Jim Ellison stared at the flickering images on the television set and wondered what on earth he was doing. He should be in bed. It had been a long day and there was no reason why he was still up. Just turn off the television and walk up the stairs, he told himself.
But he couldn't, plain and simple.
He leaned back and stared at the light reflecting on the high ceiling of the loft. The room was empty. He was alone.
Once that would have been normal. Coming home. Eating something. Catching the news, maybe a game, on the television. Going to bed.
But things had changed. Now 'coming home' meant more to him. Home was more than just the loft, it was Blair Sandburg, too. Sandburg made it 'home'. Coming home at the end of the day meant an evening shared. A meal at the table. Conversation about the day. Jokes. Laughter. Arguing about what to watch on the televison, what to play on the stereo. Saying 'good night' to someone before you retired for the evening.
Sandburg had left the loft several hours before and he hadn't returned. Ellison had seen the pain in his eyes when he walked out the door, the despair at the way the case was going.
So he sat, staring at meaningless patterns of light on the ceiling, and waited, not knowing what else to do.
When did I start to care this much? Ellison asked himself. How did this happen? How did he end up here?
Why am I sitting up, waiting for him to come home?
He got to his feet and crossed the room to the refrigerator, taking out a beer. Opening it, he leaned back against the counter and stared around the loft, taking in all the changes that had occurred in the last few years. New furniture. New paint. The original wall exposed in the living room, with its big number four. The bookcases. French doors.
He found himself there, looking into Blair's room and remembering the bleak spare room it had once been. Unused, superfluous, filled with cardboard boxes with little in them. As dead as he was.
Now it was colorful, multi-patterned, passionate. Alive. Books and artwork. Masks and spears. Disks and CDs and a fax machine hidden under a woven blanket. Pillows from twenty different countries . Pictures of friends from around the world. Artifacts and a lap top computer. Ellison inhaled deeply and let the myriad of smells settle around him. This was Blair. The ancient and the new. Wood, polished and stained. Magazines advertising computer programs. Worn, mildewy, forgotten books with crinkled pages. Incense. Candles. Blair.
Where are you, buddy?
He turned away and walked to the balcony windows, seeing not only the windy dark night, but his own reflection in the glass. For a brief moment, he was embarrassed at the worry on his face, the lines in his forehead, the way his hand clutched the beer bottle.
Embarrassment faded as he acknowledged what the outward signs represented. They meant he cared. He gave a damn what happened to his friend. His happiness depended on Blair's happiness. Blair's joy was his joy. His triumph was Blair's triumph. And now, tonight, Blair's pain was his pain.
He changed his focus through the glass to see the bleak street below, but catching no sight of the familiar frame walking along the street, hands perhaps thrust into his pockets, collar turned up against the wind. The street was empty; the sidewalk deserted. No cars passed along their street. No taxis returning the companion of his heart to their home.
Jim slowly walked back to the couch and sat down, staring at the candles Blair had set up on the coffee table. The significance of the arrangement was lost to him, six golden candles with different scents, set in a perfect half-circle around an incense burner. Had Blair chosen them for their significance to him, taking time to look at each one, decide its merit, then place it on the table just so? Or had he gathered a variety of the scented candles, as mixed as his emotions, and set them in random order in the half-circle, hoping to find some hidden meaning in the pulsing of the flames?
I'm as confused by this as he is, Jim thought, picking up one candle, his thumb tracing the path of wax that had dripped down the side and hardened. He chipped at it with his nail, and the trail of wax broke off, falling to the coffee table. Saddened by the destructive act, he replaced the candle and leaned back into the couch, staring at the reflection of the evening news scattered across the ceiling, and he knew that at this moment, he didn't care about what was happening in the world.
But his entire body resonated with the desire to see his friend at peace. Blair knew that he cared. He had to know. Everyone else knew.
I think I cared from that first meeting in the hospital.
Well, almost.
Maybe not then. Nor that first meeting in Blair's office.
But sometime in there, sometime during those first few days and weeks, he had come to care, and care deeply.
Jim raised the beer bottle, holding it out before him, then taking a long swallow. Come back soon, Chief. This place is empty without you.