ROUGH TRADE

He saw nothing. Heard nothing ... felt nothing. Jim Ellison was shut off. He had forced himself down and away. Primal state, that's what Sandburg had called it. If one sense starts to overload, find another path. Zone if you have to. Just let your instincts take over until it's okay. Until you're safe.

It wasn't hard to find another focus ... scent of rain, of green. Taste of flesh and fruit. Remembered touch of cool skin warming to his. Blair was always so cold.

Safe now ... but not really safe. Lee Brackett wanted him.

Jim had listened for the fine pulse of electronics sparking into place, knowing Brackett was about to make his move. Whatever the Rogue had planned, Jim knew he wouldn't like it. There would only be this one chance.

He had scanned the cell repeatedly as Simon and Brackett argued. Found one section of wall without the buzz. Jim refocused, coupling sight to hearing. Damn — Sentinel eyes spied a faint outline of light, a familiar rectangle shape that all but screamed, "Exit." He could have cheered. There were times when his sensory abilities startled him as well.

Jim went for it. He kicked the door and felt it give, a sense of triumph rocketing through his veins. One more lunge and he was home free. Got you now, asshole! He could tear Brackett's throat out; rip his heart from his chest. Brackett was after his Guide? Fine. Let him try to take Blair with every bone in his hands crushed.

Then the pain had begun, an assault of light and sound. Paralyzing. Jim still tried to force himself through it. Humiliated, he felt the scream tear out of his throat — never heard it. Fear peppered through the pain, for himself and for Blair. Sandburg was watching this, another calculated move from the game master. Jim struggled against agony and was smashed down harder for his efforts.

Then the Sentinel went away, following the scent of Blair on his clothing and hands. Zoning. Taking control by giving up control, shielding himself in the protection of his Guide.

Waiting....

* * *

Simon Banks never took chances he didn't have to - especially with other people's lives. A core group of detectives along with the SWAT team and bomb squad followed Brackett's directions to a low rent warehouse. So far Brackett had dealt them a straight hand. A good thing since, without his instructions, they never would have found the exact location before the turn of the century. Not in time, Simon remembered — just as Blair had insisted.

Simon's relief at finding his detective was tempered against the news he had to deliver. Jim was his best friend. And Simon had failed him.

Joel Taggart completed a check of insidious circuitry connected to the cell door. No traps, no bombs, no Lee Brackett surprises. Taggart motioned the team to advance and punched in the code that would open the unit. Immediately, they were blasted back by the full force of the sound and light show. Taggart doubled over, catching the brunt of it. Then straightened, eyes tearing, forcing himself to slam home the final codes. Open the door, then crash the system ... or the system will surely crash you, Brackett had promised. Joel Taggart would not let Lee Brackett get the best of him this time.

"Got it," Joel gasped. He staggered out of the way, wiping his face with the back of his hand. It came away bloody; his nose was bleeding.

Apprehensive, Taggart scanned the squad behind him. Two were vomiting against the back wall. One other was sitting on the floor, head down between his knees, trying to stay conscious.

Detectives Brown and Steve Carter followed by Captain Banks shoved their way past Taggart and into the cell. At the far corner, Ellison remained still as stone, locked in on himself in a foetal position. Carter reached him first. The short, wiry veteran skidded to a halt beside Jim's body, kneeling to place his hand on the detective's shoulder.

"Jim," Steve began.

"Wait!" Simon barked out. "Steve, don't touch him!"

Too late. Ellison uncoiled, reaching up to grab Carter's arms. He pulled him in, slamming the top of his head into the man's chin. Then tossed him aside. He continued the roll up to the balls of his feet, each action executed in one continuous, clean, smooth motion.

Simon staggered back. It was like watching a Romero zombi spark to life, except this one was moving far too fast. Jim was wraith pale, his face a mask of stark planes and shadows and blazing, cobalt eyes. Radioactive. Self-programmed to escape at the first opportunity, to annihilate anyone who got in his way. Ellison's Ranger expertise was legendary; death was a genuine possibility. Simon caught a glimpse of shock and fear flashing across Brown's face as Ellison reached him next.

Brown raised his hands, trying to back off. But momentum had already carried him too close. Jim slammed home a blow to the stomach, then wheeled and finished with a roundhouse kick to the head.

Ellison continued towards the door.

"Get out of the way," Simon shouted. "Don't block him!"

Nobody moved. The SWAT team held their ground, focused on the rescue which had suddenly become a menace. There wasn't time for argument. Simon came at Jim from the side, catching hold of his arm. "Ellison," he shouted. "Jim, snap out of it!"

Jim wheeled about, going for Banks - the next obstruction. His fists locked onto Simon's jacket front.

Simon locked back, dragging him forward, pushing his face into Jim's. "Ellison - stop!"

Something flickered behind the mask even as Jim tightened his hold. Banks took a long, close look into the face of his best friend. Dried blood tracked from Jim's ears into the collar of his sweater. Could the man even hear him?

"Jim, it's Simon." He tried again using a softer tone, desperate. The SWAT team had moved into the room, lining the exit parameters. Banks struggled to keep his body between his friend and those drawn weapons. "It's all right now, it's safe. Jim...."

The Sentinel hesitated. This was not his Guide's voice. Not his Guide's scent. The touch was all wrong.

But somehow all right, too. Everything was familiar, evoking friendly memories. Cigar smoke. Coffee. Sweat of fear. Concern. One by one he ticked off the input until a composite formed. Slowly, Jim allowed his awareness to spiral out through the cell. This was not an enemy but what...? There was still danger and the need to fight.

"Jim, it's all right," Simon pleaded, using the man's name like a beacon. This was the worst zone-out he'd ever seen; he had never missed Sandburg so badly. God, he could have used him now. They had to get the kid back, had to get both of them back. "Jim," he murmured, determined. "You know me ... you know all of us. Jim, please hear me."

The tension in the room thickened like the air before a lightning strike. It was as if they had somehow slipped into an alternate universe where evil made all the rules, playing monstrous games with the human soul. Simon swallowed, frozen in Ellison's grasp. His heart hammered against his ribs. Brackett could still win this hand. Jim could kill him in an instant, then have to live with it forever.

And how long would that be? Responsible for the death of his commanding officer and friend, for the almost certain death of his partner, how long would Jim last under that burden until it buried him?

Banks heard a rustle of movement behind him, the unmistakable sound of a slide being pulled back.

"No one fires a shot," Simon whispered harshly, his voice loud in the hushed room. "No matter what he does, nobody fires. I will personally take out the first man who shoots. Understand?"

In one corner, Detective Brown moaned, struggling to regain consciousness. "What the hell...?"

"It's okay, Brown," Simon said. "Everything's going to be okay. Right, Jim?"

Blue eyes blinked, pupils dilated.

"Come on, Jim," Simon pleaded. "Come back to me. You know the way."

"Captain."

Banks nodded. He squeezed Jim's shoulders gently.

"Captain...." Jim sucked in air like a diver just breaking the surface. His throat was very dry, his voice no more than a whisper. "Simon...."

"Right. Yes." Simon's grin split his face. Those rasped syllables came like a Mozart quartet to his ears. "We've got you now, Jim. You're safe."

"Where's Brackett?" Ellison shoved the words out.

"Gone," Simon told him. Anger and regret returned full blast. "He got away."

The news registered. Simon tried to slip his arm around Ellison's shoulders, move him along before he had to say more.

Jim wouldn't be moved.

"Blair?"

The hope in that voice twisted like a blade. Simon closed his eyes. He couldn't hold back the truth; Jim would know if he tried and despise him for it. Almost as much as he despised himself.

"Blair traded himself to Brackett so he could get you free," Simon told him bluntly. "I've talked to him. The kid's safe. Brackett hasn't hurt him."

Not yet.... Unspoken, the knowledge screamed at him, whipping through his aching skull. Jim released Simon, stepping away. He took one step and staggered. The horror of those last words hit him hard, worse than any blow. Numbness crawled through the edges of his mind. The adrenalin that had carried him through these last few minutes vanished. Tremors took him, ravaging what was left of his strength.

"Jim!" Simon rushed towards him again, reached for him —

The last thing Ellison saw before darkness took him.

* * *

Darkness wasn't all it was cracked up to be. "Cracked up" was the operative phrase; darkness was a very active state. There was movement — or rather, the sense of being moved. Jim Ellison was jostled about, lifted, strapped in, rolled along. Poked, prodded, pinched and pierced.

Darkness was also filled with noise, sirens and the clatter of equipment. Snatches of human voices filtered in between intervals of utter silence and absolute chaos. There was the smell of chemicals and traffic and people, the nauseating stench of Juicy Fruit over stale, hot breath slamming him in the face. He was assaulted by various colognes and deodorants and hair sprays and all the perfumed masks humans used to cloak and lure. There were sudden flashes of light so bright it burned. Cold air on his skin. Then heat. More prodding, more poking. More needles being stuck into him.

Pain was the only constant. Pain and the debilitating sense of loss.

What he really needed was to get moving. Get Blair. Sandburg would know what to do here; his partner could get him through this. But where was he, what was happening to him? Panicked, Jim's pulse suddenly increased to obscure all other input. It pounded through his head like thunder. Vaguely he was aware of a manic-level increase in the activity that surrounded him.

What you've really got to do here is breathe, man. The words floated out at him, through him. Just breathe, Jim. In, out ... relax. You know how it goes.

Sandburg! Jim tracked the ghost of affection. Where are you, Chief?

Don't know. This was his Guide's voice, serious and soothing. But scared, too. We're in real trouble here, big guy.

Where? Jim opened his eyes to find himself deep in the jungle. Peru. He recognized the plants, the heat. And Blair ... sitting in semi-lotus on top of a big, flat rock in the thick of the bush. He was wearing sandals and jeans and beads and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with swallowtails and lush, tropical flowers. The scented breeze lifted his hair, waltzing curls around his face and throat while a small bronze lizard amused himself, dancing over his body. It circled Blair's thigh, then dashed up his arm to peer out from the nest of curls on his shoulder watching the Sentinel approach with wide, all-absorbing eyes.

Jim stepped forward and became aware of another presence beside him. Black, sleek, powerful, the jaguar turned jeweled eyes to him, then continued pacing alongside. For the first time, Jim looked down at himself. He was wearing his jungle gear. Cascade was very far away.

Yet still all around them.

Hey, buddy.... Blair offered a tentative smile. Here's another fine mess we've gotten into. But this one is my fault.

What do you mean?

It means I was stupid and selfish and I really, really fucked up. And I'm really, really sorry - but now we're both paying for it.

Jim gazed into the face of absolute misery. I don't understand.

I know.

Jim raised his hand, brushing a tear from Blair's face. His fingertips strayed into the silk of his hair. Blair turned his face to rest his cheek against the warmth of the Sentinel's palm, holding his breath as if he could hold the moment with it.

Overhead, something dark began to circle slashing midnight across the jungle's warm day. The jaguar raised his head and growled.

Blair shuddered. He's found us.

The Sentinel placed his hand on his Guide's shoulder, reassuring, as he tracked the shadow's descent. The hair lifted on the back of his neck.

Blair reached up, catching Jim's other arm, completing the circle. You can't let him have me, man. You've got to find me.

Where - how?

Remember our exercises, remember your training. And for God's sake, man, breathe!

Midnight swept over them, black wings diving down. It soared towards them, talons extended, driving them to the ground. Jim held Blair to him. He covered his Guide with his body, shielding him.

The creature wheeled into another dive as they staggered up together, running. Claws slashed across Jim's back. Savagely, he was hurled aside, flung across the trail. Wounded, bleeding, the Sentinel rolled on impact, springing into a crouch, knife in hand. But the monster was gone.

So was his Guide.

No! Jim took off at a run. He wouldn't lose Blair again. Not now. But the thunder was back and this time, lightning. A flash struck him square in the chest, knocking him back into the world of chaos.

"Got him!" an ER tech yelled out. "We got him back!"

Someone was calling out vitals, shouting to make herself heard over the bedlam. Jim sucked in as much air as he could. Let it out. Again. He hurt everywhere.

A young nurse with wide, blue eyes leaned over him, glowing in the near tropical heat of the claustrophobic space. Smiling. "Welcome back."

"Stay safe," Jim rasped, clutching at the offered hand. "Do anything you have to, just stay safe. I'll find you ... get you back. Find you."

"I believe you, big guy." The smile changed as blue eyes blurred to brown. Cool fingers smoothed the fist surrounding a small, capable hand. "Everything's going to be all right, detective."

Still trembling, Jim nodded, heaving a great sigh. Breathing. In ... out....

He closed his eyes.

* * *

The common area flickered in the soft-bright glow from the fireplace. Lee Brackett raised his head sensing ... something. He rose to his feet and crossed the short distance to the bedroom - silent, fluid - a shadow stalking the firelit room.

Brackett came to a halt beside the Guide's bed. Everything seemed all right. Blair was still out, just as he should be. Drugged, he would stay under another four hours, maybe six depending on his physical state. After all, the little professor had experienced a very busy day. And that was the problem. Subdued by the effects of sedation and fatigue, Blair Sandburg shouldn't be moving at all.

But he had. The Guide's hand lay palm up on the pillow, fingers extended as if stopped in mid-reach. Blair moved again as Brackett sat on the mattress beside him, restless, trying to turn away even in this drugged state.

Reflex action? Brackett wondered. High energy response? Carefully, he ran his index finger across the Guide's brow, brushing a long strand of hair away from his face. Felt him shiver in response. Brackett smiled. He loved puzzles.

The day had gone better than he'd planned. Brackett sipped at the brandy he'd carried with him, a spark of firelight darting in to catch the rim. The smile went to a grin - wild, carefree, the total Rogue. It was one of his best looks. "I'm as bad as they come," that face boasted, "but, trust me, I can be a hell of a good time." That brag had gotten him past many a closed door, locked him in between many a pair of smooth, young thighs.

"Wouldn't work with you, though, would it?" Brackett laughed softly imagining the look of derision and disbelief the professor would give him. The revulsion. His eyes traced the contours of Blair's face, a unique mix of contradictions, intelligence and naivete, vulnerability and strength. Sensual, stubborn, industrious. Brackett knew him to be as curious as a cat and just as playful, an unabashed risk-taker blessed with very heightened survival instincts. He couldn't decide if Blair Sandburg was a child eternally caught on the threshold of manhood or a man who had learned the secret of preserving childhood's best gifts.

Whatever. Innocence clung to him like the glow from a candle, a light glimpsed from a window on a stark, rain swept night. Brackett's fingertips grazed the pulse of Blair's throat. The grin became a calculating smile.

Definitely not a good look for him but far more accurate.

"Mr. Sandburg," he sighed. "I could destroy you with a touch. But you already know that, don't you?"

Brackett dipped his fingers in the brandy and touched them to Blair's lips, blazing a moist trail. He leaned in, taking the path he'd made, chasing a drop of liquid fire that tracked down his cheek. Blair's breath fanned his face in a sob. Brackett set the glass down and kissed him again, exploring the inner edge of his lips, slipping deeper, probing. It was a curious sensation, the artificial heat of the liquor contrasted against cool, drugged flesh. Interesting in a necrophilic kind of way.

He slipped his hand up under Blair's t-shirt, pleasuring himself with the reward of lightly furred skin. He discovered and toyed with the small gold ring that pierced one nipple. Brackett arched a brow and raised the loose garment to have a better look, noting the muscle structure. Excellent. The little professor was full of surprises.

The first stirring of genuine desire blazed through him. Brackett contemplated options as he played over Blair's chest. The sex of his bedmates made no difference, an easy policy for a man who never felt anything more than lust. Sometimes rage. Long ago, he'd come to understand that power fired his trigger. Lee Brackett scratched the itch for gain or relief, generally both. It was customary for his partner to provide the fantasy of love, of caring. Until the end came. The final move.

Brackett roamed the expanse of ribs and stomach, sliding lower. He pressed the heel of his hand into Blair's stomach; felt him gasp and arch under the pressure. If the game played out the way he'd planned, it would run a long time. They'd be together for years in all likelihood. Speculating, Brackett cupped Blair's groin in his hand. Stroked him.

Nothing. Heat but no fire. Blair stirred again under his touch, his movements slow and sluggish. Useless. Even in this state he seemed to understand what was happening to him. Brackett retrieved his brandy and took another sip as he slipped his hand between Blair's thighs, plunging deeper, lifting, exploring the denim covered curves. He wondered what it was like between them, Ellison and Sandburg. Sentinel and Guide. Tradition compelled physical consummation between these warrior bonds. Spartans, samurai and knights of old might feel the need to offer up vindication and poetry. But the ancient shamans never bothered to rationalize what they understood through instinct. Once awakened, primal heritage would not be suppressed.

You had to wonder, though, about 20th century Cascade detectives and obsessed grad students. One could only speculate on how that went down. Not too easily, Brackett imagined.

Still, Ellison and Sandburg had faced the challenge. And mastered it, obviously. It had been over two years and they were still together. Breaking them wouldn't be easy.

Brackett sat up, unlaced his boots and slid them off. He unbuttoned his shirt. Before, when he'd been with them, he had felt the connection between Sentinel and Guide. Those bonds had still been new, raw with possibility. Charged with power, narcotic. Addictive. Standing between them, he'd literally bathed in it. Lee Brackett had awakened to possibilities he'd only previously guessed at. Certainly never truly believed in. Ignorant of meaning yet instinctively maintaining the flow, Ellison and Sandburg couldn't keep their hands off each other. Always there'd be the little touch, a helping hand. An arm of comfort or guidance.

Well, Brackett corrected himself, one of the team had been clueless. It was very obvious who had really been in charge. Which just went to prove there was a little bit of the mercenary in everyone, no matter how attractively packaged. Not that Brackett had any doubt that the professor's goal had been more than honorable. Mr. Sandburg's bottom line was virtuous enough, his intentions were the best.

But everyone knew where that path led.

Brackett laid down on the narrow bed, gathering the Guide into his arms. Blair's head fell back; his open palm closed into a fist. Brackett hesitated, reconsidering. If Blair were awake, he'd fight like a tiger.

Lee Brackett closed his eyes. Swallowed. Lowered his mouth to Blair's throat.

Well, the thought blazed through him. Maybe next time....