It was a beautiful day, he thought. Cold, of course, and wet, but it was Cascade, and he was alive; Jim was alive and nobody was hounding him about his senses, his job, or anything; he felt safe, he felt loved, and everything was perfect. Perhaps it wasn't even that cold after all, but he'd been cold for so long he could no longer tell if it was a physical, real cold that others would feel as well and he was just too tired to look any more. He knew he slipped up sometimes, and dressed too heavily, but he hated it more when he made a mistake and ended up wearing even less than Jim, which made Jim stare at him, and made him shiver.

Made him angry, with himself and the world; a quiet, slow burn that drained away his energy and interest in everything except his anger and made him into the kind of apathetic, uninspiring teacher that he hated, but luckily, his students no longer had to face him during these moods, which seemed to strike more and more often of late.

He thought this would be another of those days. He probably should have worn a heavier coat, he reflected, feeling the wetness soaking into his clothes, cold spreading from a dull throbbing hollowness in his gut. Idiot, he cursed himself, and thought longingly of a hot shower and warm bed, but without any urgency. He didn't particularly want to move, and he doubted his ability to find the strength or will to move even for those.

Water falling from the sky. Falling, pattering softly on his back, trickling down his face, down his neck, seeping through his clothes, the warmth-draining moisture soaking into him. Rain. Cascade. He could deal with that. It felt familiar, like deja vu, like the dreams of water pressing on his lungs, within him, all around him, like dying. Pattering softly on him, trickling through his hair, creeping down his collar and back with chill, familiar fingers, leeching away what little warmth remained in him. He hated waiting. He'd spent too much of his life waiting: waiting for Naomi to return from wherever she'd taken off to, waiting for application forms and grants to be processed, waiting for his results, waiting for rescue, waiting for Jim.... He hated waiting.

"Sandburg!"

When he heard his name called, in a voice touched with impatience and frustration or anxiety, he wanted to laugh for an instant. Then heavy steps came splashing to his side, and he swallowed anger at being splattered as rough hands grabbed at his arms, turning him over. The grip tightened painfully, and loosened again by spasmodic degrees, like shaking hands trying to relax and failing to.

Soft, frantic babble he couldn't make sense of. Too tired. The rain was still falling, he knew that much, but it was not falling on him anymore, and there was darkness before his blurry vision, so he supposed Jim was leaning over him, talking desperately, as if he could will understanding into Blair and it would mean...something.

But perhaps he could, and did, for Blair began to get what he was trying to say, or the gist of it anyway, and after all, what was a little telepathic communication to someone who had brought him back from the dead (you couldn't do that twice, could you, he wondered with detached amusement) and spoke to spirits on a regular basis...if only he could apply those same gifts to the living...

(did he count as one of Jim's spirits now?)

Blair closed his eyes, feeling unaccountably tired. Sorry, sorry and I love you, and with dawning comprehension came sudden panic and regret - I should have controlled myself better, should never have let you know - or failing which, we should have done something sooner, before this - but God it was too late, and they were stupid characters bewailing lost opportunities in some senseless melodrama, tasting salt and blood and then Jim's lips were on his, he was tasting salt and blood and mayonnaise and lettuce and whatever else was in the sandwich Jim had had for lunch, but it was mostly...sweet. It was sweet, and he gave himself up to the sensation, ignoring the rain and blood and futile tears, and then...

there was light.

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