Title: Homecoming

Author: Lin L. Barrett

Summary: What might have happened because of 9/11/01.

Rating: PG-13

Status: Complete.

Category: Angst/Adventure

Pairings: Jim/Blair friendship

Spoilers: None

Season/Sequel: September 11, 2001.

Content Warnings: Violent death of various kinds, non-sexual body contact between two adult males.

Author's notes: We all know that nothing of the plot revealed within this fiction happened after 9/11 (or if it did, they aren't telling us). Sometimes writing is a form of therapy. If it helps you with your anger, good; it helped me a little with my own.

The sentence which begins "Sometimes, in a relationship" is in its entirety a direct quote from the book Soul Mates by Thomas Moore, Harper Collins, 1994. I recommend this book to anyone who is, or is seeking to be, in a relationship.

"Homecoming" was created as a Stargate fanfic, but when I read Eileen's invitation to post one's thoughts and feelings on 9/11, I realized I wanted to see what happened to Blair and Jim as a result of that day's events. Jim and Blair are not Jack and Carter; it took a lot of rewriting. A slash piece would have been a near-straight, excuse the term, translation, but the Muse rebelled, so it took me two days to write the Stargate fic and two weeks to beat this one into shape.

. . . the essential story remains, sadly, the same.

This work is dedicated to the memories of Todd Beamer and his fellow passengers on flight 93, and to the memories of too many, too many, people who died as a result of the terrorist attacks which took place on September 11, 2001.

Feedback: Yes, please.

DISCLAIMER: The main characters mentioned in this story are the property of Bilson and DiMeo, who retain the rights to and copyright property of these characters and their implied or stated backstory. This fan fiction is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and is meant solely for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea, and the story itself are the sole property of the author.

Author's copyright September 11, 2001. Please ask to archive.

******

It had been a horrible fight. Begun as a discussion, it degraded into an argument, and descended into the personal hell of no-holds-barred, where no weapons are outlawed, no United Nations intervenes. The nuclear options were used against the intimate enemy.

They didn't have much in common, after all. Totally different life experiences. Totally different expectations. Totally different philosophies. Totally different points of view.

At the end of it, Jim Ellison said, with the very last dregs of his patience, "I don't care what their politics are. If they break the law, I pursue them. It's as simple as that to me."

Blair Sandburg said, "So the fact that you perceive the law they break as wrong - that has nothing to do with it?" His young face was blotchy white; the argument had earlier reduced him to tears (a place Jim Ellison had been driven to himself, but into which he would not go. The nuclear weapons had come out, instead).

The Sentinel shrugged his big shoulders. "My perceptions don't matter. I don't make the law, I enforce it. I wanted to make law, I'd've been a politician."

Blair said, carefully, "I don't think we'll ever agree on this."

Jim replied with equal caution, "No, I think you're right. What say we put the subject out of bounds?"

The Guide nodded, slowly, his eyes on his Sentinel's face. "I guess that's the way it has to be," he said reluctantly.

And so to bed. But it felt to each as if a wedge had been driven between them.

******

The next morning, neither had to be at work until eleven. (Just as well, since they had fought until one.) At nine Blair Sandburg was industriously making coffee when he heard Jim's shower shut off, and the Sentinel, wearing only a towel around his waist, made a beeline for the TV and switched it on.

This was unusual; Jim had no need for TV in the morning, preferring silence until the truck's radio broke it. (Blair had so many words saying themselves inside his head at any given moment that TV was merely a distraction.)

Jim changed the channel to CNN, neither man's normal viewing preference, "Blair," he said over his shoulder, "I heard this from upstairs. Come and watch."

The coffee could take care of itself, and Blair's tea water was approaching simmer. The Guide went to stand beside his Sentinel.

In stunned silence, both men saw the second airliner fly into the World Trade Center.

Saw the second tower collapse, neatly, silently, in upon itself. Saw the first disappear less neatly into billowing dust.

"Gods," Blair said. "Mom - "

He went to the phone. Jim continued to watch. The airliner flew into the second tower again and again and again. The towers folded up and became a cloud of dust again and again and again.

Somewhere in this instant replay of hell itself, Jim's cell phone rang: Simon.

Simon, sounding as if rage had filled him from top to toe. Sounding pretty much like Jim felt.

Simon talked and Jim listened. Eventually the tall man said, "And here's the call I have for you," clicking the phone line over.

Jim listened for fifteen minutes more, quietly; once, his big body moved to Blair's piles of papers to make some notes. Otherwise he stood like a statue. Once, early on, he said, "Of course."

Blair said, "Yes, it is horrible, Mom. I don't know any other word for it. It's - " he swallowed bile. "It's awful." He listened for a time. "Yeah, Mom, I love you too. I'll call you tomorrow. No, I'm glad you were in Kansas. It's probably safe there." He listened again. "Okay. Goodbye." He hung up, wiped his eyes, made tea for himself, and brought Jim a cup of coffee.

Jim nodded his thanks, continued to listen. When the caller was finished, he said, "Yes, sir, I understand. I'll be ready."

He hung up. Blair said, "What's up?"

Jim came back from wherever he was - it was a long, long way away, Blair thought, and not a good place, either - and said, "I have to pack for three days. They'll be here to pick me up in half an hour."

"Who, man?"

"Blair, I don't know. Simon forwarded the call after he checked out the caller. They tell me I'm catching a flight in forty-five minutes. I have to be ready to leave in thirty."

White-faced, the Guide jerked a thumb at the TV. "Does it have to do with - that?"

"I assume so."

Blair put his tea down and went unbidden and unasked into his Sentinel's arms.

Unbidden, unasked, but not unwelcome. Jim's big arms folded about him, and his head went down on top of Blair's.

And after that, dry-eyed, Blair helped Jim to pack.

When the knock came at the door, they had no new good-byes to say. Jim handed Blair the keys to the truck, and said, "Take good care of her."

Blair took them like they were the Holy Grail. His eyes on Jim's, he said, "Yeah, like I'd dare do anything else." Smiled. With his mouth.

Jim smiled back. With his mouth. The Sentinel said gently, "Take good care of yourself, too, Blair."

The Guide swallowed. "The ancient Egyptians had a prayer for it: 'May the gods keep you from harm in all the dark places into which you must go.'"

Jim's big hand touched Blair's shoulder softly, and the Sentinel left their home, closing the door silently behind him.

The Guide shut his eyes to keep from drowning. Jim's footsteps dwindled, there was an indeterminate murmur of voices, car doors slammed, and Blair was left alone with CNN.

******

Blair never could get back much of the next three days. He went to classes, had office hours, sat through meetings, pushed papers across Jim's desk at Cascade PD, and none of it could he remember clearly. He came into the loft and turned on CNN, then sat in front of it and graded papers until fatigue drove him to bed.

Thus, his head was down, mind at least partially focused on his work, when Jim opened the door; CNN masked the little noises of the Sentinel's arrival.

Jim put his bag down, hung his jacket on the rack, and simply stood for a moment, watching Blair grade papers.

The hair was as active as ever. The lithe body beneath it was curled tightly, as was Blair's wont, around the writing arm. Blair's blue eyes were intent on the paper in front of him.

Blair picked up his tea, and Jim spoke his name.

Blair shrieked and slopped tea all over someone's careful, if insufficiently-prepared-for, treatise. "Jim?" he said, considerably startled. "Where have you been?"

"Classified," the Sentinel said tartly, and dropped into the sofa like a man without bones.

Blair said nothing for a moment, looking at him.

He'd been gone three days.

That face. Where Jim's normal countenance was wary, dour, watchful, this face bore lines of pain and sorrow and regret.

The familiar features were etched by weariness beyond bone-deep: a depletion of the soul. And there were black circles underneath Jim's eyes, the kind you don't get unless you haven't slept for weeks.

He'd been gone three days.

Jim lay his head back on the sofa and shut his black-circled eyes. He could smell the sudden rush of his Guide's fear, but he was too weary even to acknowledge it.

Blair swallowed pain. What in God's name had they asked Jim to do? "Coffee?" he said. What he meant was, What will help you, Jim? Coffee? Sandwiches? Five-course meal? Pint of blood? Bone-marrow transplant? This extra kidney, since I've got two? You say the word, man, it's yours.

"No, I don't think so. I'll get a beer." The Sentinel made no move to rise, but Blair jumped up. "Sit," the Guide said. "Sandwich to go with that?"

"Please." The Sentinel's head sagged back onto the sofa again.

On an ordinary day, Blair would have pointed out the merits of tuna fish (if dolphin-free) or tofu as sandwich filling. This night he did not. He sliced roast beef thinly, put mayo (this stuff is so bad for your arteries), onion (harvested by underpaid and disenfranchised workers), tomato (see above on onion), lettuce (see above on onion), American cheese (which isn't cheese at all), salt (sodium hell) and pepper (see above on onion) on white (shudder) bread. Cut the monster in half diagonally, fished a pickle like a green submarine out of its lurk, and found some potato chips, lousy with fat and salt but still crisp.

Tonight his friend needed comfort food. It wasn't like one dose of this poison would shut Jim's arteries down with a dull "clong."

He hoped.

He set the dish down on the coffee table in front of Jim. Who woke with a start and grabbed his Guide around the throat with both hands.

Blair did not grasp Jim's wrists with his own hands, although it cost him a major effort of will, and kicked his heartbeat into overdrive, to refrain. "Jim?" he said quietly, his hands at his sides.

The Sentinel dropped his own hands. "Sorry, Blair." He looked at his Guide with eyes that were full of pain and ghosts.

"Jim," Blair said quietly, "you're back home. It's all right."

"'Back home'?" Jim whispered. "Blair, I can never be 'home' again." He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.

The Sentinel dropped his hands to his sides and shut his eyes. The Guide sat, and watched his friend.

Jim was sure that, after the door to the loft had shut behind him, he had spent the rest of September 11 and most of September 12 in flight. First he had followed the President to Louisiana, then to Nebraska, then to Washington; along the way he had met with stone-eyed individuals who had been introduced to him as CIA, FBI, or not at all.

He knew, at one point, that his handlers were awaiting confirmation. (What was to be confirmed was never made clear.) When they received it he was taken to another airport, put on another flight. Five other men, none of whom resembled him and all of whom might have been his steel-eyed taciturn twin, occupied other seats. Everyone wore mufti; a few had bands of untanned skin third finger left hand, more had the band of untanned skin that remains when you remove your Academy ring. (Or your Superbowl ring. But that was unlikely, here.)

It hadn't seemed politic to ask anyone which Academy, or if that was a Superbowl ring they weren't wearing at the moment, so he had contented himself with losing fifty-five bucks at poker. When they exchanged names, he'd nodded, said, "Jim."

Juan. Jack. Rick. Nathan. Nguyen.

Rick got up once they finished the third hand of poker (over Gibraltar, Jim thought, looking out the window at the light patterns) and outlined the mission.

You find the individual responsible while CNN is still interviewing politicians, you allocate the six best in the country to the task, you remove the threat. You don't tell anybody that you have done this. After that, you do the economic jiggery-pokery that beggars the ten who step in to fill that one's place, leaving them unable to spread their poison. But that takes time. This takes bullets.

In a dusty tent city Jim never did learn the location of, he took a breath, let it out, squeezed (didn't pull) the trigger. He was not alone. There were six for a purpose.

A child, dropped by his father in death-spasm, began to wail.

Perhaps that loving father had originated and compiled the complex plot that resulted in hijacked airliners impacting the World Trade Center Towers and the Pentagon. Perhaps the devoted husband lying across him had been defied by the courage of passengers on a flight which crashed in Pennsylvania.

It didn't matter. They'd been given an assignment and they'd carried it out.

Other things did matter, though. Jim thought a great deal about Todd Beamer, who on United Flight 93, which crashed in Pennsylvania, had roused fellow passengers to bring down the plane; their own deaths assured, not negotiable, ordinary Americans had found within themselves the courage to safeguard their fellows still on the ground.

He thought of rescue workers, ordinary Americans answering the call to succor other ordinary Americans injured in the first impact. Ordinary Americans, dying in a second crash.

Jim had the bits of silk-and-metal which meant that America had defined him as a "hero." He didn't know if he could meet the standards for that term which ordinary Americans had set on September 11, 2001.

The ghosts of those ordinary Americans, perhaps, rode Jim's shoulder, leant him steadiness. Perhaps the ghosts of many thousands of ordinary Americans who had gone to work that Tuesday in the World Trade Center, who had reported for duty at the Pentagon, who had responded to a 911 call, stilled the wind for a moment.

Perhaps.

In that hot dusty tent city on a star-filled night, those ordinary Americans had all given him strength . . . and regret for the necessity of that strength.

The question would always remain: why?

The image of that newly-orphaned child would remain as well. Jim could feel a pool of rage, sickening in its intensity, down at the bottom of his mind, waiting to erupt onto the bullies, the tyrants, the terrorists.

And after — after they were done, after a frozen-faced CIC had shaken his hand, after they'd pinned another bit of silk-and-metal to his chest — he'd come to Cascade.

He hadn't "come home." He'd flown back. Big difference.

His eyes opened on Blair's white face. "Sorry," Jim said, wiping a hand over his countenance. "Drifted off there for a second."

"S'okay." Blair shuffled his pile of papers, keeping his eyes on his Sentinel's face. Jim finished the sandwich and put the plate down again, closing his eyes tiredly.

Blair got a second sandwich together and set it on the table. The tiny noise wakened Jim.

The Sentinel straightened himself and reached for it. "Thanks," he said, tiredly. "After - after Monday, this is more than I have a right to expect."

"No, Jim, it's not."

Jim stopped in mid-munch, hand and sandwich suspended halfway to his mouth. "It's not?"

Blair half-turned away from him, to pick up the work he had left. "Jim. I will always, so long as I live, be there for you. Not just as your Guide but as your friend." The Guide's eyes met the Sentinel's. "Didn't you know that?"

Jim made a gesture of pure weariness. "I guess I didn't. I thought that after that argument, and especially after you published . . . . "

The half-sentence died a lonely death; he didn't want to get to the end of it. He shrugged, and bit into the sandwich.

Blair's eyes back on a test paper which might have been Navajo sand painting, for all the sense the Guide was making of it at the moment, he said carefully, "Publishing won't change that for me, Jim. Neither does the argument."

The Sentinel watched his Guide warily, and not with the beginning of hope in his eyes; he was far too tired to hope. "We don't have a lot in common, Blair. Not as much as I have in common with most of my other friends. Not much at all, in fact. We're Guide and Sentinel, and that's about it."

Jim wasn't disputing. He was stating a fact as he knew it. He didn't like the fact, but that had nothing to do with its validity.

His ability to do that was part of the reason that Blair had hung in there. The man was honest all the way to the marrow of his bones.

The Guide looked at the Sentinel's big, capable hands, then up into his set face, with a flash of the courage that had kept Jim himself hanging in there.

As the wise man Eric Clapton once put it, why does love got to hurt so bad? Especially when it's two guys who love each other, two straight guys who aren't allowed by the rules of that game to say, "I love you." So Blair said instead, "Jim, man, I can't expect you to be someone you aren't."

Jim said, his voice dead, "Someone you could be friends with."

"No. The person I need to be friends with is you. --I'm glad you're home."

"Home?" Jim said, utter desolation in his voice. "Home" is a place I was sent to avenge, because "home," that "home," doesn't exist any more. Born July 4, 1776; died September 11, 2001; rest in peace.

Blair swallowed the tears called up by Jim's bleak tone. "Home, Jim. Your home. If - I don't know if you want to be friends anymore. If you want I'll leave tomorrow, but I don't want you to have to sleep here by yourself tonight." He turned off CNN with a gesture of the remote. "And after that, I don't want to have to, either."

Jim thought for one horrifying moment he was going to cry, but he put down the second half-eaten sandwich and said, grumpily, "My room. Touch me and you die."

Blair was, to put it mildly, surprised. He'd only meant that he'd spend one more night in his own room, but he said, "I know that, Jim. Just - another heartbeat in the universe, you know? To let you know you aren't alone."

"Yeah." Jim shut his eyes again..

Blair did the half-dozen things Jim always did to put the household to bed at night, while Jim, boneless and exhausted, sat on the sofa. Occasionally a wide hand would escort the beer or the sandwich to his mouth. He'd remember to chew and swallow after a while. Otherwise, he didn't move.

Shutting down the lights, Blair said, "You aren't alone in this universe, Jim."

The Sentinel stood, tired body unfolding against gravity. "Blair, I'm as alone as I can be, all the time."

"I know," the Guide said, gently. "But not tonight. Tonight neither one of us is alone."

Jim turned away so that Blair wouldn't see the shine of tears in his eyes. (Damn kid.) "I'm going to get a shower," he said.

"Sure." Blair collected his toothbrush from the bathroom, went to the kitchen with it. In his room, he pulled out the only pajamas he owned, flannel jobs, a tad too hot for this warm September. On the other hand, he wasn't going in there in his underwear. Jim'd kill him.

And Jim had done too much killing. The thought rocked Blair, but he knew it for truth down in his bones.

Sometimes, in a relationship, you sacrifice not to the other person but to the relationship itself.

He put the flannels on. A man in a trance, he walked up the stairs to Jim's bedroom, and climbed into the waterbed, facing the wall. He set the alarm, turned out the light.

He was instantly asleep. He'd meant to wait for Jim, but relief is a powerful soporific . . . nearly as strong as a waterbed.

******

The door was open, the light out. Blair lay with his back to Jim, on the far side of the bed. The Sentinel got into the waterbed, a warm-to-the-skin comfort in itself.

His room. His smells. Blair's breath, scent, heartbeat. His home. Their home.

Home.

Carefully, not touching his Guide, Jim arranged himself with his back to Blair's.

Who rolled over and put an arm around Jim's waist, cuddling up into his back.

Damn kid. Damn neo-hippy witch doctor punk. Jim didn't pull away.

After a time, Jim's ghosts receded from his Guide's touch, and he was able to relax. He had come home. If he had returned to find it changed, not the same home he had left, he had still come home.

"Home" for a Sentinel was the presence of his Guide. "Home" for Jim was the presence of his friend.

Blair put his cheek on Jim's broad back, sighed, and cuddled into the larger man's body.

Jim slept, at last, without dreaming at all.

******

Feedback to: Vienne123@Hotmail.com