to go and look at him?"

He sat down next to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. She leaned into the comfort. "No. Not if you're not ready."

"Excuse me." Blair turned to look at Jim. "Ms. Lincoln, I'm very sorry for your loss and I assure you that we will do anything in our power to find the person who killed your son as well as the other children." Jim's voice, pitched lower than usual, was smooth and even. He'd slipped on the dark, shabby sweater. Beneath it, his shoulders were level and his arms and hands, normally expressive, hung by his side. His features were calm. Blair had seen this transformation many times in the past few years. He'd been amused or aroused or sometimes annoyed at the necessity, and this was certainly a time it was necessary. Bad enough he and Jim, unlike Dave, were white. That was enough of a barrier - ironic that Dave's dark ivory skin was actually lighter than Blair's own.

But for the first time in all those years, Blair really looked at Jim as he put on the straight act. There were lines of tension around his mouth and eyes, as Jim clenched his teeth. Blair wondered why he never noticed this before.

"Thank you, officer. What is your name, please?"

"My name is Detective Ellison. This is Dr. Sandburg, who consults with the police department."

Blair stuck out his hand. "I've worked with both these men. We'll need to ask you some questions."

"Whatever you need to find the man who killed my boy." She took Blair's hand without hesitation. "You promise to find him?"

"We promise to do our best, Ms. Lincoln." He willed her to believe them.

She nodded. "What do you want to know?"

Jim took a seat, turning it around so that he straddled the back. "Tell us about your son. Tell us what you know of his activities in the past few weeks."

She did. In between sobs and calls for fresh coffee and tissues, she told them about Jamal - about how his grades were improving and how he was getting involved with sports and helping out "some" at home. And Blair watched Jim dutifully take all of that down, even though it was not likely to be relevant. "I hated that he wore those damn colors. I kept asking him to wear regular clothes, but he said that if he didn't wear colors, the Terror Kings would hurt him bad. He was scared. Mr. Michaelson, was it them that got my boy?"

Dave shook his head. "He was in territory and wearing his colors. And it clearly wasn't a gang. In fact, I'm going to have to talk to Timothy and the others to calm them down. Someone killed one of their homies, and they're out for blood." He did not look happy at this.

"Ms. Lincoln, did Jamal talk to you about any of his other friends? His friends not in the gang? Maybe someone he might have met at school?" Blair, who had taken his own seat on Dave's desk, leaned forward, holding his coffee cup.

"Jamal didn't talk much about that. There was this one name. Pedro. He didn't go to Jamal school. Nobody Spanish there, not even the teachers. I don't know how they met."

Jim sat up. "Pedro? What did Jamal say about him?"

Tamika shrugged. "Not much. Just some guy. Told him stories, sometimes, or brought him stuff to eat. The first time he did that, I got worried, but Jamal didn't get sick. And it wasn't no junk. It was real food, with meat and such. I don't make too much on my job and Jamal eats more than me. Any time somebody feeds him, that less money I got to spend. I guess - " Her face crumpled and she began sobbing on Dave's shoulder. They waited until she calmed down.

"Did you know anything else about Pedro? His name, his age, his parents?"

She shook her head. "I do know he was a man, because that scared me, too. I was afraid he was one of them fags. You know, how they are all after little boys? And Jamal, he is - he was - a handsome little boy."

*Crunch* Blair snapped around to look at Jim. His hands were covered with blood and ink and the shards of his clear Bic ballpoint. His face was still totally impassive, as if he hadn't just broken his pen in half. Blair grabbed some tissues out of the box and knelt in front of him, carefully removing the bits of plastic before putting pressure on the cuts. He heard Dave rummage in his desk.

"Here. Use this." Blair carefully closed Jim's hands around the tissues, hoping to put some pressure on the cuts, and took the first aid kit Dave offered him. He opened it and took out a handful of foil-wrapped alcohol swabs.

"Okay, James. This is going to hurt, but I need to clean out the ink. Just concentrate on my voice, okay? Filter out everything else." Blair tore open one of the packets and began to gently clean off Jim's hands. Jim's whole body flinched at the first touch, but then he relaxed as Blair kept up his patter. Tamika knelt beside him and handed him fresh swabs as the old ones got saturated. Finally, Blair got Jim's palms clean. Each one had a couple of deep cuts and a bunch of tiny ones. After checking again to make sure all the plastic was gone, he bandaged one hand while Tamika did the other, using gauze pads, antibiotic cream and a roll of sports tape. "We'll take you to a hospital afterwards, okay, Jim?"

Jim, who had not said anything all during his ordeal, nodded his head. Blair finally, and reluctantly, let go and stood up. Tamika stood up as well, brushing off her uniform pants. "Doctor, where do you work? You sure don't act like the docs I know."

Blair shook his head with a grin. "I'm not a medical doctor. I'm a professor at Rainier."

She laughed a little, with a bitter edge. "Now, that makes sense. You did a real good job with your friend there. Though I still can't figure out why he broke the pen at all."

"I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Lincoln. Something...disturbed me. Let's get back to your son, if we may." Jim's voice was, if anything, more devoid of emotion than before. He put his hands together, no longer able to even pretend to take any notes. Blair, on the other hand, picked up a pad and paper from Dave's desk.

"Yes. Well, Jamal swore up and down that the man never touched him at all, just gave him food and told him stories about his own kid."

"Did Pedro have a last name?"

Tamika shook her head. "I asked. I wanted to call him, thank him for feeding my baby, but Jamal didn't know."

"How long was he feeding Jamal?"

"Four, five weeks. I only found out when Jamal didn't grab food out of his brother's plate at dinner time."

Blair nodded. That was approximately when the previous kid had been killed. They spoke a little more with Tamika, and she left, holding a new wad of tissues.

When she shut the door behind her, Blair expected Jim to relax, but he didn't. "We need to check on timing and on stomach contents, and to interview the other parents."

Dave shook his heads. "I'll set up the interviews, Jim. Why don't you call the ME and get the info on the autopsies. And then you best be going to the hospital."

"I'm fine. Dr. Sandburg did a good job. I could tell." Jim examined the bandages with an expert eye.

Blair ducked his head. "I learned from the best, man. Look, some of those cuts were deep. You may need stitches and we do *not* want to wait too long."

Jim looked at him quizzically. "'We?'"

"Yeah, because *you* are not driving." Blair looked right into his eyes.

"Listen, *Professor*. You no longer have the right to order me around. You're not my boss, my partner or my lover." Jim's voice went very quiet indeed.

Blair took a deep breath. "Maybe not, but I still care about you. And, I can offer advice. Your hands hurt now. They'll hurt even more later. Your truck handles like, well, like a truck. Do you think you'll be able to drive?"

"Oh." Jim looked at his hands. "You win."

Things went fairly quickly in the local emergency room. They'd picked a quiet day - it took only an hour or so to get Jim's hand sewn up and rebandaged. The local didn't work as well as it could have, so Blair kept a tight grip on Jim's shoulder in lieu of his hands. And right after they were finished, Jim shrugged him off. Blair was surprised at how much that hurt.

The old sweater was covered in ink, as were Jim's grey pants. Blair didn't wait to be asked. He simply drove to the loft. He didn't even need to think about where he was going. He pulled into his old familiar spot, and the two of them walked upstairs. Blair had to stop himself from getting something to drink out of the fridge.

The place was about the way it was when he'd left it. Still immaculate, with all the furniture and decorations they'd accumulated together, with the toaster he'd gotten them still on the counter. He sat down awkwardly in the living room while Jim disappeared into his dressing room. He should have felt at home, but he didn't. He felt like an intruder.

Fifteen minutes later, Jim emerged. He wore a pair of chinos and a v-necked sweater over a t-shirt, and there was only a dull silver stud in his ear, barely noticeable. For a moment, it looked like they'd gone back in time, before that trip to Club Purple. Before he'd found out that Jim had been lying to him all those years until then.

"Let's go, Dr. Sandburg." The illusion crashed into shards on the floor.

Chapter Four

"There you are. I have a lot to tell you two." Dave waved to them when they walked into his office. "I've lined up the other parents, and I've gotten the autopsy reports."

Jim sat down, straddling the chair once more. "Good job. What did the autopsies say?"

"They've found meat and fried dough in all the stomachs except one. And that one had plain fried dough." Jim and Blair looked at each other.

"Why wasn't this noted before?" Jim peered at Dave.

"Because kids eat the oddest things. Because one kid, Jimmy Chung, was Chinese and friend dough and meat is common there. Because no one thought about it. You guys did." Dave smiled. "So. The parents are coming here. They want this solved as soon as possible. Jimmy's mom will be here in about fifteen minutes." He handed them each a pair of folders. "You should do your homework, gentlemen. It won't take long. I'll get you coffee or something."

He disappeared through the door. Silently, they read through the folders, trading when they finished the ones in hand. Dave was right. They weren't long. Two boys, two girls. One black, one Chinese, one Filipina, one Latina. All about ten-twelve years old, all wearing gang colors and shot in the back. One or two were active gang members, one or two were just periphery, hangers-on. None had any real record, and only one had drugs in her system. Three of them were even making decent grades.

Fifteen minutes later, Dave walked back in. "Have you guys even *looked* at each other? God. Anyway, this is Anne Chung." He led in a Chinese woman in her thirties, dressed neatly but not expensively. Both Jim and Blair stood up.

"Hello, gentlemen." She sat down the same seat Tamika had held only hours before. "You are going to find Jimmy's killer?"

"We'll do our best, Mrs. Chung." Jim introduced them again. "We only have a few questions, ma'am." He turned his chair around and sat in it the correct way, but still kept his legs apart and his arms resolutely still.

"Whatever you need, Detective."

It didn't take long for Jim to ascertain that Jimmy had, indeed, be befriended by a Spanish-speaking man named "Pedro", and that Mrs. Chung knew no more than Tamika, but had harbored similar suspicions - except that as she used the word "pedophile", not fag, Jim didn't break anymore pens.

The rest of the interviews continued in the same manner, until they got to Rita Morales' grieving parents. She'd been their only daughter, and she'd had traces of THC in her blood. They wore black, still. "Rita was a good girl until she started with that gang. She was smart and so beautiful." Elena Morales looked straight at Jim. Jim nodded. "And then this man started talking to her. Why haven't you picked him up? We've told you about him."

"What man, Mrs. Morales?"

"The man. The one whose little boy died. He talked to my Rita, told her to stay off the marijuana, to be a good girl, and quit the gang. But she didn't want to."

"My Rita. She was loyal. Maybe to the wrong people, but she gave her word and it was good." There was an odd sort of pride in Arturo Morales' voice, under all the sadness.

"Did he feed her?"

"Yes. Yes, he did. Arepas. He said he made them himself. Rita liked arepas. She said it made him happy when she ate them, and that was good because he was so sad." Elena's voice held the same pride.

Jim leaned forward. "Did you know his name, Mrs. Morales?"

"No. All my Rita would say was 'Pedro'. There are many Pedros in our barrio, Detective. And many have lost children to the gangs."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Morales. I think you have been of great help. With luck, no more children will die." Jim stood up, straight and tall, and offered his hand to them. They hesitated because of the bandages, but first Arturo and then Elena took it.

"You are a good man, Detective. I believe you will find the man who killed my Rita and the other children. I can see it in your eyes. You have honest eyes." Arturo shook it one more time, thanked Blair and Dave, and they left the room. Blair glanced at Jim. He appeared tired.

Jim refused to look either of them in the face when he sat down again. "All right, we have a lead. Rita was the first child killed, right?"

Dave nodded. "I'll have a look through my data base. He's probably from her barrio. You two go home. This could take a while. Lots of kids killed there."

"I can help, Dave." It was late. Surely Dave wanted to be with his family. Blair could certainly do his share.

"No. I have to do this. Besides, I'm going home. I can access this perfectly well from there. And I doubt Jim's driving tonight." Jim was, in fact, holding his hands tightly together.

"I could call a cab. And get one back in the morning." Jim shrugged awkwardly. His face was still in those tense lines. Some were probably from pain, but the rest were oddly familiar.

"Don't do that. I'll take you home. And I'll come pick you up in the morning. Your hands should be better by then." Blair didn't want to spend more time alone with him than necessary, but the loft wasn't that far out of the way to his own place, whereas Dave lived on the other side of town, in the same suburbs as the Martins and Glasses.

Jim closed his eyes for a moment. A familiar stranger looked out at Blair when he opened them. "Yeah. Okay. You can drop me off. I'll still call a cab in the morning."

Jim spent the trip back to his loft staring out the window. It was dark and cloudy out, but with Jim's vision, who knew what he saw? Blair pulled into his old spot. Jim shook himself and got out of Blair's car, still moving like he used to before.

"Um. Chief. This may sound dumb, but - I know you're hungry. I can hear your stomach. Come up with me. We'll have dinner before you go home."

Blair thought about it. What the hell. "Sure. Maybe I should cook, though."

"You think you remember where everything is?"

Blair flipped him the bird, which got a grin back. Blair realized only when it faded how much he missed that smile.

Chapter Five

"You do cook a mean omelet, Sandburg." Jim leaned back in his chair and took a slug from his coffee cup. Jim hadn't slugged in years. His plate was gratifyingly empty.

"What can I say? I was inspired by your orderly array of leftovers."

Dinner had been almost comfortable. They each kept to neutral subjects like sports teams, TV and local politics, and managed to avoid any silences. It was still awkward, but at least they were able to spend time together.

In deference to Jim's stitches, Blair took care of the cleaning up.

"I'll take you to dinner when this case is over. Just buddies. How does that sound?"

"Just buddies? Not a date?" Blair asked over the sound of running water.

"Don't push your luck, Sandburg." Jim got up and walked to the couch. "There's a Jags game tonight. Want to stay and watch?"

"If it's okay with you." Blair put the frying pan in the dishdrainer and dried his hands. He paused before walking into the living room. Jim was sitting on the couch, his arms spread over the back and his ankle resting on his knee. To someone who didn't know him, that posture would look relaxed, but Blair had seen Jim truly relaxed, and that wasn't it.

He took a deep breath, knowing he was about to walk into a landmine, and sat down on a chair. "Ellison. Jim. What's wrong? What are you doing?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sandburg." Jim kept his eyes on the television.

"Right. You're behaving like you did before."

"I thought you liked when I did that. I thought it turned you on. I thought it was the person you really loved." Jim still didn't look at him, and his voice was still even and low.

"Is that what you want to do tonight? You want to turn me on? Because it's not working." Blair hid his own surprise at that fact. Not so long ago, he'd have been all over "macho" Jim.

"I'm not trying anything. Nothing is up." He stopped staring at the television, and began staring at his hands.

"Do not try that on me." Blair got up and went right into Jim's space, placing one hand on the back of the sofa on either side of Jim's shoulders and leaning in. Later, he'd be amazed at his daring, but then it was the only thing he could do. "Do not hide from me. Do not damn well *lie* to me. I'm *tired* of lies."

"So you said when you left. Why are you staying?" Jim sat perfectly still.

"What is going on? Look at you. I can see the strain in your face, I can hear it in your voice. It's - oh, my God."

"What, Sandburg? What is it? What shut you up?"

"You look exactly the way you looked before. You sound exactly the way you sounded before. For all those years." Blair stood up straight. "How...how did you *live*?"

Jim shrugged. "I lived. I just...never let it go."

"Jim? Before I moved in with you - or when you were by yourself, when you went camping or on long stakeouts - how did you act?" Blair couldn't believe he'd never asked that question before, that he never thought of it before. Maybe that was why Jim had spent all that time alone.

"Like this. Always like this. I didn't dare let it slip, not for one moment. Ever. I had to be straight all the time."

Blair flopped down on the sofa next to Jim. "Why? You can barely take the strain now." He had another question, but he let it rest.

"Because if I'd ever relaxed, then it might slip out. And then I'd lose everything." His voice was bleak and empty.

"In the years we were together, you played straight occasionally, like you did today. Only it was different. You were having fun then. Mostly."

Jim smiled briefly. "Mostly. It was a game. How macho could I be without going over the top? Or, how far over the top could I go?" He tried to make fists, but the bandages prevented it. "It didn't matter. I knew I'd come home with you, and either we'd laugh or you'd be turned on by supercop and we'd make love all night."

"What's different about this time? Why wasn't it a game this time? Why are you still playing?" Blair did reach out and touch Jim's shoulder. Jim let him, or at least didn't react.

He kept staring at his hands. "I'm not playing. Don't you see, Sandburg? I had to become the tightass again to make it work this time. I could feel it. And once I got back into the role, I had to stay there, because there is no middle way. Either I'm this guy or I'm not. And by tomorrow, Dave will have a suspect for us, and Queen Jim will just have to stay in her little box until after that. Or maybe I'll just not let her out again." Jim looked down at his hands, and rubbed the bandages together.

"What do you mean?" Blair could hardly breathe. Something was up.

He never looked up from his hands. "It's been hard. Being her. Without you. It was hard when we were together, but it was okay then. She's who I am, but outside Stonewall - It's harder now. Maybe if I...she weren't so...you know. Nellie. It would be easier. Because then people would forget or not care. But I can't hide who I am. You know that."

"You're hiding now. You're just like you were."

"Yeah. I can go all the way in. I can *be* someone else. I am someone else. I'm not someone I like, but I can live with it. And I've been thinking about it. Hard."

Blair looked at him. He saw the lines around Jim's mouth, the wrinkles around his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders. When he'd met Jim, he'd thought that was the price of being a cop, but they had disappeared, or mostly disappeared, the years they were together. "I never saw...I'm sorry."

"Sorry? About what?"

"You weren't lying. Not really. At least not about everything. Were you?"

"Only to myself. I lied thinking I could be happy enough spending my life like this." Jim seemed to be looking at anything but Blair. He sighed. "I know better now. And. I'm sorry I made you think I was straight." He began picking at his bandages.

"But you want to go back to being this way? To pretend that you're straight?" Blair could hear his voice rising, but didn't care. "After you've been whole for all this time, you want to go back to being half? Having two major secrets? Because it's easier?"

"There's no point in being gay. I'm celibate anyway." He turned to look Blair right in the eyes. "I can't even get it up with someone else. I know. I tried. And all I could do is picture you with some woman, and that was that. So, why put up with the extra problems? When I straightened up this afternoon, things were...better."

Blair could not believe that. "This is not you. Any version of you. You don't give up, and you don't let people get away with that sort of thing - the way you did this afternoon. Tamika Lincoln was spouting purest prejudice, and all you did was hurt yourself." He had to stop himself from shaking Jim.

"No point in doing anything else."

Now Blair was really scared. Jim's voice had lost all inflection. "Of course there's a point! Tamika has another son - what if he's gay? How will she react? I don't mean a lecture, I mean just a gentle reminder that pederasts and homosexuals are different things. You used to do that."

"You didn't say anything."

"I was busy dealing with you, and I should have, but all I could think about was you. But, I hate this. I *hate* this. I hate seeing you like this, trapped like this."

"You fell in love with me like this. You told me so." There was still no emotion in his words. He picked at his bandages some more.

"I know. I did." Blair rubbed his face. "I'm not sure of anything anymore - the more I think about this, the less I know. I...I fell in love with all the things that make you - you. Things that didn't change at all." He bit his lip. "I'm sorry. James. Jim. I'm sorry, and I don't even know what the hell to call you!" He could taste the bitterness of his laugh.

Jim looked at him, and chuckled a real, warm chuckle. "Anything you want. Chief. Maybe if I'd been honest earlier, we'd have had a couple more years together. I'm sorry about that." His face settled back to stillness.

"Yeah. Well. We had what we had, and they were good." He squeezed Jim's shoulder. "Buddies?"

"Buddies." Jim picked up the remote and turned on the sound. "Why don't you make us some popcorn?"

"Not a bad idea. Hey, the Jags are winning!"

Chapter Six

"I got the autopsy reports, Chief." Jim strode across the bullpen, holding a handful of files. His movements seemed casual, even effortless, except for the subtle tension in his neck and the too-square set of his shoulders that the dull, faded sweater could not hide.

The other cops in Major Crimes stared, their mouths open. Some looked confused; others looked relieved. One earnest fellow came over and shook Jim's hand, not seeming to notice either his wince or the bandaid covering his stitches. "Now that you've seen the light, Detective, perhaps you'd be willing to visit our..."

Jim pulled his hand away and, for just one moment, gave him a glare worthy of a diva before coughing. "Not now, Trendholm." The light did not glint off the earring Jim was not wearing as he did not toss his head.

Instead, he walked past Trendholm, and sat on the corner of Blair's old desk. "Here you go, Sandburg."

"Do I have to look at them?" Those folders held pictures of dead kids. Dead, cut-up kids. Blair could feel that morning's breakfast rise just at the thought of looking at them. And the morning he'd spent sitting in Major Crimes, enduring the angry stares of his former friends and the curious ones of new officers, didn't help his mood.

Jim shook his head. "Bad enough I had to. All you need to know is that they found similar contents in all their stomachs - they all ate arepas. The African-American kids, the Filipina kid, the Hispanic kid, the Chinese kid. All of them."

"We have a connection.. Yes!"

"We need more. We need to see if there's a 'Pedro' with the other kids, and then we need to track this 'Pedro' down." Despite his words, Jim sounded confident. "Let's go tell Simon and Dave. We need to talk to these kids' parents."

Simon greeted Blair coldly, and then did a double take at Jim. "You all right, Ellison?"

"Just fine, sir." Jim looked him straight in the eyes.

He shook his head. "I don't know what game you're playing, but stop it."

"No game, Simon. Not now." Jim's cheek twitched. How long had it been since Blair had seen that? "Look, Captain. We need to interview a bunch of parents. Can I get a room set up for this?"

Simon nodded, still staring. "Tell Michaelson. A lot of those parents know him." Jim nodded and left the office. "Sandburg, what's going on?"

"I don't know....Captain, how tense have things been lately?" Blair leaned against the conference table.

"Not good. We have some new guys. Jim's been taking a lot, and you know how he normally reacts to that." Simon played with his coffee cup.

"Yeah. He gets even more so. Which would just set them off more."

"He really needed you here. You're good at deflecting."

"Don't even try to play the guilt game with me. I was raised by the best." Blair pointed a finger at him for a moment. "What about his solve rate? I mean, I know it's gone down a little."

"It's been rough. Blair, please, can you see your way to working with him again? And find out why he's changed again? He keeps that up, he'll get a bigger ulcer than I have."

"Working on it, Simon. Working on all of it."

Simon smiled. "Good. Now find me that kid killer."
* * *
"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Seguero. We really appreciate you coming in." Dave shook the couple's hands.

"You will find our daughter's killer, Mr. Michaelson?" Mr. Seguero was not a tall man, but his dignity and grief lent him presence in the small room.

"We will do our best, sir. You have been of tremendous help. Thank you." The Segueros nodded at the three men and left them alone.

Jim rubbed his eyes before getting up to clear the untasted cups of tea from the table. "I never want to have another day like this one."

Blair, assembling his notes from the marathon session, nodded. "My nerves are rubbed raw. How do kids from loving homes turn out that way?" He looked at Dave, who had collapsed in a chair. Even his dreads looked limp and tired.

"Welcome to my world, guys." He smiled tightly. "And I hate to say it, but love isn't always enough. Or always present. I mean, it's easy to love a dead kid. They don't get into trouble or need to be fed. And you cannot discount peer pressure or neighborhood 'rules'. They're not all rich white boys." He looked away from Jim.

"Don't food yourself, Dave. Rich white boys have their own gangs, colors and all." Jim sat down between Dave and Blair. "They just don't make the news." He took a deep breath, one which did nothing to relax him. "So. Seven dead kids with a sudden taste for ethnic cuisine, and three of the kids' parents remember a Pedro, and two other moms remember their kids being less than starving. So, what do we have?"

"We have some guy who likes to feed kids, get their trust and then kill them. Some guy named Pedro with access to arepas. This is not much help. You know how many Pedros we have in the right neighborhoods?" Blair tossed down the files.

"Tommy!"

Blair jumped.

Jim jumped higher and shrieked. "Dave, *darling*, don't *do* that." He made a flamboyant hand gesture.

"J - Jim? You okay?" Blair looked at him.

Jim snapped his fingers. "Right." And his posture and expression changed and tightened, and he became the familiar stranger with the hard eyes and tense jaw. And Blair looked at him and wondered if he'd really fallen in love with this person? Was it really "Jim" he loved? Not "James"?

Dave didn't seem to notice any of this. He was too busy looking in his crowded filing cabinets. He pulled out a file. "Tommy Gonzalez. Gang kid. Mother, Laurie. Father - Pedro. Twelve years old." He opened one.

Jim reached for it, but Dave held on. "He's the same age as the other kids."

"Yeah." Dave flipped through it. "His death was gang related. And his family took it hard - just fell apart afterwards. Papa took to drinking and Mama took the other kids and went off to her sister in East LA. Tommy was the oldest. Apple of Papa's eye and all. Good kid, too, except for the gang stuff."

Jim worried the bandages on his hands. "You haven't had contact with him since?" Blair touched his hand to stop him from picking. Jim stopped, but Blair didn't let go, and Jim didn't pull away.

"No. I deal with the kids. There are other people who handle grieving parents. I do what I can, of course." His eyes widened as he caught something in the file. "Damn! I should have remembered!" He buried his face in his hands.

"What's wrong?" Blair tore himself away from Jim and jumped to Dave.

"I should have known! Look!" He sat up and pointed to the file. "See? Father's employment. Pedro works in a deli in the barrio that sells arepas. He *makes* them. He takes home leftovers sometimes. Hell, I *ate* one once."

Jim, who had materialized next to Dave, put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up. You said it yourself. You deal with the kids. His papa was employed - that was probably enough for you."

"But what if he's killing another kid right now? Then it's all on my head."

"Look at the facts. He's not killing anyone right now - he has to find one first and woo them with food and so on. It takes weeks between the killings. Even if it is Gonzalez, and I hope it is because we can have him in custody in an hour, no one else is going to get hurt."

"You did good, Man. Just a couple of days after Jamal, and we may have gotten him." Blair squeezed. "Now, you know where he works."

"Yes. If he's still there." Dave's voice was shaky.

"Let's go." Jim picked up his jacket and led the way out of Dave's office.

~~~

"Gonzalez? Sure, he work here. When he come on time and sober." The guy in the white apron stirred a large bowl full of something. "He's good at las arepas. If he wasn't, I'd fire him. He comes late again, maybe I'll fire him anyway." He eyed the three men warily. "What you want with him?"

"We just need to talk with him, sir." Jim smiled. "It's about his son."

"His son is dead. Gangs got him." The guy stirred some more. "Bad business. You guys cops?"

They all three looked at each other. Jim shrugged tightly. "I am. These guys aren't, really."

The storeowner looked closely at Blair and at Dave, and nodded. "You're that Michaelson guy, right?"

Dave nodded. "I knew Pedro's son. Good kid."

The shop door opened. Jim recoiled against the counter. No wonder. The man who walked in was so drunk, Blair could smell it from where he stood and he was filthy, too. Jim had to be gagging. He put a hand on Jim's elbow to remind him to focus on some other sense but smell. "That's him. Gonzalez, you're drunk again!"

"I am. I know. I'm sorry."

"And you're disgusting. I don't want you near my food. Get the health department on my back. Not good. Go home. Maybe come back tomorrow."

"Got no home. Landlord threw me out last night. Don't matter. Maybe I freeze tonight." He actually smiled at this.

"Mr. Gonzalez?" Dave walked up to him.

Gonzalez peered at him. "I know you. You that guy tried to help my Tomacito. Michaelson, si?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Tomacito's dead." Drunkard's tears ran down Gonzelez's face. "He don't need help no more."

"I know."

"Mr. Gonzalez, my name is Jim Ellison. Would you like to come with us, please? We can help you." Jim took Gonzalez's arm.

"You cop, right? Okay, I go with you." He actually smiled. His tears had left cleaner tracks on his face, and he really did stink. They had the windows open in the car on the way back.

Chapter Seven

Gonzalez sat up on the couch and rubbed at his eyes. "Oh, my head."

Jim, who was leaning against the wall holding a cup of coffee - Blair had lost count of how many each had had that night - nodded. "I'm not surprised, Mr. Gonzalez. We had quite a time with you when we first took you here."

"I didn't get...I didn't hurt nobody, did I?"

"Just our senses of smell." Blair handed Gonzalez a cup. "But you did let us shower you."

Gonzales took the cup, and tasted. He made a face. "Thank you for that. It had been far too long. Is it possible to get some sugar and milk?"

"Sure." Blair got some packets of sugar and non-dairy creamer. Gonzalez frowned at the creamer, but added both anyway.

"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Gonzalez?" Jim took a sip.

"I am at the policia, no?" He took another taste and nodded unhappily.

"Yes."

"Then it is over. My work is over." He didn't look either sad or relieved. Just resigned.

"We'd better make this formal, before you say anything more." Jim sat down next to the couch and pulled out a card, and proceeded to read off Gonzalez's Miranda rights, stopping to ask if he understood after each statement. He did so in fluent Spanish with a decent accent, so far as Blair could tell. Gonzalez was very clear that he did understand.

"So, I am under arrest, then?"

"Yes, sir. For the murders of five children in this city. Do you want me to get you a lawyer now? We can get one who speaks Spanish."

"I don't want a lawyer, señor. A lawyer will not help me." He slumped down on the couch. "I had to do it, but I will take my punishment."

Blair moved to sit next to Jim, who was fishing out a pad and pencil. "Why did you do it, Mr. Gonzalez?"

"I am not an evil man, you know - what are your names? You know mine." Jim introduced them, carefully emphasizing Blair's academic title. "A cop and un profesor? You are not a common combination."

Blair shrugged. "It...works." Worked. Whatever. "Why did you do it, Mr. Gonzalez?"

"I had to do it, profesor. I had to. Because of Tomacito."

"Tomacito? Your son?"

"Si. Mi hijo, my oldest boy. My poor Tomacito." Gonzalez wiped at his eyes. "I do it because of him."

"Does - does Tomacito tell you to do it?" Blair licked his lips, afraid he'd made a drastic mistake. Judging by Jim's expression, he probably had. He could see Gonzalez copping a plea of insanity.

"What? That is a very poor joke, Profesor. My chico is in the ground. He doesn't talk to anyone but the angels."

Jim finished his coffee. "What did you do for Tomacito, then?"

"I saved those other children. I kept them from hurting like mi chico." Gonzalez sounded almost matter of fact.

"I don't understand." Blair leaned closer. "Please explain how this helps your son."

"It is in his memory. I made those children a little happy. I gave them food. Arepas. No one makes arepas like me. I use special spices. Even the boy from China, he loved it. And poor children, they don't get food like that. Kids are always hungry"

"Then you killed them." Blair had heard Jim's voice that cold before. "They liked and trusted you and you killed them."

Gonzalez hung his head. "I did kill them. But they were happy before they died. They had full stomachs and now they didn't have to be part of those gangs. I had to kill them. Because of Tomacito." The tears ran freely down Gonzalez's face.

Blair was torn between calming Jim and helping Gonzalez. He finally put a hand on Jim's arm. "Why? Please tell us."

"My Tomacito. He was a good boy. Obedient. He got good grades in school and he helped his mama with los niños - my wife, she watched the children of other women so they could find work. Maybe she's doing the same where she is now. But the gangs wanted him. The gang wants all the boys, all the girls. He was so scared."

"What was he afraid of, Mr. Gonzalez?" Blair kept stroking Jim's arm.

"The gangs. Of dying. He didn't want to be part of the gang. The brother of his friend Joey died because of gangs. And he didn't want to steal, he didn't want to hurt people or use a gun. He used to cry at night. 'Papi, papi, I'm so scared, papi.' He was afraid the gang would make him be someone else. He would have to hide and pretend to be bad. Oh, mi niño! I'm so sorry. I should have killed him then, before the gangs got him." Gonzalez looked up as Jim and Blair exchanged horrified looks. "You don't know, profesor, detective."

"Know what?" Blair could see the effort it took for Jim to speak.

"Know how it feels. To have to hide away all the time, to act tough. Tomacito was not tough. But the gang came and he had to join or - or he'd be hurt. And he was hurt anyway. Detective Ellison, you are strong. A big man, a cop. You are who you are, and Profesor. I have seen los estudiantes. You with your hair and the earrings - you are like them. My Tomacito would have been happy at college. But he died. He wasn't tough, he was just a boy. And they kill him, and he died slow. These children. I kill them fast. The way I should have killed Tomacito. Better me than them, no?"

"How does killing the other children help them?" Jim was whispering now, his eyes closed. "How does it make them - not hide?"

"They don't have to hide. They don't have to be bad. And, they die fast, and I am there. I do not leave until he is dead, until she is dead. They go to heaven."

"And their parents? What about their parents? These were bright, beautiful, good kids, just like Tomacito." Jim started picking at his hands again.

"James." Blair moved his hand to Jim's shoulder. "Their parents? I saved their ninos."

"If someone like you had saved your boy, or one of your other kids..."

"Detective, I saved their parents pain. I know. They hurt now, but it would be worse. The children are in heaven."

"And where will you go, Mr. Gonzalez?"

Gonzalez looked at Blair. "It does not matter. I am already in Hell."

Jim jumped to his feet, but Blair held him back. "We already have a confession. We can go now." He stuck his head out the door. "Send a couple of uniforms in here, please." Two young cops ran in.

"Watch him, guys. And keep him alive. He's a suicide risk." One of them turned white at that, but the other nodded.

"We'll watch him, Doc." And he sat down next to the couch, looking impossibly young and earnest, to do just that.

Chapter Eight

Blair pulled Jim into an empty interrogation room. "What's *wrong* with you, James?"

"Chief, we were in the room with a maniac who thought that killing kids would *save* them. Why aren't *you* angry? Someone who regrets he didn't kill his own son? Why don't *you* want to do to him what he did to those kids?" Jim paced up and down the room, tossing his head.

"Because, mostly, I'm sad. I'm sad for those kids, I'm sad for Tommy, and I'm sad for Pedro, and being mad is not going to bring any of them back. Including Pedro. And you know that." And because if he let it go once, he'd spend the rest of the day screaming. He'd pay for it tonight with nightmares, but Jim didn't need to know anything about that.

"Oh, yes, *darling*, I know that. I also know..." He clenched his hands for a moment. Pain flashed across his face. "Damn. I've heard the same thing - God, how often?"

"James? Your hands?"

"I think I tore the scabs." Jim held his hands up. Yes, Blair could see fresh blood. "Oh, don't *fuss*, sweetcheeks. I'll be *fine*."

"I'll be the judge of that." He looked closer. They weren't that bad. "What have you heard?"

"The kids. Not Dave's. The ones on Stonewall. The ones like - " Jim bit his lip.

"Like the baby girl Miss Freddy rescued?"

"Yeah. Like her. Their parents say things like they'd be better off dead. Even before AIDS made it real. My father - he never got the chance. I never gave him the chance."

"Your father loves you. And accepts you."

"Yeah. He misses you, you know. He keeps asking about his 'son-in-law'." Jim smiled for a moment, then shrugged. "But. *I* believed it . I still believe it, sometimes." Jim sat down at the table heavily, staring at his hands. " Like. Like the senses. That I'd rather not have them. You know?" Jim looked up at Blair. "And then there was you."

"Me?" Blair sat down across from him. The cop's side, he noticed. Jim had the handcuff for the perps attached to his.

"I don't care who you fell in love with, Blair - which one of me." He played with the cuff. "I fell in love with you. You made it all work. I miss you." He stared at the table.

"I miss you, too." Blair got up and started to pace. "I've been adrift, you know? But after that scene I made, I was too proud to say so. And." Blair could hardly form the words.

"And?" He could feel Jim's eyes on him.

"And I still have problems." He ran his hands through his hair. "I mean, I know we talked about it last night, but you did lie to me. For years. It's - it's almost like you cheated on me. I need to get past that."

Jim looked at Blair. "I don't know how to fix that. I want to. I want to so much - I miss you, Chief." He grinned suddenly. "And you lie with the best of them."

Blair grinned back before becoming serious again. "But not about us. Not about who I am. God, you knew I was bisexual two months in. Oh, God. James, I'm sorry. I want to fix this. I want to fix us. I want - I want Stonewall back and the Martins miss you. and..."

"Simon wants you back, too. I want you back, darling. Sorry."

Blair walked over to him, and touched his face. "Don't be sorry. Don't apologize for being yourself." He kissed Jim's cheek. "I want you back. I want it all again."

"It won't be easy. We might need help." Blair could hear Jim force the words out.

"Then we'll take the help. And when the time is right..." Blair reached into his coat pocket and took out a gold band. "We'll put these on again." He put it away again. Jim followed his hand all the way down with his eyes, and then looked up to meet Blair's. He smiled.

Copyright 2001 Debra Fran Baker and NightRoads Associates

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