Note: More musing than actual story....

Transitions 3(a) - The Killers
-- by Mackie

OK, face it, this partnership isn't going to work.

For once, Blair appreciated the 8000-square feet he laughingly called 'home'. There was room to pace...room to throw things if he felt like it...room to yell.

He felt like yelling now as he stalked the vast floor space, his hands 'talking' in visual counterpoint to the turmoil of his thoughts.

Two hours ago, he'd seen a man shot to death, killed by a sniper hiding in the darkness. That in itself had been horrific. He hadn't seen many dead bodies in his young life, and never had he seen someone brutally murdered.

Still, this wasn't about Blair Sandburg and his shock at Danny Choi's death. No, this was about Blair Sandburg trying to cope with a study subject -- OK, more than a study subject, but still less than a friend and partner -- that was out of control.

The raw explosion of grief from normally reserved Jim Ellison had touched Blair deeply. But he'd been unable to console or even help lessen the burden of Jim's sorrow. After that initial outburst, as Jim had bent over the lifeless form of the young man who had been like a brother to him, the cop had simply withdrawn behind the impenetrable façade of his profession. By the time backup and the various investigative teams had arrived, it was as if Jim had never lost control.

And then he'd shunted Blair aside like so much excess baggage.

The whole impersonal machinery of the investigation had further helped to isolate Jim. He'd made certain things were well in hand at the crime scene, then he'd palmed Blair off on a uniformed cop. Jim had gone back to the precinct to put the wheels in motion to arrest Tommy Juno, the killer of Danny Choi.

Furious and feeling suddenly childish, Blair had ignored the patrol officer and caught a bus. Huge, potentially dangerous mistake, of course, and it was a miracle he hadn't been mugged or worse. The warehouse area where the murder had occurred had been dark and pretty much deserted except at the scene of the shooting itself, and the nearest bus stop had been two blocks away, in an even more disreputable part of the city. The stop where he had to get off to traipse the quarter mile to his current warehouse digs was even worse. Stupid and juvenile, he'd realized early in the journey, grateful to finally cross the threshold and lock the door behind him. At least Jim would never have to hear how abysmally idiotic he'd been.

Blair tried very hard to shrug off his irritation with his new partner. After all, Jim was hurting, and it wasn't as if they were close friends who could offer comfort to one another during the rough times. But in the short time they'd been together, Blair had hoped to get past the awkwardness.

It hadn't happened. Jim had made it clear -- not by spelling it out, but by what he'd said and how he'd behaved during their short acquaintance-- that any relationship the two men shared would remain strictly superficial. Sports and the weather were safe topics, food and women slightly less so. Talking about Jim's enhanced senses was strictly business.

Yes, Jim laid out the rules of their arrangement, but Blair adamantly drew the line at carrying a weapon. That discussion had come to head tonight, in fact, just minutes before the shooting. What good would carrying a weapon have done? Danny still would have died.

Furthermore, it was obvious Jim wasn't interested in learning to use his heightened senses. Ideally, he would prefer not to have them at all. Since that didn't appear to be an option, he was ready to settle for controlling them, as if they were an affliction to endure.

The ringing of the telephone jerked him to a halt. His anger had all but blinded him to reality, and he felt very out of sorts as he made the reconnection to time and place. Hunting around, he finally found the phone beneath the couch.

"Hello?"

"Blair, it's Ellison."

Well, speak of the devil. "What's up?" Blair's voice was too reserved, he realized with a flush of guilt, but he'd pretty much worked himself past any need to cater to Jim Ellison's natural defensiveness.

There was a short pause. "I just wanted to tell you we caught Juno."

This time, Blair's voice was genuinely warm. "Great. Did he give you any trouble?"

"No."

"Good." He knew Jim had something on his mind, but Blair didn't have the energy right now to coax it out of him. "Thanks for calling to tell me."

"Yeah, well, you were there -- I figure you should be kept up to speed."

This was good, safe, inane conversation. Well, two could play at that game.

"I appreciate it."

Jim's sigh was audible. "OK. I guess I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Great." Again, there was a long pause, but Blair waited it out, refusing to succumb to the urge to fill the silence with a question. "OK, see you tomorrow."

"'Bye." Blair hung up the phone, and then felt guilty for blowing Jim off that way. But damnit, Ellison was a grown man. If he'd had something he'd wanted to say, he should have just said it.

Jim replaced the telephone receiver and slumped onto the sofa. Scrubbing his hands across his face did little to dispel the tiredness and gloom that had settled over him so suddenly.

Shower and bed -- those were the only enticements that sounded remotely attractive right then.

At least his hearing had returned to normal. That had been really weird, going totally deaf for several minutes while Beverly Sanchez had been talking to him. She must have figured he was nuts.

It was bad enough to find out he had hyperactive senses, worse to learn he had little or no control over when or to what degree they'd appear. But to have his hearing go down so completely as to render him deaf was irritating and more than a little frightening. The damn senses were more of a curse than a blessing, something he didn't want but would have to learn to live with.

If Sandburg could help him gain some semblance of control, great.

Only cooperating with the grad student's study was difficult. Sandburg was always pestering him, prying into every facet of his life. What did Jim eat? How did he sleep -- on his stomach or back...soundly or lightly? Did he dream in color or black and white? Did his dreams include heightened sensory awareness? Did his senses seem more acute after physical exercise?

For an intensely guarded person like Jim, the questions felt like violations. So he queried their purpose -- what difference does it make...what does it mean...why did you ask that? He knew Sandburg was becoming exasperated with him, but Jim could no more stop his defensive behavior than he could sing like Pavarotti.

He wished sometimes that their relationship felt less like test subject and researcher, but he knew it was his own stubbornness keeping the barriers in place. He had nothing at all in common with the long-haired academic. Blair was friendly enough, quick witted, and he had an appealing, off-the-wall sense of humor. He was easy going, which made the long hours in his company less than grueling.

But Jim wasn't used to having someone hovering around him for hours at a time. At work, while Blair was observing, and after work, when he was conducting his seemingly endless tests and questionnaires, he always seemed to be there. It was starting to wear on Jim's nerves.

In spite of it all, however, he knew he owed the younger man an apology for cutting out on him at the crime scene. Sandburg had been badly shaken by Danny's murder, that much had been obvious, and Jim had offered no consolation whatsoever. He'd been too wrapped up in his own grief, in his own efforts to remain outwardly detached and calm. Furthermore, despite his shock, Blair had tried to offer support, and Ellison had just shrugged him off. Danny's death had exposed a vulnerability Jim was unwilling to share with someone who was still virtually a stranger. So he'd retreated into full cop mode and shied away from accepting any sympathy or compassion.

He'd left Sandburg and gone back to the precinct.

He'd deserted his partner -- OK, not a partner, but still his responsibility -- and someone who had almost been taken down by the sniper's bullets. Bad form for a cop, bad behavior for anyone who considered himself a decent human being. Sandburg was an observer; he shouldn't have been a target.

Jim always had difficulty apologizing or admitting when he was wrong. Part of it was ego, but part of it was training from his special ops days -- the officer in charge might re-evaluate his position, but he was never wrong.

It was one of the reasons his marriage had fallen apart. He just wasn't a 90's sort of man, willing to share his feelings and open up about his most intimate thoughts.

Trying to ignore a faint stirring of guilt, Jim stood up and looked around his home. It was stark and barren, with no hint of the personality of the man living there. Or perhaps its blank face was a perfect reflection of its inhabitant.

Not a pleasant thought.

At least the divorce had been amicable. Carolyn had taken only what she had brought into the marriage, which had included most of the stuff that made the loft feel like home. After her departure, Jim had quickly added functional, utilitarian pieces to serve his needs, but nothing that proclaimed his taste (or lack thereof, he suspected wryly).

The wall by the front door looked particularly bare with its blank plaster and industrial-grade box for the light switch. A coat rack might look good there, and it would be useful to have a place right beside the door where he could hang his jacket. And maybe a little table to corral all the mail, so he wouldn't scatter it from kitchen counter to coffee table depending on the direction his feet took him.

If he was going to entertain in the loft -- someone like Beverly Sanchez for example -- he needed to add some homey touches.

Yeah, maybe after Tommy Juno's arraignment tomorrow, he'd pick up some stuff. Maybe Sandburg could help him. They'd make it into a test -- would heightened senses enable him to hammer a nail more accurately? Oddly enough, Jim didn't even consider how incongruous this sounded when compared to his earlier thoughts about Blair's constant presence.

And maybe tomorrow he'd mention his whacked out senses, too, see if Sandburg had any theories about that. He'd planned on telling him tonight on the phone, but he'd suspected there had been more than physical distance between them. It made him feel vaguely uneasy.

Until then, he'd just go to bed and try not to think of Danny Choi's blank and staring eyes, or the blood that had coated Jim's hand from the mortal wound in his friend's back. He would block out the images; shutting off his emotions was something he was good at.

THE END