Night Watch

It's times like these that I really want to throttle him, shake him so hard his teeth rattle and all that long, lovely hair flies loose across his shoulders, and not so coincidentally my hands. Of course, it's times like this that I want to pull him into my arms and rock him until the pain goes away.

 When I was a kid, just learning to drive, I spotted a dead cat in the middle of the road. Something made me pull over to the side before I hit it as well, and I grabbed an oily shop rag out of the back, fully intending to just move the poor beast's carcass to the side of the road. I remember the way the rag felt in my hands, the way the blood on the cat's fur gleamed in my headlights, and that the oil and the blood were the same color in the dim light. It wasn't quite dead. When I moved into it's field of vision, what a monster I must have looked to it through eyes bulged out from the force of impact. In one convulsive moment it drew it's body in on itself, for all the world attempting to leap away, and it's final half-mangled yowl when it tried to make that jump scared the shit out of me.

Years later, I know how it felt. Every time I catch Blair with that look on his face, the one that says ,"I've seen Heaven, and it's forever out of reach," I feel my guts clench with the same kind of pain and need I saw in that cat, a soul deep compulsion to DO SOMETHING.

God knows, I've tried to get him to open up about what's wrong, but for a genuine motor- mouth he's tight jawed about what's going on under that mop of his. Once in a while I think he's going to tell me, then he closes up again, covering the drop in the conversation with a new theory he wants to work on, the latest case I've been assigned at work, what his class schedule looks like; anything but what I know he wants to say.

Then something one of the other guys at the office said put me to thinking along a different track, and about a week ago I figured out his problem: Blair's in love. Normally I wouldn't think anything about it, since Sandburg falls in and out of love on a near-monthly basis, but something about this is different, like he's thinking "for keeps". The problem, though, is he's also acting like it's somebody he'll never have a chance with. Which is a pretty ridiculous thought, considering all he has to do his shoot one of those "come hither," looks of his, and any female within a hundred yards is swooning at his feet. Beautiful as he is, who could resist? Who would resist?

Not me. Fortunately, I've lived through the same situation a time or two in the past, so the idea that somebody I adore doesn't return the feeling isn't new. Truly, I want his happiness above my own life.

I just wish he'd let me help.

The last couple of nights, though, I think he's wanted to tell me. Although why he has to pick the dead of the night for a true confessions session has me stumped. Two nights ago I know he was in my room because I smelled his presence when I woke, stronger than is usual around the loft. This morning I smelled his spoor again, but this time it had a faintly acid undertone that hit the back of my tongue like the bile of regret.

So tonight I'm drawing on my covert ops background, letting my body relax deeply while keeping my mind awake. It's not as good as sleep, but when you risk being killed any second, it'll do.

My senses tell me it's two a. m., and I can hear Blair moving in the living room. He's at the base of the stairs, and he's hesitating. Ah, there, he's coming up, avoiding that squeaky step that I keep meaning to fix but never quite get around to. He's in my room, now closer, two more steps and he's next to the bed, kneeling on the floor. Why hasn't he said anything? The waiting is driving me crazy, but if I try to move across that tiny gap between us I'll scare him off. Time stretches, and I count off one minute, then two and three. His breath is harsh and escapes him on the thin edge of a whimper, his heartbeat is fast, erratic, and for a second I think he's having a heart attack, but then a new scent pours over me like thick syrup.

Need. Desire. Lust.

I half hear him start to move away, and I'm paralyzed by the intensity of what I'm sensing coming from him. Is it possible? Could it be me that he thinks is unreachable?

My eyes open just as he reaches the top of the stairs, making his escape, then he flashes a look at me over his shoulder and the pain and love in his face, easily seen in the moonlight, makes my heart flutter dangerously. His eyes widen in shock, and I move to sit, stand, go to him, ease the fear and cast out the pain, take him in my arms and never let go.

Thank you, Lord, for this miracle I have received.