Treeline Series (i)
TREELINE

With thanks and apologies to Pet Fly, and proceeding under the assumption that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission ...

This tale takes place after "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg."  It was written in response to a "Dark Obsenad" challenge on the Senad mailing list.

Treeline -- A zone where the normal growth of trees is limited.  Cold temperatures often combined with drought form the upper or arctic treeline.  Species that grow as an erect, single-stemmed tree at lower elevations are characterized by a dwarfed growth pattern due to desiccation and physical damage caused by wind and blowing ice crystals.

~ ~ ~

Blair looked up from his work, brushing an errant strand of hair from his face.  It was growing out again, but unevenly, and the leather hair tie still couldn't capture and hold it all.  He didn't care. 

He let the axe fall, let the weight of the head drive the blade into the chopping block, and straightened, stretching until he felt his bones pop.  It hurt.  The cracked ribs had healed long ago, but the memory of pain seemed sealed in them.  He didn't care about that either.

He stood still, waiting, listening to the sound of a big engine in low gear and tires negotiating tight turns, and finally spotted a glimpse of deep blue through the trees.  A few minutes more and the SUV was in full view, dusty and bug-spattered, jouncing over the last few yards of pot-holed road and into the yard.  It pulled to a stop; the engine was cut, the driver's door swung open, and in the next moment Blair was wrapped in strong arms and drawn in close to a broad chest.

"Blair."

"Simon."

He allowed the embrace for a few moments ... he needed it, needed to feel less alone, even if only for a breath or two ... then pulled back.  He felt Simon's disappointment in the way the big man let him go slowly, reluctantly.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, Simon.  I'm fine.  Is he...?"

Simon sighed again, and let his eyes roam the treeline, as if he was trying to decide what to say.  In the end, the words were familiar.

"The same."

"Coffee, Simon?"

"All right.  Let's unload the truck."

Together they did, and together, bags in hand, they walked up the shallow slope to the small stone house.  Deftly, Blair pivoted on his good leg and used the weaker one to push the door open.  The coffee pot was perking in anticipation of the expected guest, and Simon inhaled deeply and smiled.  Blair smiled back.

"I saved the last of the hazelnut you brought last month."

"Thanks."

Blair filled two stoneware mugs and both men sat at the small table, enjoying their coffee and putting off their monthly conversation for as long as possible.  The second cup was poured before Simon began the ritual.  He reached inside his windbreaker, pulled out an envelope, and placed it on the table.  The paper was yellowed and wrinkled, as if it had been handled a great deal; one word was printed carefully on the front.  "Chief."

As always, Blair pushed it back across the table, unopened.

"No, Simon."

"Blair--"

The young man closed his eyes for a moment, and Simon hurriedly made his assessment.  The face was thinner, the circles beneath the lashes were darker, the lines at the corners of the eyes and the mouth were deeper, and did not run in directions that spoke of laughter.  Rolled-up denim sleeves exposed tanned and leanly muscled forearms.  The old scars that slashed across both wrists were stark white against skin browned by the sun.

Blair caught him looking and his eyes flashed with anger, but Simon did not apologize.  "Everyone asked after you.  Joel wanted to come; he was hurt when I told him no."

The anger disappeared as quickly as it had come, washed away by regret.  "I'm sorry.  I just ... I can't.  Tell them ... whatever you want."

"They want to help, Blair."

"They can't."

"That's what you said to me.  You were wrong."

Blair pushed back his chair and walked to the sink.  His hands trembled and the stoneware mug he held chipped against the enamel.  Memories replayed behind his eyes.

The hell of an Academy cadet who was also a pariah, graduated into an uneasy partnership too fragile for two damaged men to hold together.  A murderer set free because a cop's testimony had no credibility after the defense cited his tarnished past.  A lawsuit by the university on whose board the exonerated murderer sat, charging a disgraced ex-grad student with fraud and requesting immediate repayment of thousands of dollars in grants and student loans.  A jail term, with no bail allowed, because posting bail might jeopardize the offender's ability to repay the misappropriated funds. 

A partner who watched it all happen, powerless to stop it, imprisoned by his own regrets, and shut out by a man who ensured estrangement by withdrawing from the risk of it.

The terrible things that had been done to that man in jail; the terrible things that he'd done to himself there. 

And Simon, a force of nature powered by deep love and righteous fury and empowered by debts owed him by men in high places, called in and repaid.  Finally.  But too late.

Blair looked at the scars on his wrists, took a deep breath and kept his face turned away.  He spoke quietly, evenly, but the effort it took to do so was evident in his voice.

"Simon ... you know how grateful I am.  You tried to keep me on after the Begelman trial.  You and Taggert found Canton, got the ... fraud ... sentence overturned, got me out of ... got me out.  And took care of me after, when I couldn't take care of myself.  Joel found this place, this job ... Megan and Brown and Rafe and Rhonda all tried to help.  I'll never be able to thank you enough.  I'll never forget what you did.

"But I can't forget everything that happened, or why.  And Jim will never be able to, either, no matter what he thinks.  No matter what he says."

"Blair--"

"I'm an ex-con, Simon!"  Pain fueled the anger now, and Simon knew it, and let it flow over him.  "'Exonerated' fraud, but who remembers that?  Not the Vogels, who only know that the man who raped and killed their daughter walked free because the cop who brought him in should never have been given his badge!  They'll never forget.

"And I hurt a lot of other people. too.  My professors, and my students.  You, and the people in MC.  My ... my mom.  And ... and Jim."  The voice was breaking now.  "And I can't make things right ... I can't ever be ... not after...."

Simon couldn't bear it any longer.  He got to his feet and crossed the small kitchen in two long strides and gathered Blair to him, holding him fast.  This time Blair didn't resist at all.  He was silent, his eyes were dry, but he shook violently within the circle of Simon's arms and Banks let his strength hold the young man for as long as he would allow it.

It wasn't long enough for either of them, and when Blair made a move to pull away, Simon didn't release him.

"Blair," he said fiercely, "no one who knows you blames you for anything.  And we all love you, very much.  I love you like a son.  Do you hear me, Blair?  I love you as much as I love Darryl, and anything I would do to care for or protect or help him, I would do for you."  The arms around Blair's body tightened, the voice softened.  "And Jim loves you, too.  Loves you in the way you've always wanted him to.  And hates himself for not knowing it, not acting on it, when you could still believe that it was true.

"He won't be Cop of the Year this year, Blair.  He's barely hanging on ... at work, at home ... he's going down, slowly but surely.  He needs you.

"And you need him."

The murmured answer was toneless, too weary to be bitter.  "You're wrong, Simon."  Blair did pull away then, and looked up at Banks with blue eyes startling in the pallor of his spare face.  "It's too late for both of us.  I'm not the person I was ... before.  And if I did go back, what would I do?  How long would it be before I let him down again?  How long would it take for him to change his mind ... about everything ... again?"

Blair looked down, then raised his arms, wrists up.  Simon shuddered at the scars; the memory of those wounds when they were fresh was all too vivid.  And the realization that Blair's eyes were as bleak and hopeless at this moment as they had been then slammed into his heart and branded fear there. 

"He shouldn't have brought me back the first time, Simon.  And you shouldn't have brought me back the second time."

Simon couldn't listen to the words, couldn't let Blair believe them.  "Oh son," he whispered, and reached for the young man, but Blair stepped away.

"Time for you to go, Simon," he said.  He lifted his gaze over Banks' shoulder and pointed through the screen door to the treeline, where a gray wall of thunderheads was creeping over the shoulders of the mountains.  "That storm will take the road out below Pacheco.  That kind of storm always does.  Go home."

The wind gusted and rattled the screen in its frame; it blustered hard and cold through the kitchen, lifted the envelope that lay on the table and blew it to the floor.  Blair bent to retrieve it and held it out to Simon, but Banks shook his head and zipped up his windbreaker in refusal.

"I'll see you next month, son," he said gently.  He let himself out and walked briskly down the path to his truck.  As he wheeled the vehicle around, Simon looked back at the little cabin and saw Blair standing in the doorway.  The envelope was still in his hand, a small patch of white in the darkness that surrounded him.

Simon thought of angels, and hoped that they were real.

- 30 -

~ Go to "Moraine" ~