Blair had been home for an hour and still hadn't formed a coherent thought. The implications of his find mixed with the adrenaline rush of subduing a dangerous suspect and living through a bomb blast were almost too much for him to process. He sat down on the worn couch, picked up a sample textbook for next quarter's Intro to Anthropology class and set it back down again. A trip to the fridge for a beer and back again did nothing to increase his concentration. He picked up the phone, started to dial, then put it back in its cradle.

Sighing in exasperation, Blair shook his head. "No. Keep cool, Sandburg. You hassle him too much and he'll just get pissed and tell you to take a hike."

He wanted to call Detective Ellison. Badly. There were so many questions Blair needed to ask him. Had he found the bomb purely by the sound? How easy had it been to detect? Did he use any of his other senses while he was on the bus? How did he get past all the chaos to focus? And last but not least, where in the hell did he learn to jump on top of a moving vehicle like that?

Flexing his injured hand experimentally, Blair winced and reached for the phone again, then stopped.

"Chill," he admonished himself. If things went well he'd have all the time in the world to ask the detective about his senses. They could even run tests to see what his limits were. Visual acuity would be an easy one. He knew a woman over at the med school who was majoring in opthamology; he could probably borrow some eye charts and other equipment on the sly. "Yeah, right. He's going to be totally off the charts. Maybe if I test him from the other end of the football field..."

Finding Detective Ellison had been incredible luck, but what if it didn't hold out? He still had to deal with Jim's captain. No sweat. He'd dealt with the mother of all thesis committees, snowing a police captain should be a piece of cake.

Blair shivered as a particularly chill breeze blew through the drafty warehouse he called home. He grabbed a Navaho blanket from a pile in the corner, wrapped himself up in it and began to pace.

"Now what would be a convincing line of study? Maybe something about the thin blue line…"

Jim pulled a bottle of scotch from the cupboard beneath the sink and began to pour himself a drink. After looking at it for a few seconds he dumped the liquid down the drain and turned on the water, running some liquid detergent down to mask the smell of the alcohol. He'd been drinking too much lately--not enough to be a problem yet, but it would be soon if he didn't slow down.

If this Sandburg geek knew what he was talking about, Jim wouldn't need anesthetic any more. Big "if". The kid was cocky and rude, but he seemed to know his stuff. If Sandburg could help him get a handle on his senses, then it would almost be worth the headache of having him around.

Jim had threatened Sandburg with the academy, but he'd already abandoned that idea as impractical. He needed help with his senses now, not in six months. They'd have to work the observer angle, but that could be a problem. Simon wasn't an idiot, and the kid had already suggested the kind of academic crap that was sure to alienate half the station. Sandburg wasn't going to make any friends that way.

Jim switched out the lights and headed up to his bed. Things would work themselves out. He'd make them work out. When all was said and done, this college geek had offered him a thread of hope. Jim wasn't ready for a section 8. He had some freaky genetic thing to work out, but that was science. A tangible problem with a real solution.

If the kid got a thesis out of it, that was fine--as long as at the end of it he could function as a cop.

Jim undressed and slid beneath the cool sheets, his body just beginning to protest the day's exercise. Maybe Sandburg could help him control his muscle aches, too.

Feeling oddly at peace, Jim closed his eyes and started to drift off. A partnership with Sandburg wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to him, but if he brought that damned video camera again, there would be bloodshed.