Jim watched Blair walk away, flanked by Brackett on his left and Warden Banks on his right; a devil and an angel on either shoulder, whispering in his ears.

Banks always walked a released prisoner out, sending him on his way with a few gruffly friendly words or a grunted warning not to return, depending on the prisoner. Brackett's presence was less routine, but not entirely unexpected. Jim could sense the quickening expectation behind Brackett's outward complacency and gloss of efficiency as he chivvied Blair out of the cell. Not hard to guess the reason why. Brackett thought that with Blair gone, he'd have Jim all to himself. No competition for Jim's attention or his mouth, no scruples to overcome, no loyalty to subvert.

Think again, asshole.

Blair reached the end of the corridor, a chorus of catcalls from the cells serenading him. Some of the farewells were frankly envious but few of the farewells were hostile -- Blair was reasonably well-liked these days, though Jim knew that for some, Blair's past connection to King would always be held against him. He'd bent over for King, knelt and obeyed him, taken the abuse and begged for more, all in the name of survival. Jim saw that as pragmatic, if desperate and ultimately self-defeating. Others took a more simplistic view, and dismissed Blair as a cock-sucking fag who'd been lucky enough to swap one protector for another.

Blair turned his head, caught Jim's eye, and smiled, his mouth, still warm from the final, snatched kiss Jim had given it, shaping a single word: wait.

Jim could see every detail of Blair's face, from the shadows thumbed under his eyes -- sleep had come late for them both -- to the bite mark showing dark on Blair's neck. His mark, made with Blair clinging tightly to him, his body plastered against Jim's, his head turned, offering his throat to be bruised with a kiss. The ardent, avid lover of the night before had vanished. Blair, his smile fading, looked subdued, his natural elation at his release tempered by regret at leaving Jim behind.

Jim went back into his cell when Blair had gone out of sight, and sat down on the lower bunk, his legs like water. He could still hear Blair, each footstep, each ragged breath, and part of him was listening to Banks' jovial platitudes and Blair's mechanical responses, but most of him was lost in a sudden, crippling fear. Twenty months. Almost two years. He could survive the days to come, but what would he find waiting for him when he finally followed Blair past the gates and the walls of Starkville? Would Blair be waiting?

If Blair had moved on… Jim's hands closed into fists, his chest tight with panic and helplessness. The bed was still warm from Blair's body, the sheets damp with sweat and come from a night spent glutting themselves with sex, storing memories. Blair was still within earshot, for God's sake.

It didn't matter. Jim felt desolate and abandoned.

Fuck. He'd lasted about a minute before he'd fallen apart and begun to doubt Blair's fidelity and commitment to a relationship that had its roots in a forced connection between them. Sure, they'd fallen in love, but initially, Blair had loathed the idea that he was destined to help Jim control his senses. How long would it be before Blair decided that freedom should include his right to choose a lover and the hell with destiny?

Wait…

Had he heard that for real, or was he just playing back the word Blair had repeated so often, begging, commanding, reminding Jim as the mood took him?

It didn't matter. He couldn't allow himself to doubt, not if he was going to get through the next two years. He had to trust Blair and he had to be strong himself.

He closed his eyes. God, it wasn't going to be easy…

"Ellison?" A voice from the doorway brought Jim out of his haze of misery. He jerked his head around, the snarl that rose to his lips remaining unvoiced with an effort of will. His savage expression was more eloquent and Johnson flinched.

"Jesus, don't take it out on me."

"What do you want?"

"Laundry day; you need to fill your bag." Johnson nodded at the bunks. "Sandburg left you with his bunk to strip as well, did he?"

The thought of taking the sheets off the bed they'd shared, sheets redolent of sex, stale and fading through the scent was, didn't appeal to Jim, but sleeping in a bed that smelled of Blair without Blair actually being present would be an ordeal, too. He stood and began to take the bedding off the thin mattresses, his movements efficient and disciplined.

"They'll probably be moving someone in with you soon," Johnson commented, his tongue passing over his lips as he eyed Jim with a mixture of wariness and spite.

Jim shrugged. "I can put in a request for you, if you want." He allowed himself a smile, thin-lipped enough to be more menacing than a scowl. "I'm sure we could have a lot of fun after lights out."

Panic curled off Johnson like smoke, acrid and choking. God, was he really that stupid? Jim was resigned to jerking off for the next two years, but even if he'd been looking for a replacement for Blair, an idea too ludicrous to be considered, Johnson wouldn't have made the list. Even if he changed his habits and began to shower more than once every third day.

Jim took a single step forward, still smiling, his gaze flickering over Johnson's scrawny body, and Johnson scuttled back into the hallway, his eyes wide. "I'll -- I'll come back for the laundry."

"I'll be waiting," Jim said and pursed his lips in what might have looked like a blown kiss, saving his derisory snort until the man was out of earshot.

He turned his head, but he couldn't hear Blair now. Blair had gone too far away.

He was a sentinel with no shaman nearby again, but this wasn't like the dreadful days after Incacha had died. Blair was still alive. Just not…here.

Jim closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he took in the scent traces hanging in the air. They would fade soon, too, all of it would fade, except his memories and his trust. They were what he had to keep bright and alive.