It's awful to hear a grown man to cry like that.

Incacha is dead.

Jim sits in the dark living room like he always does when he has killed someone in the line of duty. Sitting there the whole night staring at nothing in particular. Maybe following the wandering lights on the ceiling.

When I saw him like this for the first time, I knew I never wanted to carry a gun. It shocked me far more than the blood, the twisted body. I don't want to know what's going on inside his head on such a night.

The first time, I was naive enough to believe I could help him, that he should talk to me about it, free himself from the memories with words. Yeah, stupid me. As if there is a way to free himself from something like this. There are burdens you carry your whole life and nobody can release you from them. There is no magic trick. Some think that that you are born alone and you leave this world alone and anything in between is an illusion.

I asked him once if it gets any easier. Not really, he answered, it gets worse. Sometimes he meets his old army buddies. I know that they talk about stuff like that. You probably need to have killed someone to understand what's going on. Now all my platitudes sound ridiculous, even to my ears.

But Incacha's death is worse than anything before. I don't know why he is so special to Jim. The cop of the year hid him, a confessed murder. Something I never dreamed he would do. Then Jim completely lost it when they came to take away Incacha's body. I was afraid he would literally tear the EMTs apart. So I did the only thing that I could. I got in his face, pushed him to action, made him focus on a new target and channel all the anger in something productive. I'm not sure anymore. Maybe I should have let him grieve. I would have done the same with any other person but Jim never seems to need this. Somehow I've missed something about this whole case.

The easy way the two men connected again after all these years! To say it surprised me a bit would be the understatement of the year. Normally Jim freaks when he sees someone with blue dyed hair and a pierced tongue. And the cultural difference here is huge. Really huge! You have to live with a tribe for a year or more to fully comprehend it.

I couldn't understand most of what they were talking about. My Quencha is rusty at best. They talked very little and spent more time smiling enigmatically at each other. It touched something deep inside me.

I can't sleep for his crying. He never cries. Nah, that's not true. He gets red, puffy eyes and a pale face. His voice gets hoarse and he can barely speak at all. But there are rarely tears. Now he sobs quietly and sniffles sometimes. It's heartbreaking.

I've been debating with myself for almost two hours now whether or not to go out and console him. But I'm sure he doesn't want me to see him like that. He hates it when people see him weak, even me.

The sound of crying doesn't stop. I turn restlessly in my bed. It's hot in here. My sheets are tangled up and I can't find a comfortable spot. He's surely aware that I'm awake. Finally, I get up, not knowing what I'm going to do about all this.

My bare feet are loud on the hard wood floor. He lies curled up on his side, his face buried in the cushions. I kneel in front of him barely seeing him in the dark. I gently stroke his bare shoulder.

"Jim."

He grabs my hand and holds it close. Relieved, I crouch forward and sling my arms around his shoulders. Somehow I expect that he will shove me away. But he doesn't, he lets me hold him. His body is hot and he shivers. His breath is much too fast - he's completely worked up.

"It's so unfair!" He croaks.

"I know."

"I miss him."

The soft words break my heart. I hug him hard, feeling my tears coming. I liked Incacha instantly. Jim's trust in him brought him close to me quickly. Their close friendship didn't make me jealous. I saw it as a wonderful gift.

He relaxes a bit and starts to talk about Incacha. He tells me little anecdotes. Eventually, he sits up. I snuggle next to him with my arm still around his shoulder.

He talks and talks, telling me things he'd never told me before about his time in Peru. Incacha's death had brought the memories to the surface. They are warm memories. Incacha had obviously been a great guy, I realize, and I'm sorry that I met him only briefly. I understand Jim's loss.

Some things he tells me sound a bit odd, so unlike Jim. But I know how it is to adapt to another culture, to another life style. You do weird things all the time. When you are home again, you can't remember what possessed you to do them in the first place.

I would have liked to see him living in the tribe. I can see him standing in amongst all the small natives, trying to fit in with his fatigues and his machine gun.

When he had calmed down a bit, he gives me an apologetic smile.

"You think I'm crazy?"

I shake my head.

"We were lovers, you know." He says softly.

The silence stretches out between us. I don't know what to say and reassuringly squeeze his shoulder instead. He starts to cry again.

"Oh, Jim."

I wrap my arms around him and hold him close. Shit! No wonder he is so devastated.

When he calms down a bit again, I make him some special tea, valerian and crataegus, so he can sleep. Jim slurps the hot tea thirstily, holding the mug with both hands. He wants to remain on the couch. I cover him with the blanket and when I see he's asleep, I return to my bed.

I feel drained and exhausted. I wish for the thousandth time I'd been at home earlier. Incacha might have survived.



After that night, Jim never talked much about Incacha. Sometimes when he was in the mood, he would share another jungle adventure story with me. Only once he spoke of Incacha, the lover, again. He'd been ill, feverish from an infected wound. Incacha had held him the whole night in his arms, rocking him like a child. He'd kissed him and Jim returned what had been offered happily.

I wasn't very surprised. Jim was an unbonded, adult male in a small tribe. He would have had to marry or become a man's lover. He'd never mentioned any women or children. I'd asked him once about it. I'd suspected that he had been with one of the warriors. I never told him about my suspicions. You don't talk with a guy like Jim about being fucked by another man. He could get the wrong idea. That you think he is a wuss or something.

I can't forget how Jim felt in my arms. Holding his big body was amazing, having all that barely contained, raw power pliant in my arms. I've sometimes wondered what it might be like to be with a man. I couldn't imagine that it could feel good to be with someone bigger and stronger, even more masculine than yourself. But now I realize that was pure nonsense. You have a human being in your arms, all flesh and bones. Vulnerable and weak like you. It doesn't matter how much bigger he is, if you fear him, you can't love him.

I love him.

If he asks me, I'd crawl in his bed and not be afraid of what might happen. Not a bit. That alone shows me how much I love him.

I'm standing even closer to him these days and I don't try to hide the feelings that show in my eyes. He smiles that enigmatic smile at me every time.

I went up to his room tonight. I just stood there in the dark and said nothing. He turned around and looked at me. Then he lifted his cover invitingly.

"Come on, Sandburg, you're freezing."

I snuggled against him happily. Best place in the world is tucked under his arm. I don't think I will ever regret this.