Note: This story is a compilation of several ideas. It started out as a short snippet to the Jim-in-Uniform challenge, worked into Shellie's story, incorporated a "gross" bit I had hanging around in my files, and finally found a place for an "idea" that had been niggling away in my mind for months. It felt pretty good when all the diverse fragments finally came together!

Special thanks to my wonderful new beta, JoanneG. Any errors are strictly my own, and she can say, "I told you so!"

Shellie's comments: My requirements were simple: Blairpain -- including at least one punch to the belly, a hospital scene, lots of h/c, all the snippets in Mackie's "orphan scenes" file, and 50 pages. That's not too much to ask, is it?<g>

Response to on-line genfic auction. The winner is Shellie Williams, a Blairbabe who is heavily into Blairpain. I am a Jimbabe who believes in equal time. Welcome to Painfest '99! Rated R for violence.

Firestorm
(A story for Shellie)
-- by Mackie

Blair Sandburg stared at himself in the full-length mirror beside the exit of the police locker room. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed, his jaw dropping open. "I look like a geek!"

Jim Ellison stepped up to stand behind him and straightened the young man's shoulders. "Actually, you clean up pretty good."

"Clean up?" Blair protested, squirming out of Jim's grip like a child who didn't want his mother fussing with his collar. "Man, this isn't a cleanup -- it's a total exfoliation. And the hair -- my god, the hair sucks!" With trembling fingers, he touched the short, regulation-length locks that up until a few minutes ago had fallen in wild abandon to his shoulders. "If this is what I look like as Mr. Conservative, I'm glad I'm a -- what did you call me -- neo-hippie witchdoctor punk?"

"Well, Mr. Conservative, put on your cover and let's go," Jim teased gently, aware his partner was suffering culture shock at his radical transformation.

"Cover?" Blair repeated dumbly.

Jim handed him the stiff-brimmed police hat. "Your hat, rookie officer Sandburg."

Blair took it with shaking hands and settled it on his head. He thought he'd looked weird before with the utility belt fastened around his hips, the .38, handcuffs, radio and various other accessories weighing him down and looking silly on his short, slender frame. But with the hat....

"Not like that," Jim chided, showing Blair how to use his fingers to measure the correct distance between eyebrow and hat brim. When he was satisfied with the effect, he faced the mirror himself and grinned at the image reflected back. "What a fine pair of police officers, eh, partner?"

"A fine pair of jackasses, you mean," Blair grumbled in reply, although he had to admit Jim filled out his uniform quite nicely, which made the younger man feel frumpy and out of sorts. It was a sad fact of life, but he thought uniforms just made short men look like martinets.

Jim's expression turned serious. "There's still time to back out of this, partner. I'd really feel better if you stayed here."

With a last look at the stranger in the mirror, Blair shook his head. "No. Let's do this."

They left the locker room together and headed for the elevator. As Jim pressed the button for the Major Crimes floor, Blair became aware of the interested glances he was getting from the three women who shared the car with them. Self-consciously, he straightened his shoulders a bit and smiled engagingly.

By the time they'd reached the bullpen, he'd added their phone numbers to his notebook. Maybe the uniform didn't look half-bad on him after all!

Wolf whistles and catcalls greeted their arrival, and several flashes went off as their colleagues dutifully recorded the duo for posterity. Blair blushed furiously as he followed his partner into the briefing room. The other detectives trailed after them, and everyone found places in the already crowded room. Within seconds, it was standing room only. The teasing was merciless until Simon Banks walked in, then everyone got serious very fast.

"Well, this is novel," the Captain observed. "Two of my plainclothes are in uniform, and the men I know from uniform are in plainclothes."

Blair recognized a couple of the cops from the uniform branch. They looked back at him with only vague recognition, as if they felt they knew him from someplace but couldn't quite recollect the circumstances. It served to reinforce his belief that he was recognized first for his hair. In fact, he was a little bemused to realize his own sense of identity revolved around his unconventional appearance. Maybe he attached too much importance to his hair as a badge of his free-spirited nature.

Well, it didn't matter. He still missed it.

"OK, you all know the reason for this meeting," Simon continued, his manner becoming serious. "We have a new crew in town. They're calling themselves the Gauntlet, and their game is baiting patrol officers. Their crimes to date have been violent and bloody, and it wasn't until recently we realized their armed robberies have been designed to lure police officers into a shootout. Thus far, we've had six uniforms injured, one of them critically, and two police units totaled. As near as we can figure, our score seems to be one gang member wounded. The uniform branch is taking a lot of heat for slower response time now because multiple units have to be sent to each call on the off-chance it's the gang springing another trap. We're going to take this gang down, gentlemen, before our city turns into a war zone."

"I don't mean any disrespect, Captain," one of the officers spoke up with just a trace of belligerence, "but why are two of your detectives doing our jobs for us?"

"Because Detective Ellison cooked up this idea, so I gave him first crack at the assignment," Simon answered bluntly. "And where Ellison goes, his partner goes. Any other objections?"

There weren't any.

Blair hid a smile. He was glad Simon was treating him just like any other member of his unit.

Simon tactfully deferred to Captain Holloman, who was in charge of the large patrol division that operated out of Central Precinct. He was about sixty, and solid as an NFL coach who believed in working out with his team. Besides Jim and Blair, he was the only other officer dressed in a uniform.

Holloman thanked Simon with a nod and stepped forward. "OK, the plan is simple. We're pulling all marked police units but one out of the area where the Gauntlet has struck. Detective Ellison will be driving a special, high-threat response vehicle with bulletproof glass and a reinforced body. He'll draw the Gauntlet out, and the rest of us will take them down. Patrol officers will continue to respond to calls, but you'll do it in plain-wrap units and civvies. We've got plenty of people involved in this operation, so the special unit will never be without backup." In fact, the way he gave this final assurance was clear indication he wouldn't be accepting any excuses for failure. "That's it. Any questions?"

"How long can we keep the operation going?" one of the detectives asked.

"Until we finish the job," Simon assured him. "The Mayor and the Chief have given us carte blanche for once -- they don't like this senseless violence any better than we do. Anything else?" He glanced around the room and saw only determination on the faces of his detectives and the other officers. "Let's hit the streets."

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

In the bullpen, Jim checked his messages before logging off the computer. When he looked up, Blair was staring in grim fascination at Rafe, who had fastened a Kevlar vest across his chest and was now pocketing extra magazines for the AK-47 he held in his other hand.

"Chief?" Jim asked with concern.

Blair pulled his eyes back to his partner. "It's just sad to see, that's all," he observed quietly. "Our society has finally reached the point where the police have to drive armored cars and carry machine guns."

Jim sighed. It was bad enough that his partner went to crime scenes with him and sometimes got in the line of fire while they were investigating a case, but now Blair would see the front line of law enforcement -- the beat the uniformed officers patrolled every day. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked softly.

Blair nodded and tried to give a reassuring smile. "A few years ago, I'd never heard of the 'Thin Blue Line', and now I are it."

To show he wasn't fooled by his partner's cavalier attitude, Jim poked a finger against Blair's chest. The body armor beneath the uniform shirt dulled the familiar heartbeat he'd expected to feel beneath his touch, and it disconcerted him for a moment, as if it were a fateful foreshadowing of the future.

Blair must have seen the rapid play of emotions across Jim's face, because he asked, "What's wrong?"

Jim shook off the mood and forced a chuckle. "Nothing. Come on, Joe Wambaugh, our chariot awaits."

The police garage was filled with noise and activity as units were checked over and driven out. A lot of civilian vehicles had been pulled out of impound and quickly fitted with the radios and Mobile Data Terminals the uniformed branch used daily in the course of patrolling the city's streets. Every unmarked police-owned vehicle and some privately owned ones would also be on the job today. Several rows of the distinctive blue-and-silver units sat unattended; they would not be used for this operation.

A single blue-and-silver patrol car sat apart from the rest, and it was this vehicle Jim went to. He opened the trunk and dumped the load of equipment he'd been issued. Stowing the gear in silence, he picked up the riot gun and spare ammo before closing the trunk lid.

The car had been borrowed from the feds. It had a special, heavy-duty suspension to carry the weight of its armor plating, and it had bulletproof, darkly tinted windows all around, including the windshield. It was normally used to transport prisoners or important contraband, but the PD had painted it to look just like a Cascade patrol unit. Save for the tinted glass and larger wheels and tires, it appeared identical to any other police car on the beat.

Blair climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. It shut with a solid, reassuring thunk. He'd already become familiar with radio procedures and the use of the console-mounted data terminal, so he started powering everything up.

Sliding behind the wheel, Jim winced at the almost airtight shift in air pressure as he shut his door. He slipped the riot gun into its bracket, secured the quick-loader in place, and started the car. The engine growled with authority. The extra torque and horsepower were needed to handle the weight of the car's heavy body.

The radio crackled. "One-Edward-One, radio check please."

"That's your cue, Chief," Jim said lightly.

Blair jumped. "Oh, right," he replied, grabbing up the mike. Trying to keep his voice level and professional when he was really bubbling over with excitement, he keyed the mike and said, "One-Edward-One, reading you five-by."

Blair keyed the button twice in acknowledgement, then put the mike back on its mount.

Jim turned in the seat to face his partner. "OK," he said sternly, "are you clear on the rules?"

Blair grimaced and answered sarcastically. "Yeah -- no matter what happens, I stay in the car. We make a traffic stop, I run plates for wants and warrants on our handy MDT. We respond to a call, I get to play radio boy and call for backup or an ambulance or whatever. I stay in the car. You chase a suspect, I stay in the car. You get shot, I stay in the car. You bleed to death on the sidewalk, I stay in the car."

"Yeah, I think you've got it," Jim interrupted mildly, refusing to respond to his partner's rising irritation. They'd been over this ground before. "Remember, you don't have any bullets in the sidearm you're carrying, but the criminals don't know that. As resourceful as you are under other circumstances, that uniform you're wearing makes you a target."

"I know," Blair answered, his anger fading. He knew his partner was just concerned for his wellbeing. "I know I'm not trained for this." He grinned suddenly. "Maybe I should have gone to the Police Academy when you suggested it."

"Another opportunity missed," Jim agreed, finally putting the car in gear and driving up the exit ramp.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Blair had to confess the experience was somewhat unnerving. Motorists who were driving perfectly fine would glance toward them nervously. People walking down the sidewalk would watch as the unit drove past.

As they entered their assigned patrol area -- encompassing the docks, train yard, and a business district heavy with porn shops and strip joints -- the suspicious, hostile looks increased tenfold.

"Jim, this is really spooky," Blair admitted, grateful for the heavily tinted glass that kept him virtually invisible from the probing gazes. "These people aren't even doing anything illegal, and yet they look at us as if we're the enemy."

"To a lot of them, we are," Jim replied. "I've seen a half-dozen drug deals go down since we turned onto this street."

Blair was startled. "Really? I didn't see anything."

The Mobile Data Terminal was scrolling slowly with information -- stolen car reports, suspect descriptions, calls and other messages. Blair had read the entries with interest for awhile, then finally gave up as a faint tingling of motion sickness warned him of bad things to come if he didn't look outside more. The radio was conspicuously silent.

"We're not getting any calls," he said a little nervously.

"We're on a special tactical frequency," Jim assured him calmly. "Any routine calls are being handled by unmarked units. We're just pretending, remember?"

"Right." Blair looked out at the filthy, depressing streets, which were mostly quiet at this early hour. Things would pick up once the strip joints and sex shops opened for business in the afternoon.

And yet they had their share of "incidents" throughout the morning. An apparent drug overdose that Jim correctly assessed as an epileptic seizure resulted in a few frantic minutes. An erratic driver who became belligerent had to be taken into custody. Three juveniles attempted to set fire to a dumpster in an alley. Several people flagged them down to complain about some sad facet of their lives.

Blair found it all fascinating and tragic. So many people had made bad choices in their lives, and now they expected the police -- or someone -- magically to make it better. As morning waned into early afternoon, he found he couldn't just keep sitting in the car. He became counselor, mediating between arguing neighbors, and he gave out numerous phone numbers for social agencies that could help the homeless, the battered, the addicted, the runaways or the people who had just reached the end of their emotional tethers with their spouses, their children, or themselves.

If only they would call for help. Despite the slowly turning wheels of an apparently indifferent bureaucracy, programs were in place to help those in need. Although he attempted to connect people with the appropriate agencies, Blair knew most of them would never bother to ask for help. Somehow, even the ugliness of the familiar was preferable to the unknowns lurking for them if they tried to invoke a change in their lives.

They finally broke for a late lunch, but Blair was almost too depressed to eat. "I can't believe it, Jim," he murmured quietly, toying with the assorted greens on his plate. "We've been working so hard, and we didn't even handle any of the normal radio calls that would be part of our day on patrol."

Jim shrugged, enjoying his hamburger and fries. "There's a lot of stress," he agreed. "I mean, compared to vice or sex crimes or narcotics, a lot of the stuff we normally do in Major Crimes seems pretty mild. And uniform is the most stressful, unpredictable assignment of all."

Blair nodded. "Yeah, it may be dangerous sometimes, but at least what we do isn't this unrelenting ugliness hour after hour." He'd always had respect for the men and women in uniform -- and he detested the few bad apples that tainted the perception of the fine work the police did day in and day out -- but after today, he figured he understood firsthand the frustrations and tensions that created the whole "us against them" mentality.

Jim's shoulder radio crackled softly. He had it turned way down so his hearing wouldn't be affected by the sudden noise. "One-Edward-One, a two-eleven in progress at the Handi-Mart, Davidson and Brickhurst Streets."

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

It was only a block away, but they still wouldn't have received the call unless someone suspected it might be the Gauntlet setting a trap.

Jim acknowledged the call on the run, Blair right behind him as they sprinted for the car.

They'd barely gotten the doors open before two cars came rocketing around the corner and bore down on them.

"Get in!" Jim shouted, diving for the meager shelter of the interior. Bullets spanged off metal as the occupants of the cars fired on them.

A moment later, the two men had tumbled into their seats, and Jim fired up the engine to begin the pursuit.

Blair managed to get his seatbelt fastened, then reached for the radio to report their location and details of the chase. The other units assigned to the special task force acknowledged and began to close in. How did anyone manage to stay focused amid the chaos of flashing lights and screaming siren, the frantic chatter on the tactical band, and the adrenaline rush of danger?

Grimly, he wondered if someone had actually gone to check out the Handi-Mart, where the robbery had occurred, but his question was answered a moment later when the radio reported a cashier and two customers dead at the scene, with several others injured. It was weird to think the store had been targeted simply because the gang had spotted the patrol car parked less than a block away, insuring a rapid response from their chosen prey.

After that, he just held on and tried to keep the other units updated on their location.

The specially outfitted patrol car rode hard, like a tank. Yet its heavy-duty suspension allowed it to corner sharply, and Jim gained steadily on the two fleeing cars.

They reached the train yard and entered a maze of parked railroad cars and warehouses. It became more difficult for Blair to report accurately on their progress -- he figured "left at the green Ohio Railway car" just wouldn't cut it if there was more than one green car parked on the tracks.

Dust and gravel were kicked up by their passage, and the heavy car rocked from side to side over the uneven surface. Still, Jim kept doggedly on the tail of their adversaries, his attention never wavering.

"Train, Jim! Train!" Blair yelled suddenly, seeing the danger. He'd thought the nearby cars were parked, but he abruptly realized they were moving slowly but steadily in a path that would intersect perfectly with the squad car.

Jim swerved and managed to miss the inexorably creeping line of cars by inches, but any backup would have to find another route around the obstruction.

They reached the end of the train yard and sped down a wide lane between long rows of warehouses. The fleeing cars joined up side by side. They were big and fast, but not as powerful as the special police unit, and Jim narrowed the distance quickly.

If the road surface had been in better repair, he might have been suspicious of the bump of asphalt. As it was, the road was a jigsaw of cracks and poorly filled potholes, so Jim didn't give it a second thought as he drove across it....

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

The blast caught the car under the left front end, launching it completely off the ground. Its momentum kept it soaring forward, the left side lifting and sending the car into a right barrel roll. It spiraled almost lazily, completing a full turn before slamming back to earth and vaulting skyward again. It completed another quarter turn before finally landing hard on its right side. The screech of rending metal clawed at the air as the car sledded down the asphalt before finally coming to a halt several hundred feet from where the land mine had exploded.

Despite their seatbelts, the occupants were slammed around helplessly inside the steel cage of the uncontrollable missile. They smashed against each other and every surface of the interior as it tumbled. Jim heard the unmistakable sound of bone breaking, followed immediately by a scream of pain that erupted practically in his ear.

It took him a few seconds to realize their wild gyrations had stopped. Jim was practically upside down. The blood rushing to his head and the aftereffects of the car's crazy spiraling left him disoriented for several seconds, until he gradually became aware that his upper body was crushing the struggling figure beneath him, a figure writhing feebly in a desperate effort to breathe.

With a grunt, he reached up with his left arm and grabbed the shoulder harness to pull himself off his partner. Hanging sideways was confusing, but he managed to attain the correct position relative to the overturned car. Gripping the harness tightly, he fumbled to unbuckle the safety belt with his right hand, then maneuver his feet under him. The front cage of the car was cramped from this unnatural angle, making any movement difficult.

When Jim got his body righted at last, one foot was planted awkwardly beside Blair's legs against the side panel of the underside of the dash, and the other was against the passenger door window. He couldn't straighten from this cramped position, nor could he maneuver easily in the tiny space in which he found himself wedged.

Blair was lying against the passenger door, his head lolled against the glass. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, and his face was ashen. But his eyes were open, glazed with shock and pain, and somewhat comprehending as he shifted his gaze sideways to meet his partner's worry-filled eyes. "Jim?"

"Don't try to move yet," Jim advised quietly, his voice surprisingly calm despite the turmoil of his thoughts. He craned his neck to look through the fractured windshield and saw the two vehicles they'd been pursuing had turned around and were coming back.

As quickly but as gently as possible, he felt Blair's head. The wig, which had kept the mahogany curls corralled, interfered with his efforts, and he pulled it off before continuing his examination. Except for the cut, which had a growing bump beneath it, there didn't seem to be any serious injury. His sensitive fingers couldn't find any swelling or evidence of fracture. It didn't mean there wasn't a concussion, just that he couldn't find any obvious, outward indications of it. He trailed his fingers down the back of Blair's head and checked the neck vertebrae. Thankfully, there was no evidence of injury.

"Can you wiggle your toes?" he asked.

After a moment, Blair murmured, "Yes." A sudden stab of pain tore through him, making him arch his back and cry out.

Jim's hands steadied him. "Where did it hurt?"

"My arm." Blair groaned. "God, it must be broken."

Jim saw the blood then. It was seeping from beneath the right sleeve of Blair's jacket. He couldn't see a tear in the fabric, so the cut must have been caused internally -- by bone puncturing the skin. A compound fracture. Jesus. One or more of the bones in Blair's arm was severed enough to pierce the skin.

Frantically, Jim felt the fingers of his partner's right hand. They were icy cold and clammy. But he realized that didn't mean much when he grasped Blair's left hand, which was equally cold.

His partner was going into shock. Immediate treatment was imperative.

"I'll get you out of here," he promised.

"Don't think I can -- " Blair murmured, then drifted off with a low moan, unable to finish whatever he'd been planning to say.

Jim grabbed the mike for the car's police radio, but only the hiss of static greeted his ears. His shoulder unit had been torn off during the crash, but Blair's was still where it belonged. He pressed the transmit button. "This is One-Echo-, shit, One-Edward-One," he said quickly. "Where the hell's our backup?"

"Where are you, Jim?" Rafe's voice sounded frantic. "We heard an explosion."

"We're between rows of warehouses," Jim answered, frustrated that he couldn't be more specific about their location. "The car's wrecked, and Sandburg's injured. We're gonna have company real soon."

"OK, we're just clearing the train yard and -- umph!" Rafe's voice grunted as the car he was in bounced across some obstruction -- Jim heard the springs and shocks groan under the strain. Well, whatever else Rafe had planned to say probably wasn't important anyway.

Jim checked on the progress of their opponents. The two cars had stopped a hundred feet away.

Still time to do a bit of what needed to be done. "Chief, I've got to get your weight off your arm," he said quietly, unsnapping the safety belt and maneuvering it carefully out of the way. "Can you support it with your other hand?"

Blair nodded and grasped the sleeve of his jacket with his good hand. "I'll try," he gasped hoarsely. He noticed the blood for the first time. "I'm bleeding."

"I know," Jim answered, taking hold of the jacket at the rear collar and left shoulder. "Come on, try to straighten up a bit. And watch your feet; you'll have to twist to get your legs out from under the dash."

"All right." Blair's answer sounded groggy, as if he hadn't quite come to terms with what had happened to them. It was just as well, Jim figured; maybe then, he wouldn't feel the pain quite so much.

Carefully, he lifted the smaller man's weight off the broken arm. Immediately, Blair bit off a cry of pain, his eyes squeezing shut against the new agonies that coursed through his body. A moment later, he was sitting on the passenger window, his back against the car's roof, his legs tucked close over the door's armrest. With his good arm, he supported his broken limb as best he could, but the sweaty sheen on his pale skin was ample evidence of his worsening condition.

Jim was practically on top of him, unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. "OK, now I'm going to climb out of here and pull you up."

Blair glanced through the windshield. "What about them?" he asked quite calmly.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Jim looked, and saw seven men approaching abreast. Under different circumstances, it might actually have seemed funny -- they were dressed like thugs from some Mad Max movie, all black leather and silver studs, and it was clear they took their personae very seriously. A vast assortment of weapons -- from the long, imposing muzzle of a .44 Magnum to the black utilitarian lines of an AK-47 assault rifle -- was ample evidence of their deadly intent.

"I'll see what I can do," he answered grimly, turning around enough to unlimber the riot gun from its console mount. He jacked a shell into the chamber, then straightened as much as he could, his other hand grasping the handle of the driver's door above his head.

The overturned police car was still facing in its original direction of travel. The armor-plated driver's door afforded an excellent shield as he pushed it upward, the shotgun preceding him. He fired the first round blindly, more as a distraction than with the hope of hitting anyone, but then he was standing somewhat erect, the partially open door resting atop his head and shoulders. With the short barrel snouting from the narrow 'V' formed between the frame and the door hinge, he emptied the riot gun toward their attackers.

One man went down immediately under the deadly barrage of shotgun pellets. The others scattered back toward the safety of their vehicles, their bodies absorbing various amounts of shot as distance caused the pellets to spread out and lose velocity.

Jim dropped back down into the car and allowed the door to close atop him. He grabbed the quick loader and had the riot gun fully loaded again in moments. Then he pushed open the door, this time forcing it all the way up until its hinges locked. With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself up onto the side of the car, his legs dangling into the interior.

Bullets whined angrily off the pavement and the armor plating of the car, and smacked dully into the glass of the windshield. Jim felt lucky their assailants were not overly intelligent -- they had retreated to their cars, which placed the heavy driver's door firmly in their line of fire. Had they scattered to either side, they could have caught Jim in an unprotected crossfire. Now, he just had to make certain they didn't have an opportunity to flank him.

"Jim?" Blair called anxiously as bullets slapped flatly into the glass just inches from his head.

"Don't worry, the slugs won't penetrate," he answered with assurance, not bothering to add that it was only a matter of time until the glass fractured enough to finally break. The windshield had been designed for defensive safety only; it wasn't meant to serve as a permanent shield to a determined onslaught.

He pulled out his 9mm and triggered a couple of high-powered slugs toward the gunman to let them know they were not completely out of danger. The riot gun was ineffective at that range, but the pistol, which he'd loaded with fully jacketed bullets in violation of department policy, penetrated metal and shattered glass with daunting efficiency. One of the attackers screamed in agony as a bullet ripped through the car door he was using for cover and caught him in the thigh.

The land mine that had overturned the squad car had also ruptured the gas tank. Jim had determinedly ignored the powerful smell of fuel, but he wasn't surprised when a spark from a ricocheting slug abruptly ignited the vapor. Within a second, the entire back end of the car was engulfed in hungry flames.

Choking on hot fumes that scorched his lungs, Jim nonetheless reached down for his partner. "Come on, Chief," he urged. "Time to go."

But Blair had slipped more deeply into shock. He seemed oblivious to Jim's command, but his eyes were wide with terror. "We're on fire!" he whispered hoarsely, panic infusing his words with an urgency mere volume could not provide.

Snapping off a few more rounds to keep their opponents at bay, Jim pulled himself completely out of the car until he was huddled on his knees behind the door's protective shielding. With his pistol now gripped in his left hand, he reached again for his partner. "Give me your hand!"

An errant gust of wind caught the fire and pushed it toward him. He felt a searing agony as the flames caught his sleeve and ignited it. It took every ounce of willpower not to drop his pistol and strip himself of the blazing cloth, but he couldn't hold back the scream that corded his neck muscles and ripped from his throat. Desperately, he hugged the burning sleeve close to his body, smothering the flames against the front of his shirt. He knew he'd been burned -- it felt as if his arm had been charred all the way to the bone. Flames had also caressed his neck and cheek, but the pain of those injuries was nothing when compared to the torment in his forearm.

More bullets ripped into the car, but Jim was almost oblivious to them. Pain engulfed him. It felt as if the fire had entered his blood and coursed straight into his brain, devouring him in white-hot agony. Blind to everything but the torment, he nonetheless managed to climb back down into the car and pull the door closed behind him.

Fire roared in his ears -- both the sound of the real fire feeding on fumes from the spurting fuel and the shriek of the inferno raging through his body.

Blair realized Jim was hurt, but he had no strength to move or offer help. "Jim," he whispered despairingly as his partner's weight trembled against him in the suffocating closeness of the front seat. "You've got to get out. You can save yourself before the car explodes."

If Jim had been coherent, he could have explained that he wasn't going anywhere without his partner. He could have explained that an explosion wasn't quite as imminent as television was wont to lead viewers to believe. Gasoline didn't burn; it was the vapor that burned when ignited by flame or spark, and in the open air, the fumes would never gain the proper concentration for an explosion. For the moment, the pressure of escaping fuel was keeping the fire from reaching the vapor forming inside the gas tank. Of course, it might only be a matter of time....

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Except Jim wasn't listening.

The pain had carried him into a nightmare vision, past and present merging and blurring in an inferno of heat and noise and death. There was no escaping it. He was trapped, and he could only surrender to the images seeking to destroy his sanity.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Jim's eyes flew open as he returned to the present with a jolt. Just for a moment, he was confused by all the sensations assaulting his senses -- gunfire rattling like angry hail against the windshield, the bullets further fracturing the glass and threatening to penetrate at last, the crackle of flames playing over the outside of the car, smoke and the smell of burning fuel filling his lungs until he coughed.

Blair was a dead weight against him. Terrified for a moment that he might have accidentally suffocated his partner while dazed or unconscious, he felt for a pulse and found it strong though rapid. But Blair was too pale, too cold, and entirely too still.

Jim's arm throbbed with heat, painful enough to be distracting, but he knew he had to do something. Smoke was starting to fill the car's interior, and the foul stench of smoldering combustibles would soon overpower them both. They'd die from toxic fumes long before flames ever touched them.

He glanced through the hazy smoke and saw their attackers were gathering courage again. Resolutely, he checked the load on the shotgun and prepared to make a do-or-die effort to get his partner out of the burning vehicle and under safe cover.

A loud crash and scream of rending metal distracted everyone. Like a stunt scene from The Dukes of Hazzard, an unmarked police car came flying through the wall of the warehouse on Jim's left, then launched off the loading dock and soared directly toward the startled gang members. Of course, the car didn't recover from this ill treatment with the same verve as the "General Lee". Instead, the front axle broke, splaying both wheels comically and nosing the front end into the ground. The car's rear end fishtailed, spinning the vehicle out of control and sending the gang members scattering in all directions.

Jim took advantage of the distraction and heaved open the door again. Grabbing Blair's coat, he hauled the young man upright against him, then lifted him outside, holding him there as he jumped up to sit beside him, groaning as he put his weight on his burned arm. A gentle breeze was keeping the flames away, although flammable parts of the undercarriage had caught fire, putting the danger that much closer.

Then Jim slid down the windshield, deliberately allowing Blair's weight to topple toward him and catching the unconscious form before his partner could hit the ground.

Rafe and Brown were out of their wrecked car and returning the opposing gunfire with a steady fusillade from their automatic weapons. More police units rounded both ends of the row of warehouses and converged on the scene. Within moments, the surviving gang members had surrendered.

"Ambulance is on the way," Rafe said breathlessly, rushing over and helping Jim carry Blair clear of the wrecked police car.

"Good," Jim murmured, finally sinking down to cradle his partner's head in his lap.

Brown hurried over with a blanket, which he draped around Jim's shoulders. "How're you doing?"

"Fine," Jim replied muzzily, fighting back a cough. "Sandburg's got a compound fracture of his right arm. We both took in some smoke." He pulled the blanket around to share it with his partner, although he was careful to keep the fabric from adding even the slightest weight to the injury.

Blair's arm spasmed suddenly, and the young man groaned, struggling toward awareness. "Jim?"

"I'm here, Chief. Just take it easy. The ambulance is almost here."

"Did we get out?" Blair opened his eyes and peered around in dazed bewilderment, but the smiles he saw on the faces of Brown and Rafe reassured him that they were safe. "What happened?"

Jim spoke gently. "They found us in time. That's all that matters now." He glanced up at his companions. "I see you took a shortcut."

Brown grinned. "Always wanted to try a stunt like that," he admitted.

Rafe's tone held undisguised admiration. "Once we found a way around that train, H thought it would be quicker to go through the warehouse rather than around it."

Blair smiled, but the pain etched into his face made it seem more like a grimace. "Thanks, guys," he whispered, then searched Jim's face. "You were hurt."

"It's just a little burn," Jim assured him, knowing his injury wasn't very serious and wondering why he'd been in so much pain before. Maybe his senses had spiked....

Then he remembered the flashback and shuddered slightly, closing his eyes in denial of the images attempting to entrench themselves in his mind.

"Jim?" Blair sounded anxious.

"It's OK," Jim said softly in response. "The ambulance is here."

In fact, the whole area looked like an emergency response to a major disaster -- firemen were making short work of the burning patrol car, while numerous unmarked police units cluttered the area. It was a rush of organized activity, but he felt strangely detached from it.

Then the paramedics were beside them, and Jim reluctantly relinquished his protective grip on his partner.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Blair had vague impressions of his trip to the hospital. He remembered being lifted onto a gurney by two paramedics -- one of them had cold hands. The gurney's passage over the rough asphalt had rattled his teeth -- and vibrated his broken arm so that it felt as if a jackhammer were boring through the bone. The subsequent threat of nausea had left him flushed and weak, and he didn't remember much else about the journey.

Now, he lay flat on his back in an ER exam room, his clothing cut off, his eyes squinting in the harsh glare of overhead fluorescents. Idly, he wondered if Jim was being tortured by similar indignities in another room.

They'd draped a thin blanket -- more of a sheet, really -- over him, and he felt uncomfortably chilly. A mild tranquilizer made coherent thought difficult, while a strong local anesthetic in his right arm gave him a numb, almost paralyzed feeling on that side of his body.

A surgeon was busily reassembling the broken bones in his arm. While Blair couldn't feel any pain, he was still occasionally aware of pressure and movement. Knowing he should have been feeling something from all that activity sent confused signals to his brain that renewed the vague nausea that had been with him since being pulled from the wreckage. Still, he was grateful for the numbness; even thinking about the pain he'd experienced was enough to bring a cold sweat to his forehead. He only wished he could tune out altogether and escape the muddle of his thoughts.

The surgeon's running monologue didn't help matters.

"There, I think that's it, Officer Sandburg," the doctor said.

Officer Sandburg? He remembered the uniform then, and nearly smiled. Blair Sandburg, hippie cop. He must have presented an enigma to the surgeon, or maybe the man had no curiosity about the longhaired young man in the policeman's uniform. Perhaps to the doctor, he was nothing more than the compound fracture in room three.

"We've removed some bone fragments, set the break, inserted a pin and sewn up what we could," the surgeon went on in the same detached voice. "There doesn't appear to be any nerve damage to speak of, very lucky under the circumstances. We'll know more when the anesthetic wears off."

Blair tried to ignore him. The doctor's words provided the images to fill the void of information his nerves could not transmit, and none of the pictures were pretty.

"Just finish, please," he mumbled, his voice hoarse with dryness. He glanced toward the large nurse who worked opposite the surgeon. She had a stern, somewhat sour expression on her square face, but she was the only other person he could see besides the surgeon, although he knew there were others in the room.

"Already there," the surgeon returned, sounding slightly miffed. The snap of surgical gloves as they were removed sounded like pistol shots. "Can you finish up here?" the man inquired of someone.

"Of course, doctor," responded a faceless male voice.

"Nurse," he whispered. "Jim Ellison?"

"Who?" the nurse asked with a definite lack of interest. Her attention was totally on whatever the second doctor was doing to finish patching Blair's arm. Her tone was as tart as her expression.

"He was brought in with another police officer," a more kindly female voice explained from somewhere outside his line of vision. "I'll check on his condition."

The sound of a door opening and closing followed the words, and Blair closed his eyes, grateful someone was listening to him.

"We won't put a full cast over those stitches," the voice of the second doctor advised him. "There may be some swelling. We'll immobilize the injury and reassess our options tomorrow."

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse replied.

Someone else said, "I'll see if they have a room ready for him."

Well, at least Blair's next question had been answered before he'd managed to ask it: he was being admitted to the hospital.

The door opened again, and the kind voice acquired the face of a slender, attractive black woman who leaned into his line of vision. "Officer Ellison had first and second degree burns on his right forearm," she reported gently. "There was very little damage, and his doctor thinks scarring will be minimal. He has some minor first degree burns on the right side of his neck and face as well." Her smile was encouraging.

Blair breathed a sigh of relief. He craved a glass of water, but other matters were more important than the rawness in his throat. "Thank you. When can I see him?"

The confident expression faltered somewhat, and he caught it immediately.

"What's wrong?"

She seemed to debate with herself about the advisability of answering, but the worry suffusing his face swayed her response. "He's unconscious, and the doctor hasn't been able to find a cause for it."

Blair jerked, surprising the surgical assistant who was applying a splint to the broken arm. "Hey!" the voice protested with an unprofessional squawk.

But Blair was too weak to manage to lift himself, however great his urgency. The square-jawed nurse held him down as easily as if he were a newborn kitten. "Keep still," she scolded, throwing an angry glance toward the kind nurse.

"I - need - to - see - my - partner." Six words, seven syllables, each one forced out with as much strength as he could muster.

"Maybe, once the anesthetic wears off," the nurse growled, not interested in his distress. "But I figure your arm's going to hurt so much, you'll be crying for a painkiller instead of traipsing all over the hospital looking for your buddy."

"Please -- " Blair started to implore, but a sudden grayness began to creep in from the periphery of his vision, and he faded out.

The last thing he saw was the triumphant sneer of the grumpy nurse, and her words followed him into oblivion.

"That ought to keep him quiet for awhile...."

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Jim woke abruptly, the images of his dream staying with him, confusing in their inaccuracies.

As he focused on the present, he realized he was in the hospital, flat on his back in bed. Well, what else was new? He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in a hospital bed.

He glanced at his injured arm. It had been elevated atop a pillow, and a loose layer of thick gauze covered it from hand to elbow. With his left arm, he reached across and lifted the dressing. Angry red blisters rose amid a blotchy patchwork of pink and red skin. Some sort of cream had been applied thinly over the burned areas, and he felt a constant ache, not severe but certainly enough to get his attention, radiating up his arm. He figured the pain was probably a good thing; it meant there hadn't been any nerve damage.

Then he remembered his partner, and the sight of blood dripping from beneath his jacket sleeve. Blair had suffered a compound fracture, right? Or had he just conjectured about the break?

He couldn't recall much of the ride to the hospital. He'd tried to stay awake to watch the paramedics work on Blair, but he'd faded out, drifting into an uneasy sleep from which no one had been able to rouse him. Of course, he had no memory of the efforts to revive him or the worry he'd caused the doctors.

He was awake now, and it was time to find his partner.

Throwing back the covers, he climbed carefully to his feet, testing his balance with each movement. Nothing seemed to be awry, however, save for the draft wafting against his bare behind.

He really hated hospital gowns.

The closet was empty, so he settled for wrapping a bath towel around his middle and knotting it beneath his gown. At least that gave him a semblance of dignity. The hospital had provided a wrapped bundle of oddments -- a basin, a plastic water pitcher with drinking glass, a plastic urine bottle for the less mobile, and a pair of formless slippers that looked ridiculous but at least would provide some protection from the cold linoleum. These last items were the only useful things he found, so he put them on and ventured out the door into the hallway.

He paused and made a deliberate effort to relax and extend his senses. It didn't take long to zero in on the familiar heartbeat, and he moved toward the sound with the assurance of a homing pigeon.

Blair was in a semi-private room, but the second bed was unoccupied. He appeared to be asleep, so Jim hitched the visitor's chair forward quietly and sat down to wait for his partner to wake up. He scanned Blair's vitals quickly, and found them reassuringly strong, although the stark whiteness of the cast and the bandage on his temple were grim reminders of what had happened.

Blair was muttering vague imprecations against someone named Nurse Ratched. The name sounded familiar, but Jim couldn't place it. Maybe he'd met her on a previous trip to the hospital. Whoever she was, Blair clearly wasn't pleased with her.

Smiling slightly, Jim settled in for a long wait until his partner awoke.

But sitting there, with nothing to do but think, he gradually became aware of an encroaching dark shroud of unease. He suddenly felt helpless, like a small child whose nightmares sent him shame-faced into his parents' bedroom to find solace.

Only, what did he know of solace in his childhood? His father never would have permitted his son to crawl into bed with him. The fear would have been perceived as weakness, and there was no room for weakness in William Ellison's world.

Jim couldn't let his thoughts linger on his childhood, but he could not seem to control the ebb and flow of unpleasant memories.

Feeling churlish, he wished he could wake his partner and distract himself with idle conversation. But he resisted the temptation and instead grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed. Wrapped in its illusory security, he slouched down in the uncomfortable chair and waited for Blair to wake.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Blair was not resting peacefully. As dim awareness finally reached the depths of his enforced sleep, anger began to seethe. In his dream, he was naked, trapped in a labyrinth of stark white corridors that had cold, linoleum floors. Running first one way, then another, he knew no matter how fast he ran, he would never escape the lumbering presence stalking him.

He was confused. He was young, fast, and agile...he should have been able to get away easily from the fat, pale mound of amorphous flesh rolling inexorably after him through the confusing maze. It -- she -- was keeping him from doing something vitally important, although he had no memory of what that task might be. He only knew he had to escape.

He found an elevator and pushed the call button. It was one of those old-fashioned cars, with the brass half-moon plate above the door that showed the elevator's progress with a large arrow. This indicator crept with agonizing slowness, the arrow hardly moving as it counted down the floors. As each floor was reached and passed, a portentous bell echoed grimly through the halls. It was the sound of doomsday, and it filled him with dread.

The scratchy, scrabbling sounds of the pale monster pursuing him drew closer, and he knew with certainty the elevator would not arrive in time to take him to safety. In panic, he looked around and saw a huge fire ax mounted to the wall opposite the elevator. Anger consumed him, and his fear vanished as he dashed to the deadly implement and tore it free from its brackets.

The hunted had become the hunter....

"Whoever she is, Chief, I think you've pretty much taken care of her."

Jim's voice was light, conversational, and Blair finished climbing back to consciousness with barely a moment to acknowledge the thin border between wakefulness and sleep. Full awake, his dream-state anger slipping away, he looked at the figure sitting in the visitor's chair beside his bed.

Just for a moment, he thought he saw the haunted, frightened look of a lost little boy on his partner's face, but in the next blink, it was gone. Blair figured his sleep-bleared eyes had imagined it.

"Hey, Jim," he murmured in greeting, then recalled his previous urgency. Any attempt to move, however, just brought a sharp pain to his right arm, and he grimaced against a surge of nausea.

"Take it easy, Chief," Jim advised quietly, hunching forward in the chair and covering Blair's good hand with his own. "That was some dream you were having."

"I don't remember much of it," Blair admitted, sagging gratefully back against the pillows. "Except I was really angry at someone."

"Yeah -- Nurse Ratched. Anyone we know?"

Blair's eyes widened in surprise. "Ratched? That was a character from a movie -- you know -- One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. She was a really nasty nurse -- " Then he remembered the bulky nurse from the emergency room and smiled. "Oh, yeah, I think I met her counterpart in the ER."

Jim smiled tentatively. "She must have really pissed you off to make you dream about her."

"Yeah, she slipped me a mickey when I insisted on seeing you." Blair frowned at the memory. "You were unconscious, one of the nurses told me. The doctors couldn't wake you up."

Jim looked faintly surprised. "Really? I don't remember that. I just woke up a while ago and decided to find you."

Blair took in the blanket, the hospital gown, and the bandaged arm. "I guess no one brought you any proper pajamas or a robe."

"No, but I'm wearing a towel -- it cuts the draft a bit." Jim leaned back in the chair. "How are you feeling?"

"It hurts," Blair admitted. He lifted his arm and studied the odd-looking cast. It was shaped like a tall, thin "U", which rigidly braced his arm from elbow to wrist without covering the bandaged sutures from his surgery. Much lighter than normal heavy plaster casts, it didn't look as if it would present an easy surface where friends and well wishers could sign their names.

Pushing aside this minor disappointment, he shifted his gaze to study his friend. Jim looked like a man who was bewildered by events and in need of answers. "How about you?"

Jim held up his bandaged arm. "It aches a bit, but I'm gonna be OK."

Apparently, he hadn't caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror -- the whole right side of his face and neck looked badly sunburned and glistened with a faint sheen of ointment. At least there was no evidence of blistering or swelling.

Blair thought back over events. "You zoned out or something when you got burned, didn't you?" he asked, trying to find a place to begin unraveling Jim's problem.

Jim winced. "Yeah, sort of." He looked uncomfortable with the rawness of the memory. "It was like a flashback, only it wasn't."

At least it was a starting point. "A flashback? To what?"

Jim didn't answer for a long minute, then quietly confessed, "Peru."

"The mission?"

"The crash."

Blair figured this was an important breakthrough. "Man, you've repressed a lot of those memories. You told me so yourself. If you're remembering the crash, that's a good sign -- it could mean you're ready to deal with the past and let go of it." He didn't mention that the event could also describe post-traumatic stress disorder, which could require some major professional help.

Jim looked irritated with the quick analysis. "Or it could mean getting my arm burned just triggered a flashback. I don't even know if it was an accurate memory."

"What makes you think it wasn't?"

Jim was really having trouble describing what had happened in the vision. "You were there."

Blair frowned. "Oh." That didn't make much sense to him. "What was I doing?"

"You took the place of Incacha. You were even wearing Chopec clothes. You guided me through the pain of the burns and brought me back to the present."

"And because I was there -- in your flashback -- you don't think the memories are accurate?"

Jim shrugged. "I don't know what to think. I guess it was a real flashback, because I dropped completely out of the present. The vision became reality for several seconds or minutes -- I don't know how long I was out of it."

"Not long," Blair recalled, recreating the event in his memory. "I think it was just a few seconds."

"It felt like a lot longer," Jim admitted quietly. "Whatever it was, I was back in Peru at the time of the crash. I felt every moment of it again, just as if it was happening for real. Except you were there, and I could focus on your touch to keep the pain away."

"Repressed memory is a tricky thing," Blair observed sympathetically. "But since no one coached you to remember, I suspect it was a genuine memory."

"Then why were you there?"

"I don't know. Maybe because I was also with you at that moment in the physical world, you got the past and present jumbled together for a few seconds."

Jim nodded. It made sense. He didn't know if remembering the events of the crash would turn out to be a good thing or not, but he didn't want to dredge up any more memories of that nightmare time. "Do you think I'll remember more?'

"Difficult to predict," Blair replied, not liking the haunted, apprehensive look that flashed across his friend's face. "The door to those memories has been cracked open -- you may not be able to close it again."

"What if it's not just remembering a repressed memory?" Jim asked, hating the doubt that infused his voice. "What if it's something more?"

Blair sighed. Evidently, Jim had seen the possibilities, too. "You mean post-traumatic stress?" Off Jim's reluctant nod, he said, "There's a lot of good help available."

Jim grimaced in distaste. "It could screw up my ability to do my job. Whatever happened today sure as hell did." Hopefully, he added, "Maybe it will all just go away once the burn on my arm stops hurting." He figured he must have repressed those memories for a reason, and he didn't want them surfacing now. If all it took was willpower to bury the past again, he had willpower enough for a dozen men.

Blair accurately read the determination in his partner's expression. "I don't know if you'll have a choice," he warned gently, "but whatever happens, you know I'll help you."

Jim smiled briefly, but it couldn't erase the shadow of dread that clouded his face for a moment. "I know." Did he need to mention the dream he'd had just before waking in his hospital bed? At least, that had been a legitimate nightmare and not some sort of weird, waking flashback.

The door to the room opened then, and Simon Banks' large frame filled the doorway. "I knew I'd find you here," he said conversationally to his detective. "The hospital figured they'd lost you -- you've got the whole place in an uproar, you know."

Grateful for the distraction, Jim smiled warmly at the thought. "Hi, Simon."

"Hi yourself," the big captain returned, closing the door behind him. He held up a nylon bag. "I brought you clothes and stuff, but I see you have everything under control."

"Thanks," Jim answered sincerely. "I'm a bit chilly with nothing on but a towel and a hospital gown."

"Hey, Sandburg," Simon greeted, coming over to the bed. He unpacked the stuff for Jim and handed it over, then turned his attention back to the anthropologist. "I've got some clothes in here for you, too, but I guess you won't be needing them right now. How's the arm?"

Once again, Blair admitted that it hurt. "When can I get out of here?"

"The doctors want to assess the damage once the painkiller wears off," Simon explained. "They'll take another x-ray to check the alignment of the break, and if there's no sign of infection in the sutures, they're going to let you go home tomorrow. They want to keep you overnight to monitor that bump on your head. I told them you have a thick skull, but they won't listen to me."

"What about me?" Jim asked, looking ready to change into his clothes right then, hospital rules be damned.

Simon looked unperturbed. "Last thing the doctors thought, you were in a coma. I guess they'll run a scan or something to see if they can find anything wrong, and if they don't, they'll probably cut you loose." He looked at the two patients. "I've heard of two left feet before, but how are the two of you going to manage with only two left hands between you?"

"We'll do the chores in tandem," Jim explained with a smile. "It won't be a problem." He flexed his right arm. "The burns don't interfere much with normal use."

"What about the Gauntlet?" Blair asked suddenly. "Did you catch the gang?"

"Six of them," Simon confirmed. "Jim put a seventh in the morgue. One of them is wounded pretty badly in the leg, but the other five are in lockup. They'll be arraigned tomorrow morning. I'll keep you both posted on what happens, but we certainly have enough evidence to take them to trial."

"What about bail?"

Simon frowned. "The judge will decide that tomorrow. I'm betting it will be denied, but you just never know with some of these judges." He reached over and patted Blair on the shoulder, then repeated the gesture with Jim. "Well, I gotta get going. The feds are asking nasty questions about what happened to their very expensive car."

"What are you going to tell them?"

"I'm going to ask them what they expected with Jim Ellison behind the wheel," Simon retorted, trying to maintain a straight face. "You're a one-man demolition derby, and this time, I'm just grateful it wasn't one of our cars you trashed." He scowled. "Brown holds that dubious honor right now."

"Hey, I'm just glad it wasn't my car I trashed," Jim shot back, unable to hide a smile.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

When the nervous hospital staff finally tracked their missing patient to Blair's room, they were too relieved to fuss at him for very long. A nurse -- a pretty one, Blair noted despondently -- brought a wheelchair and coaxed the stubbornly resistant Ellison to sit in it.

"I'll be back soon, Chief," Jim promised as he was wheeled out.

Blair wiggled his good hand in farewell, sorry to see the pretty nurse leave. He wondered if Nurse Ratched would make another appearance. He fervently hoped not -- his room was bare of useful weapons with which to repel her.

With a sigh, he settled back to contemplate the possible consequences of Jim's awakening memories.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

After a thorough examination by doctors who were baffled by Jim's period of unconsciousness, their reluctant patient convinced them to release him.

"What about Sandburg?" he asked when he'd finally won his freedom and changed into the clothes Simon had brought.

"We're going to keep him overnight," was the doctor's response once he'd consulted Blair's chart. "We want to monitor his head injury."

Persuasively, Jim outlined his experience as a medic. He didn't completely understand why he rallied so staunchly for Blair's release. If asked, he would have answered that his partner hated spending time in the hospital. If he were honest, he might reluctantly confess his own rebellious mental state made him feel uncertain enough to want a little support in the event the night ahead produced more surprises from his subconscious.

In a somewhat startling victory, the doctors once again relented.

So Jim had a big grin on his face when he went back to Blair's room. "You up for going home?"

Blair's mood brightened immediately on hearing the good news. "You bet!" he agreed enthusiastically, practically bounding out of bed.

Jim caught his shoulders and steadied him when the young man's exuberance threatened to overbalance him. "Whoa there, Chief. Don't forget about the bump on your head."

Blair closed his eyes briefly against the dizziness swirling around him. "No further reminders necessary," he assured, opening his eyes cautiously. The room had stopped rotating. "OK. Can I get dressed now?"

That little exercise made him realize just how inconvenient his broken arm was going to be as he fumbled with buttons and zippers.

Jim smiled as he watched his partner's awkward antics for a while, then he stepped over and obligingly finished fastening the last of the buttons. "I'd like to get out of here sometime today, Sandburg," he groused, but there was laughter bubbling just beneath the grumbling tone.

"Guess this means I get to be the sidekick who plays comic relief," Blair retorted glumly, pondering the multitude of gibes he was bound to hear over the next few weeks.

The pretty nurse returned to fit a sling for his arm and deliver the prescriptions for the various ointments, painkillers and antibiotics their injuries required. A daunting list of instructions concluded her phase of the paperwork, and then they had to finish with the official mound of billing and insurance forms to complete their getaway.

As soon as they could escape the wheelchairs and the attendants that had navigated them around, they went to the pharmacy.

Jim looked at the various prescriptions. "Antibiotics?"

Blair thought about it for a moment, then reluctantly agreed. "Not much choice, I guess."

Jim obligingly kept that piece of paper in his hand. "Painkillers for me," he murmured, and that form went into his pocket. "Painkillers for you?"

"No." Emphatic this time, although he hoped he wouldn't regret the decision at bedtime.

By the time they'd reached the pharmacy window, Jim handed over just the prescriptions for Blair's antibiotics, medicated ointment for the sutures, and burn cream for himself. He added a large box of gauze pads and bandages to their meager purchases, and they were finally ready to leave the hospital.

Simon arrived to drive them home.

"Do you think you'll be up to coming in tomorrow to give your statements?" he asked, almost casually slapping Blair's left hand away and buckling the young man's seatbelt.

"Thanks," Blair murmured, embarrassed at being treated like a kid. "Sure, I guess," he responded to Simon's question. "As long as I can give it verbally. I won't be typing or writing anything for a while." With a grin, he added, "Guess you'll be doing your own paperwork, Jim."

That minor detail apparently hadn't occurred to Jim, and he scowled as he contemplated it.

"How's the arm, Jim?" Simon asked, pulling onto the street.

"Not too bad. I'm not supposed to flex it much over the next couple of days, but the burns are pretty superficial. There wasn't any nerve damage." Which still didn't explain why the initial pain had been so intense. Sensory spike. Yeah, simple as that.

Simon nodded. "Good. You two were lucky. If you hadn't been driving that specially armored car, you would have been killed."

Jim glanced back at his partner, but Blair didn't seem upset by the reminder of the crash and shootout that had happened only a few hours before. "If we hadn't been driving a specially armored car, we wouldn't have been out there," he returned mildly.

Simon chuckled. "No kidding." He parked in front of the loft.

Jim was pleased to see someone had dropped off the truck.

"The keys are in the loft," Simon added when he saw the direction of Jim's gaze. "Are you two gonna be all right?"

Jim looked at Blair, who nodded assent. "Yeah," he answered. "I predict a pizza delivery, a little TV, and an early night."

"Seconded," Blair confirmed, managing to unbuckle the seatbelt by himself and get the door open.

Jim joined him beside the car, and they said goodbye to Simon. Then, with almost comically simultaneous sighs, they turned toward their building and straggled up to the loft.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Inside, Blair headed toward the bathroom. "I'm gonna take a shower and a nap," he announced tiredly, feeling sluggish and out of sorts after the nerve-wracking events of the day coupled with the drugs the ER nurse had foisted upon him. "Just stick my share of the pizza in the fridge, OK?"

Jim diverted into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. "OK. You gonna be able to get out of those clothes?"

"Yeah, I don't think it'll be a problem."

"All right. Be sure to put towels on the floor."

Blair paused. "What?"

"You've got to keep your cast from getting wet, so you'll probably end up dripping all over the place." He finished by handing his partner a plastic grocery bag.

Blair accepted it cautiously, his brows furrowed with suspicion. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Jim's smile was benign. "Just put it wherever you think it will do the most good."

Blair worried at the suggestion for a moment, and then his expression cleared. "Oh, over the cast. Good thinking."

"And leave the towels down," Jim added unsympathetically. He held up his own bandaged arm. "I'll pick 'em up after I finish my own one-arm routine."

"Who would've believed a broken arm could be this much trouble," the younger man grumbled, listing slightly as he completed his journey to the bathroom.

Jim poured a cup of coffee, called for the pizza delivery, and flopped onto the sofa with a weary sigh. He wasn't especially sleepy, but there was always a period of enervation following a strong adrenaline rush, and he hadn't quite recovered from it. The flashback immediately after the crash, coupled with his strange dream and long-forgotten childhood memories while in the hospital, left him feeling vaguely depressed.

He'd almost dozed off when he heard the tentative, embarrassed voice of his loftmate.

"Jim?"

He straightened up and shifted around on the sofa.

Blair stood in the short hall just outside the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around his hips, his hair a limp and dripping mass atop his head.

Jim couldn't stifle the sudden urge to laugh. "You do a great impression of a drowned rat!"

Blair grimaced. "Yeah. The hair is a definite two-handed job. Could you, uh, lend me a hand, so to speak?"

"Sure." Jim obligingly followed his partner into the bathroom. "You want me to handle the blow dryer or that pitch fork thing you call a comb?"

"It's a pick," Blair replied patiently, having covered this ground before with Mr. Just-shampoo-and-let-it-air-dry on more than one occasion. "Without it, my hair will be a giant mass of frizz."

"Which is different from its normal state in what way?" Jim countered mildly, plugging in the blow dryer. He stood behind Blair, both of them facing the mirror, and turned on the unit. Its raucous whine made him wince, and he took a moment to tune down his hearing. "OK, where do you want it?"

"Just hold it several inches away from wherever I'm using the pick," Blair explained, embarrassed that he needed help with such a mundane part of his normal routine.

Aware that his partner was not the happiest of campers at the moment, Jim concentrated on his assigned task with more care than was actually required. As the warm air from the dryer lifted and swirled the mass of rich curls, the hair began to tickle his chin and cheeks, and he found himself in imminent danger of nibbling on a piece a time or two.

Blair worked to style his locks to his satisfaction, but he soon found himself watching Jim in the mirror. After a few minutes, he began to lift his hair into the path of the dryer to guarantee it would blow into his partner's face. Oblivious, Jim kept waving away the tickling strands and making little "ppfth, ppfth" noises as he tried to avoid getting any in his mouth.

Suddenly, Jim glanced in the mirror and saw Blair's eyes fixed on his own. He blushed when he realized what his roommate had been doing.

Blair giggled.

After that, the effects of the day's stresses just poured out as they dissolved into helpless laughter.

To Part Two