Blair sincerely hoped the party was over as he climbed
the stairs toward the loft. It was fairly late now, and as much as he thought
Jim needed this, he was ready for bed. He had been thrilled when Jim mentioned
he wanted to have a few of his old army buddies over for a little reunion of
sorts after the funeral.
Jim hadn’t done anything but mope since he heard that
Thomas Lawrence, a man he had served with before the ill-fated trip to Peru,
had died at the hands of a drunken driver. Blair couldn’t stand to see his
sentinel in one of those moods, so he had actively encouraged his roommate to
invite some of his former associates over for a drink or two. In fact, he had
made the guacamole dip himself before he made his excuses and disappeared long
before the first guest arrived.
He stopped at the door to listen, but all was quiet
inside. At least he could detect no raised voices or loud music. Definitely a
good sign. Of course, not all of the men from Jim’s somewhat dark past were
of the same caliber as Jake the Snake Kesler. Most were reserved and polite;
respectable citizens and members of the community, much like Jim himself. A
few had questionable morals according to Jim, and one had actually served time
in the pen for violent crimes. Blair knew Jim could handle whoever showed up,
he only worried what kind of emotional backwash the reunion would leave. For a
tight-ass, tough as nails ex-soldier, Jim could be extremely sensitive on
occasion.
When he opened the door Blair stopped and stared at the
mess. Apparently, there had been more than a little alcohol consumption, for
every surface seemed to be covered in empties of a variety of different beers.
Jim sat on the couch sipping a beer, taking no notice of his roommate’s
arrival.
“Whoa,” Blair commented, mostly to himself. “How
many people showed up? A dozen?”
“What?” Jim asked distractedly.
“How many people does it take to drink this much beer?
I hope no one was driving.” Blair hung up his coat and went into the kitchen
to procure an empty trash bag from under the cabinet.
“Six,” Jim muttered. “There were six of us. They
all took cabs.”
“Good,” Blair approved as he moved into the
livingroom and started putting empty chip bags into the garbage sack. “Look
at all these dead soldiers,” he mused quietly.
“What?” Jim asked again, this time focusing his eyes
intently on his partner with something akin to urgency.
“The empties, man. What’s wrong?” Blair sat on the
arm of the couch and studied Jim with concern. “Are you okay?”
“That’s it exactly,” Jim said, back in his own
little world. “I should have known you would see it. Dead soldiers.”
“Um. Right. Why don’t you go on upstairs and I’ll
just clean up down here a little.” Blair reached for the nearest empty
bottle, but Jim grasped his arm roughly.
“Leave it,” the big man ordered brusquely, then with
a sheepish look released Blair’s wrist.
Blair pulled back in mild surprise, his worry meter
rising. “It’s okay. I don’t mind,” he assured as he unconsciously
straightened his sleeve.
“No, it’s my mess. Go on to bed. I’ll clean up in
the morning. I’m just going to finish off this last… one,” Jim said,
sounding weary, but much more like his usual self.
“Want to talk about it?” Blair offered, knowing he
was pushing his luck.
“No.”
Torn between doing what he felt he ought to do and what
Jim wanted him to do, Blair wavered momentarily. “Night, Jim,” he
whispered as he made his decision.
Jim looked up at him with a relieved expression and
unspoken thanks. “Could you get the light, Chief?” he asked softly.
“No problem.” Blair back tracked enough to flip off
the kitchen light then went into the bathroom, not too shocked to find three
more empties scattered around the sink and toilet. He poured the meager
contents out and dropped the bottles into the trash before getting ready for
bed. When he passed back through the hall he could see Jim still sitting on
the couch in the dark.
A quick look around told him that Jim hadn’t let
anyone wander into his room. There were no empty beer bottles and everything
else was exactly where it should be; with the exception of Jake’s flag. The
neatly folded triangle had been taken from its place on the shelf where Blair
had placed it the day after the funeral. It now rested on his desk so
perfectly centered and square that he had no problem visualizing Jim placing
it there, doubting anyone else would have taken such care. With a mental
shrug, Blair got undressed and slipped into bed. Against all his expectations,
he fell asleep almost as soon as he hit the sheets.
Jim finished his beer and opened another that sat
handily amid the ruins on the coffee table. He drank it as he listened to
Blair’s breathing as it slowed and evened out into sleep, taking solace in
his partner’s peace. Dead soldiers, he thought as he thumped the empty
bottle down with the others. That was it. That’s what had been bothering him
ever since he had heard about Tom’s death. No, even longer than that. He
hadn’t slept well since Kesler had been killed.
Like Jake’s funeral, Tom’s had been resplendent in
ceremony and tradition. Unlike Jake’s, there had been tears. Lots and lots
of tears, from family and friends gathered to say good-bye. In spite of the
difference, the outcome was the same. Another dead soldier.
A rustling sound startled Blair out of a deep sleep. The
dark figure hunched over his desk turned towards him as soon as he opened his
eyes.
“Shh. Sorry, Chief, I was just looking for something,”
Jim’s voice whispered, deep with weariness and alcohol.
“Are you okay?” Blair asked with concern as he
pushed himself up from his pillow, rubbing his eyes as he moved.
Jim stumbled towards him and plopped down on the edge of
the bed with less than his usual grace. “Go back to sleep,” he ordered
gently as he pushed Blair back down with a hand on his shoulder.
“What about you?”
“I will. I have to do something first. Can I have
this?” Jim held up something in his hand.
“Sure, man,” Blair agreed readily, although he
couldn’t quite make out more than a vaguely square object in the dark. A
large hand petted his hair for a minute, then Jim lumbered out of the room
without another word. Blair listened to the quiet sounds as Jim moved around
in the kitchen and let them flow over and around him. Curiosity baited him,
but he somehow knew that Jim needed his space at the moment, so he let himself
drift until he faded back to sleep.
It took all his concentration. Jim tried to remember
them all, but it was hard. There were so many. He lit a candle, not for light,
but for atmosphere and it seemed to help keep his mind focused. Scratching
every detail he could remember onto the little yellow pieces of paper one
after the other kept him busy for several hours. Some of the details were
sketchy, only a name or a description because truthfully, he hadn’t known
all of them that well. Finally, he could think of no more dead soldiers, at
least none he had known personally.
Still, he felt no release. His mission felt unfinished,
like he was forgetting someone. He scribbled another name and knew immediately
that he was right. Not a soldier this time, but a police man, shot down in the
line of duty, dying in Jim’s arms. So many more he realized, his impromptu
job was far from over. A tear escaped his eye unnoticed as he allowed himself
to remember the bitter past instead of trapping it all inside. The details of
buried memories surged and he continued his self appointed task. Pain flowed
from his fingers and onto the paper in a bewildering, hasty catharsis.
Blair glanced at the clock as he stifled a yawn and
opened his glazed eyes. After blinking for several seconds, the blurry red
lines formed themselves into numbers. Eight twenty-five and the loft was dead
quiet, unusual for a Saturday morning even when they had been up late. Jim’s
early mornings were as predictable as the sun coming up. With a frown Blair
ventured out of his room and froze.
Soft snores floated down from up above, giving away Jim’s
location and current status. Unusual, but that wasn’t the thing that grabbed
and held Blair’s attention. The table was decorated in empty beer bottles
arranged in groups. Each bore a little yellow post it note with a shaky
rendition of Jim’s normally neat handwriting scribbled across it.
Blair picked up the first bottle he reached and read it
almost silently to himself. “T.J. Hernandez, staff sergeant. Tall, skinny
kid. Brave. Died disarming a mine sometime in the summer of ’87, I think.
Need to check the date.” Blair sat the bottle back down in the same spot
where he’d found it and blinked.
His eyes fell on a group of eight bottles together and
one name popped out at him. Sarris. The post it notes told a story not just of
a helicopter crash in a Peruvian jungle, but of the deaths of each man in
vivid, living detail; things Jim had never told him. Things Jim never ever
wanted to talk about and religiously repressed were written in crowded letters
on the tiny slips of yellow paper.
“Dead soldiers,” Blair breathed. He swept his eyes
around the room and realized Jim must have worked on the morbid little project
all night. Quickly he scanned the rest of the strangely provocative memorial,
stopping to read the one with Jake Kesler written on it. At the bottom of the
brief, but not pretty synopsis of Jake’s life and death Jim had written: I’m
sorry, and I forgive you.
Moving into the livingroom, Blair found that the coffee
table was arranged similarly, but the first name that caught Blair’s eye was
Jack Pendergrass. Another read Danny Choi. Ah, cops, appropriate in that they
had served with Jim in the daily battles of keeping the peace, dead soldiers
in their own rights. He recognized several of the names, more in fact than the
soldiers, but a lot were before his time with Jim.
Off to the side, there was a bottle for Lila and one for
Veronica, but they were without text. Battles as well, but of a more personal
nature? Blair looked up to his partner’s room and spotted more bottles on
the table next to the bed. He silently climbed the stairs to get a better
look.
No stories here either, just a single word written on
each of the four bottles on the night stand. Carolyn. Mom. Dad. Stephen. Now
Blair was confused. Maybe Jim felt that these people were lost to him or out
of reach, but none of them were dead as far as he knew. He studied his friend’s
still face and noticed immediately that Jim seemed distressed, even in sleep.
With a tender caress of his fingertips Blair tried to wipe away the deep lines
of concern carved into the skin between Jim’s eyes and along his forehead.
“Easy, big guy,” he murmured. “Let it go. No more
thoughts of death right now.”
Much to his delight, Jim’s face softened and he seemed
to relax into the touch. Blair smiled and reached to take the last bottle from
Jim’s hand, stopping when he read the tag. Blair Sandburg. He pulled his
hand away and stared, trying hard to understand. Did Jim think that he had
lost Blair too? Things had been strained between them in the not so distant
past, but they were back on track now, weren’t they?
True, Blair had died briefly, but did that meet Jim’s
dead soldier qualifications? Or did he think the friendship dead? Blair
settled on the side of the bed and worried his lower lip with his teeth. No.
Jim had been trying really hard lately to be a friend. Especially since Blair
had accepted the badge and consented to go to the academy.
“That’s it,” Blair gasped. “You think that you
killed a part of me,” he whispered to the deeply out of it detective. “Jim,
things change. People change. That’s just part of life, man. I’m not used
up, I’m just… growing.”
Reaching once again for the bottle, he tried to gently
tug it away, but even in sleep Jim tightened his grip and stubbornly refused
to let it go. Blair snorted in amusement and then slowly smiled as he turned
to go, leaving Jim with his prize. He had to think of a way to let Jim know
that he would always be there for him.
Jim let out a long, slow groan as his eyes fluttered
open. “Shit,” he mumbled through his cotton mouth. He went to rub his face
and sloshed beer out of a half empty bottle in his hand. A rumple piece of
paper floated down to his chest. Sitting the offending bottle on the bedside
table he grabbed what he assumed to be a note and glared at it. Blair
Sandburg.
“Oh yeah,” he sighed and clutched the post it note
in his hand as he swung his feet out of the bed. He had to sit for several
minutes to get his bearings as one hell of a hangover made its presence known.
After a minute or two he growled at the clock. It was
almost noon. He gathered the bottles on the nightstand to take to the trash
after snatching off the yellow papers. Fragments of his maudlin thoughts when
he’d written the notes caught up with him and he leaned heavily on the wall
and descended the steps to view the rest of his personal pity party.
Much to his surprise, the lower part of the loft was
spotless. Not an empty bottle or tell-tale post it in sight. “Sandburg!”
he called out, not so much angry as confused. He distinctly remembered telling
his mulish partner that he would clean up the mess.
Receiving no reply, he moved toward the coffee table
where Jake’s flag rested with a small spiral notebook tucked into the top
fold. Jim slipped it out and opened it slowly. Inside he found the missing
yellow papers carefully placed one per page in chronological order. Several
minutes passed as he stood and wondered at the thoughtfulness of his roommate.
Finally he replaced the book and headed into the kitchen
where he smelled coffee. It was still fresh, so Blair hadn’t been gone long.
He poured himself a cup and decided on toast for now, thinking of taking
Sandburg out later for a late lunch to say thanks. After popping bread into
the toaster he opened the fridge to find the butter.
Inside he found row after row of bottles of different
kinds of beer, filling every conceivable space. On each and every one a little
yellow post it note proclaimed in a familiar scrawl: Blair Sandburg.
