With a slight curse Jim rolled over in bed. Sunlight blazed through the window above him, the beams bathing his body in a comforting heat. But waking meant leaving his safe haven, a place where he could forget, blank his mind to the realities of the day. When he was asleep, Blair was still by his side; they had coffee, argued, laughed. On one occasion Blair had appeared in the jungle, but Jim hadn't liked that dream. He preferred the ones where they did everyday things; the jungle one disturbed him, and Jim had awakened with a shout, bathed in cold sweat, the memory of Blair alone and distressed burned into his mind.
Jim knew that, as soon as he sat up, left the safe haven of his bed, harsh reality would come crashing down. He would stand, trying not to look towards Blair's room or listen for sounds that were never there. But the loft would be silent, with only the sound of Jim's own breathing, loud and unnatural to his own ears. That first sensory sweep was getting harder and more painful each day, as Blair's scent faded, and the loft slowly stopped being a home. It had become a place to sleep and eat, nothing more.
It had been well over a month now, and Jim knew that most people had given up on Blair being found alive. He could hear them talking in soft whispers as he walked through the bullpen, looking with sympathetic eyes as he strode through the PD. Jim had heard it all, but just kept searching world wide data bases for anything new, the one piece of information that would show that, somewhere, Blair was alive. And he was; Jim knew that without a doubt. So he refused to give up, researched every slim lead, every far-fetched thought. And every night he stood at the balcony, searching -- always searching, casting out his senses until exhaustion forced him to bed and he reunited with Blair in his dreams.
The peel of a nearby church bell reminded Jim of the time, and he quickly tugged on his jeans and shirt, knowing that someone would be arriving soon. For the last few days it had been Joel, and the two men had eaten doughnuts hot from the bakery oven, sugar coating their lips. They should have been delicious, but to Jim it was like forcing down cardboard. Everything he ate tasted that way, and Jim doubted that would change until he knew about Blair -- one way or the other.
White socks in hand, Jim sat on his bed, resigned to this waking hell, when the ring of the phone filled the loft. Expecting Joel's voice, he tucked the handset under his chin, and started to pull on a sock. He stopped -- frozen -- when he heard Blair's voice. The socks fell to the floor, forgotten, as Jim tried to remember to breathe. To remember how to talk as Blair asked over and over if he was there, begged him to please be there. Blair sounded tired, his breathing rough in Jim's ear, and it was all he could do not to collapse backwards on the bed; relief made his body weak and rubbery. Blair was alive.
Blair is alive!
Within seconds, Jim was back in control, asking Blair where was he, was he okay? Telling him that he'd be there as soon as possible. He wanted to keep Blair on the line, to drink in the sound of that voice in the loft once more, even if it was just a tinny echo. Jim scrabbled for shoes, socks not an issue, and slipped them on his feet, cursing when he realised how close Blair was to Cascade. He cursed even more when he rushed to the door and realised that he'd have to leave the phone behind.
Jim could hear Blair laughing softly as he swore, explaining that he'd have to hang up now. It was hard to do, to cut off the voice that he'd been craving for so long. But Blair was waiting, and if Jim hurried he'd be able to get to him within thirty minutes, probably less. Speed limits meant nothing when his partner was waiting. He might be safe for now, but Jim needed to get to him, to hold Blair in his arms, remind himself that he was alive, that the search was over at last.
Disconnecting with a last, "I'll be there soon, hang on Chief," Jim ran from the loft, slamming the door shut behind him. Taking the stairs three at a time, he barrelled through the front door and into his truck; total journey from loft to vehicle less than a minute. With an inpatient twist of the wheel, Jim pulled away, only slowing slightly when he saw Joel's shocked face reflected in the rear view mirror. Joel was carrying a bag of donuts that fell to the ground when Jim shouted, "Blair phoned. He's alive!" The last thing that Jim saw as he turned the corner is Joel's grin, impossibly wide as he fumbled for his cell phone, no doubt to call Simon.
The journey seemed impossibly long, each mile equivalent to ten in Jim's mind. But as he approached the forest, passing the place where Blair disappeared so long ago, he knew that this terrible time was nearly over. He could feel it; the weight that had hung on his shoulders for so long was lightening with every second. Fingers tapping on the steering wheel, Jim tried to prepare for the worst, to steel himself for what Blair had been through, because somewhere deep inside he knew that it'd been bad. He knew it by Blair's voice, so restrained, keeping control by strength of will alone. Jim could tell that within seconds, and was afraid to know the cause. But whatever it was, he would be equal to the task. Because as long as Blair was alive, home in the loft, living and breathing, Jim could cope with anything. A part of him had been missing this last month and, as damaged as they both were, together they were strong. It had always been that way, and always would.
At last Jim saw the turnoff that would lead to the house Blair had phoned from, and slowed slightly as the truck bumped over a pitted dirt road and tree branches scraped against the roof. It was dark and gloomy but, looking ahead, Jim could see a house, isolated but well-built, a building dwarfed by the forest that crowded on every side. It could have been deserted but for a light that burned in one window, and Jim knew that Blair was in that room. The temptation to zero in his sight to see in through the window was immense, but he resisted; he could wait another minute.
Screeching to a halt, Jim jumped from the truck, heart pounding as he ran towards the house. Not stopping to knock he threw open the door, disregarding the shocked look of the man who was approaching to open it. Ignoring him -- he would apologise later -- Jim listened for a second, before entering a room.
Inside, Blair lay on a couch, covered by an old yellow quilt. His hair was wild, twigs and leaves tangled in the twisted matt of curls. Deep shadows ringed his eyes, and Jim could see an old bruise that emerged from the thick stubble that covered Blair's face. He looked battered and bruised and, as he opened his eyes, Jim could see pain and bleakness. Blair had lost some of his innocence, and Jim would mourn that, but not yet; later.
Incapable of speech, Jim approached the couch and dropped to his knees. Then, unable to wait a second longer, he wrapped his arms round Blair, holding tight as he was hugged back. Blair's head rested against his shoulder as the two men just held one another, no words needed as the reassurance of touch took over. Blair had been found and, as Jim felt his body relax and his nerves settle as the two halves became whole again, he hoped he'd never be lost again.