Epiphaneia

By Lanning Cook

Amy Tan

 

"And then she says, 'Mr. Ellison, if you don't leave my office immediately I'll be forced to call Security.'"

Jim rested his chin on the table and pressed his nose to the tequila bottle to share a nasty snicker with his only companion. The addressed party floated with tranquil abandon near the bottom of the bottle - apparently not amused, if Jim were any judge of invertebrate facial expressions. That was the thing about worms. No sense of humor. But they made great listeners.

"Wait. It gets better. So I listen for a second, and then I say, 'Good luck, Chancellor. Joe just got on the phone with his girlfriend Patty – who, by the way, thinks you're a bitch for altering vacation policy for campus security officers. They had a week in Mexico planned for next month, so if Joe values his life he won't be taking any other calls for a few minutes. And Dave is outside the building making time with your secretary. Sounds like he's getting somewhere, too. Don't be surprised if they disappear for a while. And Mike –' she starts dialing now ' – Mike is next door hauling one of your best and brightest out of the Foreign Language office, where he was found pissing on his advisor's desk."

Jim snickered again, even more nastily this time. "She's getting no answer at Security now, of course, and she's getting all red in the face and twitchy. So I tell her that her heart rate and temperature are elevated. And that she'd had pastrami on rye for lunch. And that she'd spilled coffee on the carpet behind her desk about two days ago. And that someone had been having sex on the couch in her office. She got really red then. Excuse me."

Jim threw back what remained in his glass and poured himself another. The worm bobbed about without complaint. "Sorry 'bout that. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. She stares at me for like five minutes. Then she hems and haws and twitches, and finally she asks me what I want. So I tell her."

The worm bobbed inquisitively.

"Well, what the hell do you think?" demanded Jim irritably. "I want Sandburg re-hired. I want his fucking dissertation given the fucking Rainier University seal of approval. I want to see those damn letters after his name now. And if they need a lab rat to make that happen, here I am. Show me the cheese."

"Jim."

Jim nearly leapt out of his booth – and his skin – as a hand settled firmly on his shoulder. Twisting his body toward the source of the pincer-like sensation, he became suddenly and painfully aware of his surroundings. The sting of smoke and the cacophony of dozens of voices, clanging glasses, crunching ice, whirring blenders, slamming doors, tramping footfalls, and roaring traffic just outside blended with the stench of half a hundred different kinds of liquor, deodorants, aftershave, perfume and sweat.

Jim winced and ratcheted his senses down to a tolerable level, then stared up into Mike Reilly's disapproving face. "Yeah? What?"

"Where the hell are your friends, Jim?"

"What friends?"

"The friends you said were going to be sharing that bottle with you." Reilly glared down at him with obviously well-developed annoyance.

"Oh. Well … only one of 'em showed up. Allow me to introduce you."

"Look, Jim-"

"This is … Mr. Squiggles."

"Christ in a cathouse," growled Reilly in blatant disgust.

Jim ignored the inappropriate and irrelevant nature of the remark. "Mr. Squiggles, this is Mike – Mike Reilly, a prince among bartenders."

"For crying out loud. Give me the bottle, Jim. I'll bring you some coffee."

"Me and Mr. Squiggles here, we're not finished with our conversation." Jim gripped the bottle defiantly.

"The hell you're not. I'm calling you a cab."

"We're not leaving."

"Look, Jim, I owe you big time, and I'm not going to let you kill yourself in my bar. Come on, you know your limit, and I'd say you passed it an hour ago."

"Are you insin… insinu… implying that I can't hold my liquor?" Jim rose to his feet to bring the full force of his glower to bear, vaguely annoyed that Reilly insisted on swaying from side to side, like one of those blow-up clowns with a weight in the bottom. It was making him feel seasick.

Reilly held his ground with an obstinate expression. "Give me the damn bottle and sit down."

"I paid for this bottle, and we are taking it with us." Jim yanked his car keys out of his jacket pocket.

"I'm not letting you kill yourself on the road either." Reilly snatched the keys from Jim's hand. "I'm calling you a cab. And then I'll bring you some coffee. Sit down before you fall over!" He strode away before Jim could make a grab for the keys.

"Do you believe that guy?" Jim raised the bottle to eye level to address its occupant in an indignant tone. "He thinks I'm drunk. I'm not drunk. I … am … an Ellison. And an Ellison can drink any man under the table. Any man, anywhere, any time."

Jim made eye contact – or whatever passed for such – with his companion, only to detect a faint but unmistakable air of skepticism.

"What? You don't believe me? Listen, pal. Ellison men are the toughest sons of bitches that ever peed standing up."

Skepticism flowered into blatant disbelief.

"Oh, you don't think so, huh? Watch this."

Jim lifted the bottle to his lips and, tilting his head back, swallowed the remainder of the contents, worm and all.

"Oh, for Pete's sake! What the hell are you doing?" Jim felt Reilly's fingers curl around his wrist and yank the bottle away from Jim's mouth. "Sit down and drink this!" A mug smelling of coffee appeared a few inches from his nose.

Jim stared at the empty bottle, struggling with a peculiarly sharp pang of loss. "I killed Mr. Squiggles," he said quietly.

Reilly sighed, took the empty bottle from Jim's hand and replaced it with the mug. "He's in a better place, Jim. Just drink the coffee, okay? The cab'll be here in a few minutes."

"You don't think he felt anything, do you?"

"Of course not."

"Drowning's a bad way to go," said Jim thickly, his vision becoming obscured. "It's slow. Wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

"Nobody's drowning, Jim." Reilly swatted Jim's back. "I'll be right back. Drink the coffee."

"Drowning's a bad way to go," muttered Jim to Reilly's receding back. The mug slipped from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor. Sound and stench rose to wall him inside a claustrophobically small space, and he shoved his way through the crowd toward the door.

******

"Withdraw my application?"

"I'm sorry, Blair. I am so damn sorry."

"Withdraw my application."

"I didn't mean to spring it on you like that."

"S'okay," said Blair dully, easing himself onto the couch as his stomach continued its plunge toward his ankles.

"I thought you'd know by now. Why didn't Jim tell you? Put him on the damn phone."

"He's not here."

"Where the hell is he? He left…. Shit. Blair, are you all right?"

Blair struggled to frame a coherent sentence. "Withdraw my application. Simon. I don't under-"

"Politics, Sandburg. Nothing to do with your qualifications or your service to the department. Every cop in Major Crimes knows you're a damn fine officer, whatever those idiots downtown say. You know that, right?"

The strain in Simon's voice snapped Blair out of his silence. "Yeah. I appreciate that."

"I know this stinks, Blair. And I know you can't pay the bills with our good opinion. If there were a snowball's chance in hell of getting you into the Academy without the Chief's approval I'd go for it. But there isn't. Are you going to be all right?"

"Yeah," said Blair mechanically, wondering what constituted 'all right' when your entire life was spiraling around the toilet bowl on its way to Sewage Central - and where the hell his weird yet profound sense of relief was coming from. "Why, Simon? Rollins--"

"Has his sights set on the mayoral elections in two years."

Blair laughed in sudden, mirthless comprehension. "And I'm bad press."

"He said that the department couldn't afford the appearance of condoning unethical behavior."

Blair flinched. "Yeah. I hear that."

"His words. Not mine, okay? I want you on my squad. I told Rollins that he was making a serious mistake, that your integrity was above question."

Blair smiled in spite of himself and swallowed against a tightening throat. "Geez. Simon. You shouldn't have done that, man. That is one skinny limb you're going out on."

A cantankerous snort sounded in Blair's ear. "I'm borne up by the wings of angels, Sandburg. Rollins has been sawing on that limb for the past ten years and it hasn't broken yet."

"If anything could break it, this could. Don't go knight in shining armor on me, man."

"I'm afraid your partner's already beaten me to it." Simon's dry tone spoke volumes about as yet unrevealed disaster.

Blair froze as a surge of adrenaline shattered his numbness. Jim. Shit. Oh, shit. "Please tell me he wasn't there when Rollins was."

"Of course he was here. Since when have you had that kind of luck?"

"He heard?" Blair sighed inwardly at the stupidity of the question.

"Ask my office door window. It's all over the floor."

"He broke your door in?"

"He was in a bit of a hurry to introduce Chief Rollins' ass to my office wall."

"Holy shit."

"Chief Rollins didn't like his ass being introduced to my office wall, Sandburg."

"Holy shit," repeated Blair faintly, burying his face in his free hand.

"Jim did it anyway."

"Holy shit."

"And then he started preaching."

"Excuse me?"

"Preaching, Sandburg. The Gospel According to Ellison."

"Oh," said Blair wearily. "What did he say? I haven't been saved."

"In a nutshell? That Pete Rollins had never been half the cop or half the man Blair Sandburg was, and that if Blair Sandburg wasn't good enough for the Cascade PD, then neither was Jim Ellison."

"What?"

"Then our Officer of the Year dumped his badge and gun on my desk and walked out."

"Holy shit," muttered Blair again, fighting a surge of panic. Jim. Man. What are you doing? "What did Rollins say?"

"My mother doesn't let me use those words, Sandburg."

"What's going to happen to Jim?"

"Rollins wanted me to accept his resignation."

Blair leaped to his feet to pace the room, taking his anger out on the defenseless rug. "You can't do that! Jim's the best you've got. Rollins wasn't hurt, was he?"

"Of course not. His pride is coughing up blood, though. Talk to me, Sandburg."

The pressure that had been slowly building against Blair's ribs exploded. "Damn! Damn!"

"Talk to me calmly. What the hell is with Jim?"

"It's called misdirected anger. In case you haven't noticed, he's a master."

"Hell's bells," growled Simon. "Why is it every conversation we have about that guy turns into Pop Psychology 101? Who is he mad at?"

Blair ignored the question. "Please, Simon. You can't accept that resignation." He knew he was begging and didn't care. "Don't take his work from him now. He needs it. It's the most important thing in his life. It's who he is, man. Can't you tell Rollins-"

"I've already told Rollins," cut in Simon in a weary tone. "And now I'm telling you. Ellison's suspended without pay for two weeks. And this incident will appear on his permanent record. I managed to calm the Chief down enough to get him to agree to that."

"Thank God." Blair started breathing again.

"Thank me. And when Superman shows up, you tell him that. I don't want to see his ass within a mile of this building until those two weeks are up, got it? You are hereby authorized to confiscate his cape."

"Thanks. Thanks, Simon."

Simon's voice grew fierce. "And tell him that if he ever pulls a stunt like that again, I will personally see to it that his life won't be worth living. He will find himself on the express elevator to Banks Hell. He will find my pitchfork where the sun don't shine. He will eat fire and shit brimstone. Are you reading me, Sandburg?"

"Absolutely," replied Blair with what he hoped was suitable fervor.

"He will wish he had stayed in Vice. He will wish he had stayed in Peru. He will wish he had never been born. Got that?" Simon's voice boomed from the receiver, and Blair winced as he held it away from his ear.

"Yes, sir. Got it."

"Good. Now where is he?"

Blair felt his stomach drop for the second time in five minutes. "You don't know where he is?"

"He hasn't called in."

"How long ago did he leave?"

"Almost three hours ago."

Blair froze half-in and half-out of his jacket, aghast. "Three hours? You waited three hours to tell me this?"

"I thought he was home until five minutes ago! Or that he'd at least called to tell you--"

"Tell me what? The wonderful news?" snapped Blair. "Geez, Simon, you know how he is. Where the hell did he go?"

Simon swore under his breath. "Don't panic!"

"Who's panicking?" Blair shouted into the phone, his mind darting from one frightening possibility to the next like a moth in a strobe light. "Do I sound like I'm panicking?"

"No, you sound like Jim Ellison. Like one of you isn't enough."

"Dammit, Simon-"

"If I know Jim, he's blowing off steam somewhere. The gym, maybe. I'll call around and let you know. Just stay put. If he calls or shows up there, call me."

Blair hesitated, one hand already on the doorknob. Simon was right; someone had to be here if Jim called. When Jim called. Blair turned away from the door, resisting his gut impulse to bolt into the falling dark in search of his friend. "Okay. But I don't like this, Simon."

"And I do?"

"No. I mean something's wrong. I can feel it."

"Knock that off," growled Simon. "Don't even think about going spooky on me, Sandburg. Sit tight and I'll call you back." He hung up before Blair could answer.

Blair hit the cradle button and tossed the phone onto the couch. "Aw, Jim," he muttered to the silence. "What the hell are you doing?"

***

Jim kicked the empty soda can again, sending it skittering across the pavement and into the graffiti-covered walls of yet another deserted, dirty alley. It was no different than any of the other nameless alleyways he'd been wandering for the past hour, looking for … trouble, probably. Yeah. That's what he wanted. Trouble. Some junkie or mugger, who'd have to be chased, tackled and pounded after resisting arrest. Citizen's arrest, that is. Not a very promising scenario, come to think of it. No badge, no gun, no dance.

James Ellison, private citizen. Well, it could have been worse. It could have been James Ellison, lab rat and one-man freak show. Hell, even that could have been worse. After all, Blair would have been there. Blair would never have let them go too rough on him. That was the one thing in this world he could be sure of right now. Blair was on his side. Better than that. Blair loved him.

Jim felt himself grinning stupidly as he kicked the can again, rounding a corner. What a dope Sandburg was. What a beautiful, brilliant, loyal, brave, loving, furry little dope. Sandburg could have had anything and anyone he wanted. And he'd given it all up for Jim Ellison, sideshow freak.

Jim's grin collapsed into a scowl, and he gave the can a vicious kick that propelled it halfway down the alley and into a pair of dilapidated sneakers.

"Hey! Watch where you're kicking that thing, asshole."

Jim stared at the shabby shoes, becoming suddenly aware that they were only one pair among many gathered against the left wall of the alley. Blinking, he adjusted his vision. A group of raggedly dressed people stared back at him as the man in the sneakers kicked Jim's can back at him with an openly hostile expression.

Jim observed the expression with profound sense of satisfaction. Good. It had taken a while, but if you looked hard enough for trouble you inevitably found it. Taking comfort from this certainty, Jim deliberately kicked the can into the man's shins. "Who are you calling 'asshole,' loser?"

Receiving no answer but a glower and an obscene gesture, Jim resorted to his most intimidating swagger. He noted with considerable irritation that the effect was somewhat marred by the pavement shifting and shaking beneath his feet like a pile of Jell-O cubes. Determined to rise above such petty obstacles, Jim planted his feet firmly in the Jell-O in front of the dirty and largely toothless owner of the ratty sneakers and leaned into the man's face menacingly. "Do yourself a favor and … and move along."

"I ain't moving nowhere." The belligerent response was spat into Jim's face with a gust of foul breath. "I got as much right to be here as you. And the line forms at the rear, dickwad."

Line? Jim dismissed the remark and took the man firmly by the arm. "There are laws against … loitering in this city. Unless you want to get hauled in for … for vagrancy-"

"Fuck off!" The man yanked his arm out of Jim's grasp and shoved him away.

"And disturbing the peace." Jim grabbed the man by the front of his filthy jacket, reveling now in the stench and fury of the stranger, in the angry muttering of the people around him, in his own rage. "Or maybe … assault. Yeah? You want to take a swing at me, scumbag? Come on. Take your best shot."

"Get off me, you crazy son of a bitch!" The man shoved him back again; his rising fear blending with the escalating mélange of sensations permeating Jim's awareness.

"What's the matter?" Jim rode the high of the man's fear with mounting exultation; he came back on the balls of his feet and shoved the man back against the wall. "Come on. Go for it. Go for it!"

A firm hand descended on Jim's shoulder. "Jimmy."

Jim gasped and whirled, his right hand groping clumsily toward his gun – or at any rate, toward where his gun used to be. He froze at the sight of an elderly man in liturgical robes.

"I'm unarmed," said the man wryly.

Jim felt his face go hot. Great. He'd just tried to shoot a priest. Maybe he was a little drunk. A little. "I'm sorry," he stammered. How the hell had the man snuck up on him like that? His senses must be wonky. Mr. Squiggles wasn't going down without a fight. "I didn't hear you."

"He's crazy, Father, he's crazy!" screeched the man against the wall.

"I'm sure this has all been a misunderstanding, Mr. Pugh." The priest's voice was soothing.

Jim burst into sudden, raucous laughter, unable to restrain himself. "Mr. … pew? Mr. … pee … ewe … got … that right-"

"Jimmy, take your hands off him now!" The sharp edge in the authoritative voice cut through Jim's semi-hysterical laughter, and he released Pugh instantly.

The priest nodded with stern expression. "Thank you. Now, everybody please calm down. The door to the kitchen will be open in just a minute."

Jim stared at the man in confusion. Kitchen?

"Jimmy, come with me." The priest gestured toward the street.

Jim hesitated, glancing back at the line of muttering people.

"Right now," the old man added tartly.

Jim fell in beside the priest, stumbling over the soda can. "Kitchen?"

"The soup kitchen. Now you must remember that. We ran the soup kitchen even when you were a boy."

"A boy?" repeated Jim stupidly.

The priest smiled faintly. "You don't remember me, do you, son?"

"Remem-" Jim broke off as something in the man's manner jogged his memory. "Father Thomas?"

"Ah, you do remember. You were very young when you stopped coming to mass."

Jim managed not to groan aloud. Fucking A, what a day. Jim screws over partner. Jim quits job. Jim volunteers for vivisection. Jim swallows Mr. Squiggles. Jim gets ripped a new one by childhood priest. "Yeah. Eight. What are you doing here?"

"Jimmy, do you know where you are?"

Jim laughed at the stupidity of the question. "I'm in Cascade, Father. Where are you?"

"You're behind the church," corrected Thomas gently. "Why don't you come into the rectory? I've just finished with evening mass; please join me for coffee."

"Everybody wants me to drink coffee," grumbled Jim.

"I have doughnuts, too. Do you like doughnuts, Jimmy?"

Jim glanced at Thomas and saw frank kindness in the old man's face. "Ah … yeah, I like doughnuts," he said awkwardly. "Thanks, Father."

"Tequila?"

"Yeah. Not Jim's usual poison."

"Tequila?"

"Worm and all."

Blair tightened his grip on the phone and flopped onto the sofa, aghast. "He swallowed the worm? God, Mike, do you have any idea how shit-faced he must be?"

"I know exactly how shit-faced he is! When a guy starts talking about drowning Mr. Squiggles-"

"Mr. who?"

"The worm, Sandburg. The asshole fucking named his worm, okay?"

"Oh, shit." Blair fell back against the cushions to stare at the ceiling; it offered nothing in the way of either enlightenment or consolation. "Shit."

"I take his keys, right? I give him some coffee, I go to call him a cab, and when I get back I find out the bastard's thrown his coffee on the floor and knocked three people over on his way out!"

Blair fought his instinctive urge to leap to Jim's defense and went down swinging. "Which would never have happened if you hadn't let Jim suck down a whole bottle of tequila in the first place!"

"Don't start on me, Sandburg. My place is packed tonight, okay? I don't have time to baby-sit an ex-Ranger."

"Dammit, Mike-"

"Look, Jim comes up to the bar, sober as a judge, and asks for the bottle. He says some friends are joining him in the back booth. By the time I figure out what's going down, the asshole is feeling absolutely no pain."

"He's feeling too damn much pain," muttered Blair.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." Blair sighed. "Sorry, Mike. Look, if he shows up again, keep him there and call me, okay?"

"Oh, I'll keep him here all right. I'll keep him here just long enough for him to mop up my floor and pay for the goddamn coffee mug he broke before I haul his ass to the curb."

"Mike-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll sit on him. Jesus, Sandburg, what does he pay you for the nanny gig? Whatever it is, it's not enough."

Blair snorted. "You're telling me?"

"I gotta go."

"Thanks for the head's-up, Mike."

"No problem. If he shows up there, kick his ass for me."

"Count on it."

"See you." Mike hung up, and Blair stared at the phone a few seconds before he hit the cradle button and tossed it onto the coffee table.

"He's right," he snapped, turning toward Jim's usual perch on the sofa. "You're an asshole."

The slight indentation in the sofa cushion disdained to reply.

"You just had to do it. You just had to wig out about this!"

"Why the hell didn't you just come home and tell me? We could have worked something out."

Blair glared at the cushion and jumped up to pace the room again. "How the hell do I know? Like I've had time to figure this out. Like I had time to figure anything out before you shoved that badge in my face!"

Blair whirled toward the sofa and exploded. "Help? Help who? Where the hell did you get off doing that, huh? In front of Simon, in front of Naomi, in front of everybody in Major Crimes! Like I can say 'no, thanks' to a gold shield in front of the whole damn world!"

"The hell it was! It was your decision, yours, you big dumb prick! I never wanted to be a cop!"

Blair stopped dead in his tracks for several moments, shocked.

"Aw, shit," he muttered finally. "Shit. Jim. I never wanted to be a cop." He stood in miserable silence for a few moments. "I never wanted to be cop," he repeated quietly. "Shit."

***********

"Just let me give the gargoyles their dinner." Thomas ushered Jim inside the rectory and closed the door behind him. "And then we can have our coffee."

"Gargoyles?" Jim followed Thomas into the small living room.

"That's what Mrs. O'Connor calls them." With a cryptic grin, Thomas disappeared through another doorway. Jim immediately heard the sounds of perhaps half-a-dozen dogs barking, whining and scratching on a door as Thomas walked toward them. "You don't mind dogs, do you?" he called.

The question was obviously rhetorical, for no sooner had Thomas asked than Jim heard a door opening and the sound of many toenails skittering on hardwood floors. A pack of yipping, sniffing dogs of widely varying size and breed bounded into the room and surrounded him before he could move. "No," muttered Jim, nudging a mutt of vaguely German shepherd heritage away from his crotch. "I like dogs."

"Come on back here, you monsters!" Jim winced as the clang of a spoon against a metal bowl assaulted his ears. The dogs abandoned him immediately, jostling each other for position as they ran eagerly through the door and down the hall toward the sound of an electric can opener. "Be with you in just a minute, Jimmy. Please have a seat."

Jim perched uncomfortably on a small loveseat, glancing around. The room hadn't changed much in thirty-odd years. It looked smaller, and a little shabbier than he'd remembered. Not that he'd spent much time in the rectory. Jim could only recall two occasions; the first being the time he'd snuck in to spy on Father on a dare, and the last when he'd been called in to receive the reading of the Riot Act after someone had ratted him out for spying on Father on a dare. Even when his mother had been around to drag him here, he hadn't spent any more time than absolutely necessary in the massive hulk of his church.

"Mind your manners, you hell-hounds." Thomas' wry laughter rose above the clanging of metal bowls. "There's plenty. Anyone would think I starve you, the way you carry on. Just wait your turn!"

Thomas hadn't had any dogs back then. He'd had a cat, though; a big, mean motherfucker of a cat named Sophocles, who'd prowled the choir stalls during mass to maul the unguarded ankles of the children's choir, Jim's included. God, he'd hated that fucking cat. That thing had been the size of a hyena. And evil. It had definitely been evil.

"That should keep them busy for awhile," remarked Thomas, bustling back into the living room with two mugs of coffee in his hands.

"Lot of dogs," observed Jim profoundly.

"They were abandoned." Thomas handed Jim a mug. "The alley behind the church seems to be a prime dumping ground. I try to find homes for as many as I can."

Jim stared into his cup. Abandoned. Yeah. He knew all about that.

"Doughnut?" A box of glazed doughnuts was thrust into his field of vision.

Jim blinked. "Ah … yeah. Thanks." He took a doughnut and bit into it tentatively.

"Good, aren't they? Mrs. O'Connor keeps trying to find my stash, but I'm too sharp for her." Chuckling, Thomas slid the box of doughnuts behind some books on his bookshelf.

Jim nodded, rendered speechless by another mouthful.

"I'm supposed to be on a diet, of course. But it's a sad state of things when a seventy-six-year-old man can't decide for himself what he can eat. Maybe it's time I told Mrs. O'Connor that. What do you think?"

Jim swallowed hastily. "Is that the Mrs. O'Connor who was parish secretary when I was a kid?"

"Yes, that's right."

Jim cleared his throat and stuffed the rest of the doughnut into his mouth.

Thomas eyed Jim wryly. "You're right. What she doesn't know won't hurt her." He took a seat in the faded recliner across from Jim. "So, is everything back to normal?"

Jim downed his doughnut, licking his fingers. "Normal?"

Thomas eyed him shrewdly. "Yes. After the brouhaha."

"Broo-hah…. Oh." Jim took a quick sip of coffee. "Yeah. Normal."

"Really? I wouldn't have taken you for a tequila man."

Jim suppressed an obscenity. "Not here to confess," he muttered resentfully into his coffee.

Thomas surprised him by chuckling. "You never wanted to confess. Anyone would think you had some deep, dark secret to conceal."

Jim stiffened.

"Oh, children always think so. When I was a boy, I could smell a hot meal a mile away – and I was sure it was the work of the devil. I know better now. That was a long time ago, of course. The old sniffer isn't what is used to be. "

Jim stared wordlessly.

"It's just the nose, though. That's enough. I can't imagine what it would be like to have all five senses that highly developed."

Jim struggled to pull himself together. "I…. You…. I'm not a sen-"

"I was your mother's confessor," Thomas reminded him in a firm tone.

Jim fervently wished for another bottle of tequila.

"What happened today, Jimmy?"

Jim set his coffee down on the end table next to him, nearly dumping it on the floor in the process. "Thanks for the coffee. I'd better go."

"I think you'd better stay. What happened?"

"Why the hell is that any of your business?" snapped Jim, unable to restrain himself.

"I'm your priest."

Jim shoved the assertion away indignantly. "You're not my priest. I haven't set foot in this place since I was eight years old."

"Then why come today?"

"I didn't come today! I mean … it was a coincidence." Jim folded his arms across his chest and eyed the old man defiantly.

Thomas smiled, shaking his head. "Everything happens for a reason, Jimmy."

"Dammit, you sound like Sandburg! And a lot of good his … his…."

"Faith?" suggested Thomas.

Jim glared.

"I haven't known Blair that long, but we've have had some pretty lively discussions. His view of the world is unconventional to say the least, but it seems to me that his faith serves him well."

"When the hell did you meet Sandburg?"

"Language, son," said Thomas mildly, causing Jim to redden and look at his feet, feeling thirty years younger than he was. "My associate Father Anthony and Blair are good friends. He often volunteers in the soup kitchen. I'm sorry, I thought I'd mentioned that."

"No," growled Jim in irritation. "You didn't mention it." Great. Now the old bastard had an inside man working the life of Jim Ellison. Hell, he probably had a whole damn network of spies, skillfully planted in the lives of every lapsed Catholic in the parish.

"He's a fine young man. It's hard to find that much compassion and commitment these days."

"Yeah. And a fat lot of good it's done him."

"Excuse me?"

"His compassion and commitment have screwed him over." Aggravated past discretion, Jim took perverse pleasure in letting his voice coarsen, and was annoyed to detect no reaction in Thomas beyond a raising of eyebrows. "Know what's happened? Know what the bastards have done to him? They won't let him enroll at the Academy."

"Why not?"

"What?" Jim heard rough, uneven breathing and looked around to see who it was; there was no one else there.

"Why won't they let him enroll?"

Jim barked a laugh and turned his head to look at Thomas. Something was in his eyes; he couldn't see the old man clearly anymore. "Think he's unethical. Blair. Unethical. It's crazy. Wouldn't know how. The most honest man I know. Best cop I know, too, and they don't want him."

"Because he incriminated himself to protect you."

Something hot fell on Jim's face and he brushed it away impatiently. "Took his life's work. Took his good name. Forever. Ruined his life. Took it. Mangled it."

"Who did?"

"Got nothing now. And it was all for nothing. All for a lie."

"What lie, Jimmy?" Thomas' voice was gentle. "Jimmy? What lie?"

*****************

"What do you want me to do? Issue an APB? Have him dragged in, booked, thrown in the drunk tank?"

"Of course not! Can't you just ask Henri and Rafe to check around for him? I'm telling you, Simon, there's no knowing what that much alcohol will do to his senses. He could be lying unconscious somewhere-"

"From what you tell me he's plenty conscious."

"That was over an hour ago. And Mike had no idea where he was heading."

"Neither do we. And I've called every place I can think of."

"Fine. I'm going out to look for him."

"Sandburg, talk sense. Where are you going to look that I haven't called?"

"Anywhere! Everywhere! Dammit, Simon, he's in trouble!"

"He's in trouble?" The exasperation in Simon's voice was palpable. "Look, Sandburg, it's time for a reality check here. Jim is not in trouble. Jim is drunk. You are in trouble. You're the one who's got the shitty end of the stick with this whole deal. You're the one who's out of work. "

"So?" snapped Blair, stung. "Is that Jim's fault? Are you saying he should be out there getting himself fitted for a sackcloth suit and some white burlap socks?"

"I'm saying that, in hindsight, maybe … well, maybe you should have let the chips fall wherever they were going to fall."

"Are you out of your mind?" Blair found himself off the sofa and shouting into the phone before he realized he'd moved. "What, I should have just taken my three million and left Jim for the vultures to pick over, huh? Let Rollins and his pals review all of his cases and destroy his career? Let him be manhandled by the press and targeted by every scumbag perp in Cascade? Let his goddamn life be destroyed? I did that to him. I was responsible. I had to make it right."

"And he sat back and let you destroy your life to save his sorry ass. Are you telling me that doesn't piss you off?"

Blair startled himself by kicking the coffee table, sending its contents tumbling to the floor. "No! I'm not pissed off, okay? Jim is. He's got a right to be."

"Yeah, and I guess you don't. After all, it's not like your life is worth as much as his."

Blair drew in a sharp breath to yell, then froze, unable to speak.

"He's been a real jerk about all this, Sandburg."

"You think I don't know that?" Blair managed not to shout. "So have I. What the hell does that have to do with stopping Jim from getting himself killed?"

Simon heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Jim is not-"

"Jim is staggering around Cascade non compos mentis! He's a sitting duck for any perp who wants the distinction of taking him out. If you're not interested in keeping him alive-"

"You're crossing the line, Sandburg," cut in Simon sharply. "And you've made your point."

Blair brought himself up short. Breathe. Breathe. "Sorry. Sorry, man, I'm just-"

"So am I." Simon's voice went quiet. "And there's not a damn thing I can do about this – officially, that is – if we want to keep it off his record."

"And unofficially?" Blair smiled in profound relief, certain now that there would be an 'unofficially.'

Simon snorted. "Unofficially, I'll see what Henri and Rafe can scare up. I've tried all the likely places. Let's see what they can find in the unlikely ones."

*****

"Best friend in the world. Stuck with me. Saved my life. Took my shit. Sorry, Father. Took my … uh…."

"Crap?"

"Uh … can priests say that?"

"I can."

"Okay. He was a teacher. Great teacher. Brilliant. Cared about kids. You know?"

"Yes, I know. He's a good man."

"The best. And I let him give it up. To cover my ass. Sorry, Father. My butt."

"I see."

"He's got nothing. No job. No reputation. Gets hate mail. Found it in the garbage. Never told me."

"Good Lord. I had no idea."

"From people who don't even know him. Professors and researchers from all over country. Telling him about standards and professional ethics and 'don't bother sending your résumé here.' Bastards. Bastards!"

"Jimmy, calm down. You mustn't-"

"And from all the loonies who think they're Sentinels, too. Threatening him. Christ Jesus."

"Sh. Remember where you are, son."

"I know where I am."

"What did Blair say when you told him all this?"

Silence.

"Jimmy?"

**********

Blair turned from the window to address the sofa cushion. "Okay. Okay, he's right. I'm mad. I'm mad that I didn't take your name off that damn paper. And I'm mad at Naomi for sending it to Sid the Witless. And I'm mad at the whole fucking world that I had to call myself a liar, and I'm mad at you for letting me do it. Okay? Got that?"

Blair continued hastily before the cushion could interrupt. "I know, I know! That doesn't make a damn bit of sense. It was the only thing I could do. You couldn't live with that hanging over your head. You couldn't function. You couldn't do your work, and that's the most important thing in your life. You were so fucking miserable. I never want to see you like that again. I'd have done anything-"

Blair broke off, breathing hard, staring at the spot where Jim should be sitting – and then exploded into a shout. "And you just accepted that, didn't you? Without a fucking clue why I did it. Not. A. Fucking. Clue. You're an idiot! Somebody throws his whole damn life down the crapper to get you out of trouble and you think … what? That it's some kind of intellectual statement regarding the relative societal value of police work? Or that it's code for 'my mom's a self-centered ditz, please don't hire the Sicilians?' Or that I've been sniffing your gun oil? You are a fucking moron."

Blair kicked the hapless coffee table again, this time managing to knock it over. Magazines, books, mail and phone all tumbled to the floor in a heap. He glowered menacingly at the mute and cowering cushion. "It's not as if I expect you to become one with my fantasies or anything – your sexuality being the screw-the-woman-most-likely-to-shit-on-you variety. But couldn't you at least buy half a clue? The, like, no-sex half? The part where I did it because you're my friend and I care about you? Goddamn it! You are a fucking moron!"

As if in quavering reply, a muffled electronic trilling emanated from the jumbled pile between the overturned coffee table and the sofa. Blair stared blankly for a moment, then threw himself on his hands and knees, searching frantically among the flotsam and jetsam until he finally found the ringing phone. He snatched it up. "Jim?"

A moment's silence greeted his straining ears. "Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair groped through his memory to identify the voice, without success. "Yes."

"Mr. Sandburg, this is Gail Edwards."

Gail Edwards. Gail Edwards? Chancellor Edwards? "Yes?"

"I'm certain that I'm the last person you care to speak to at the moment."

Blair found himself gritting his teeth and made a conscious effort to unclench his jaw. He sat down on the floor and leaned back against the sofa. "What can I do for you, Chancellor?"

Edwards paused for a moment. "I take it you haven't heard from Detective Ellison."

"Detective Ellison?" repeated Blair in confusion. What the hell would Jim be doing talking to Chancellor Edwards? "No, I haven't seen him."

"He came to see me this afternoon. He explained everything. And demonstrated very effectively that your thesis is valid in every respect."

Blair stared blankly at the picture of Michael Jordan's smiling face on Jim's Sports Illustrated. Fucking. Moron. Fucking. Moron. Fuck-

"Mr. Sandburg?"

-ing. Moron. "He did … what?"

"I want to be the first to offer my apologies, Mr. Sandburg. And to tell you that an assistant professor position is available to you should you choose-"

Blair roused himself from his stupor with difficulty. "Chancellor, I don't know what Jim told you-"

"He didn't just tell me, Blair. He showed me. It was amazing. I understand that-"

"You're mistaken," snapped Blair, his gorge rising in panic. "I don't know what you think you saw, but there is absolutely nothing extraordinary about Jim Ellison. My thesis is as fraudulent today as it was three weeks ago."

"As fraudulent as that, I dare say," returned the woman with heavy sarcasm. "I understand that you wish to protect your friend, Blair, but science-"

"Screw science," said Blair coldly, surprised at the icy anger rising within him. "And screw Rainier."

"We're prepared to offer-"

"You can take your offer and shove it … wherever. And I wouldn't advise you to publicize Jim Ellison's alleged 'abilities.' I spent a long time at Rainier, Chancellor, and I know a few things that you might not care to see in the papers. Am I clear?"

Blair held his breath, as appalled by his own tactics as he was at the situation, and wondered frantically if the state of Rainier was rotten enough to be susceptible to such an outrageous bluff.

"Clear," was the icy response.

Blair restrained a disgusted snort. "Don't call me again." He smashed his thumb against the cradle button, yearning for the good old days when you could hang up on someone with the crash of heavy molded plastic and the satisfying reverberation of steel bells. A good ten seconds passed before what had happened began to sink in.

"Oh, God," murmured Blair faintly, lowering his head to rest on his arms. "Jim. Oh, man. What are you doing? Where the hell are you? Call me. Call me. Just call me. Just be all right and I swear to God I'll never bitch about a house rule again as long as I live."

The trill of the phone in his hand brought his head up with a jerk, but he stared at it in dread for a moment before he could bring himself to answer. It couldn't be Jim. He just wasn't born that lucky. Still….

"Hello?"

"Hi, Blair. It's Tony."

Blair stifled a groan of disappointment despite his lack of expectations. Now what? He had a momentary mental image of everyone he'd ever known lined up at a phone booth. "Hi, Tony. What's up?"

"Jim's here, Blair. I think he's going to need a ride home."

"Here?" Blair groped for understanding. Jim. Jim was somewhere. Tony knew where Jim was. "Here where?"

"Here at St. John's."

Jim? In a church? What would he be doing in a church? It didn't matter. Jim was at St. John's. The only remaining relevant question was –

"Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's fine."

Blair let go of the breath he'd been holding. "Thank God. Simon and I have been calling all over town looking for him."

"I thought you might be. He can't drive, Blair. He's a little … um, under the weather."

"You mean he's drunk out of his tiny little mind," snapped Blair, relieved enough now to be angry again. "He's not peeing on the carpet or anything, is he?"

Anthony chuckled. "No, he's been well-behaved so far."

"Amazing," observed Blair in an acerbic tone. "Well, unless you want color-coded crosses and candlesticks, keep him away from the altar. What's he doing now?"

Anthony paused for a moment, then answered very gravely. "I think that Father Tom is taking Jim's confession."

Blair sat in stunned silence for a couple seconds. "You have got to be kidding."

"No. They've been alone in the rectory for half an hour now."

"Shit. I'm sorry about this, Tony. I'll get him out of there—"

"No, you won't," cut in Anthony firmly. "Not until he's finished. I can't let you interrupt a confession."

Blair floundered for a moment. Confession. As in guilt? What the hell did Jim have to feel guilty about? "Tony, are you sure that's what's going on? I mean, Jim hasn't set foot in a church since he was a kid. He's told me so. And he's totally stoned. That's not a real confession, is it?"

"Only Jim knows that," was the priest's soft reply. "And God, of course."

"Great," grumbled Blair. "I don't suppose God's talking."

The Volvo still had it in her to move when the need arose, and Blair communicated that need with the accelerator pedal, blowing a few red lights in the process. If Jim decided to leave that church there was no way Father Thomas or Anthony would be able to stop him short of physical force, and somehow he didn't see either one of them whacking Jim over the head with the collection plate.

Which was good, because Blair wanted that pleasure for himself.

Badly.

Where the hell did that bozo get off, putting him through this? Didn't Blair have enough to deal with right now without being forced to imagine his best friend lying in an alley somewhere? No doubt about it, the clown was begging for a can of Sandburg whup-ass, and as soon as Blair could get him out from under from the proverbial, metaphorical or literal (depending on one's spiritual frame of reference) eye of God, that can would be slammed into the nearest available can opener.

Blair let the Volvo's tires screech his indignation as he came to a stop in front of St. John's. Slamming the car door shut behind him, he vaulted up the steps to the front doors of the huge church, muttering obscenities. He paused at the door to catch his breath and rein in his temper, then opened the church door and peered inside, half expecting to see the devastation associated with divine wrath. All was quiet, however; not an overturned pew or a lightning scorch-mark was to be seen.

"Must not have confessed to the good stuff yet," muttered Blair, slipping inside. "Just kidding, just kidding," he added in an undertone, glancing in the direction of the altar. "Don't mind me. It's just Blair again, that nice, smart-ass Jewish boy, coming to haul a drunk out of Your house. I won't be long."

Glancing toward the front of the church, Blair spotted Anthony sitting in one of the pews nearest the altar, speaking quietly with a couple of parishioners. There was no sign of Jim. A stab of panic hit him in the gut, and he sprinted down the aisle toward his friend. Anthony noticed his approach and, excusing himself from his parishioners, rose to meet him with a smile.

"Relax, Blair, he's still in there."

Blair came to a sudden stop and exhaled loudly, feeling the muscles in his chest relax the strangle hold they'd had on his internal organs for the last three hours. "He's still … confessing?"

Anthony smiled faintly. "Well, he's still talking, at any rate. Confession is still my best guess. All I know is that Father Tom almost never closes his door, and when he does he wants it to stay closed."

"Great," growled Blair, resuming at a strolling pace his path toward the rectory. "This is so damn typical I can't even tell you, Tony. There aren't any implements of flagellation back there, are there? Because if there are we may have to drag him out of there kicking and screaming."

Anthony concealed his laugh with a demure cough as he walked up the aisle at Blair's side. "Nah. Self-flagellation is considered extremely passé."

"Probably brought his own," observed Blair sourly, his profound relief fueling an equally profound irritation.

Anthony chuckled out loud at that. "Just have a seat. I'll be with you in a few minutes." He returned to the elderly couple in the front pew.

Blair watched his friend for a moment, then after a slight hesitation sidled up the aisle and slipped through the door to the left of the altar into the sacristy. He moved quickly through the sacristy and into the maze of corridors that led from the church proper into the adjoining building that housed the rectory. Blair knew the way to the rectory very well; he had joined Thomas and Anthony there for coffee several times after the volunteers had finished in the soup kitchen. But when he arrived at the rectory door, it was firmly shut. He obviously wasn't welcome this time.

Eavesdropping on something this private would be bad. Really bad. But this big dope had already put him through the ringer tonight, and if Blair knew My-Lips-Are-Sealed Ellison even a tenth as well as he thought he did, he would never know for sure what it had really been all about. So if he just happened to, well, accidentally overhear, so to speak…. He leaned toward the door gingerly.

"He's got nothing left of his life, now. Nothing."

Blair recoiled at the sound, flinching. He shouldn't be listening to this; that faltering voice screamed the message down every nerve. It was low to take advantage of Jim this way, and still he couldn't move.

"Should've left him in his world. Safe there. Happy. He's changed since he hooked up with me. Sadder. Older. I should've left him there."

"Is that how Blair feels about this, Jimmy?"

Silence.

"There's a lot you haven't told me."

"Yeah."

"Would you like to tell me?"

"I can't, Father."

"I see. Have you told Blair?"

"I haven't told anybody."

"Because it's not part of the lie?"

"That's right."

Thomas sighed. "Jimmy, do you really think Blair would let you make that sacrifice?"

"Not a sacrifice," grated Jim. "I'd just be putting things right, that's all. I'm not going to let him throw his life away because I can't face up to what I am."

"And what are you?"

Silence.

"Jimmy?"

Jim uttered a laugh like rusty barbed wire, and Blair stepped away from the door, flinching again. He heard Jim's answer anyway. "Ask my dad. Think he said it best."

Blair whirled and stalked blindly back through the corridors to the sacristy, the colors of vestments and the glow of chalices blurring as he passed, then bolted back into the church proper and slumped into the nearest pew, staring blankly at the small brass plaque on the pew in front of him.

In memory of their son Michael, 1965-1994.

Sometimes he and Jim were more alike than any two men had a right to be.

"Blair."

Blair started violently as a gentle hand touched his shoulder. He looked up blearily to find Anthony standing beside him with a bunch of Kleenex in one hand. The priest offered the Kleenex with a rueful smile. "You shouldn't have gone back there, you know."

Blair blinked, suddenly aware that his face was wet, and accepted the Kleenex. "Yeah. I always know I'm a shit after the fact. I'm a classic Monday morning moralist." He blew his nose noisily. "Is it a sin?"

Anthony smiled. "The bishop would say that only Christians have the privilege of committing sin."

"Sure feels like sin to me," mumbled Blair into his handkerchief, feeling like hell.

"The bishop isn't known for his infallibility," replied Anthony drily.

"Tony, what he's saying-"

Anthony hastily held up a hand. "Don't, Blair. Don't tell me."

"But it's not true," said Blair desperately, determined to convince someone. He had serious doubts about being able to convince Jim. "Some of it's about me and it's not true. I mean, it's about him, but it's about me. And it's not true. I mean, he thinks it's true. Because he thinks that everything that goes wrong within a twenty-mile radius of downtown Cascade and certain portions of the Peruvian rainforest is his fault. But it isn't. His fault, I mean."

Anthony regarded him blankly. "I see."

Blair pursued his rant doggedly, despite the deer-in-the-headlights look in his friend's eyes. "Why does he do that, Tony? Is it a Catholic thing? The guilt tripping, I mean."

"Well-"

"Because I'm telling you I've had it right up to here-" Blair gestured energetically about six inches over his head. "-with all this I'm-so-evil crap. That guy is the best thing that's ever happened to me, you know? He's taught me more about being a decent human being than anybody else I know. How could he think-"

"Blair, don't."

"-that he should have left me where he found me?" Blair slammed his palm against the back of the pew in mounting anger. "Man, I was a self-absorbed, selfish little asshole. Fallow, callow and shallow, you know? He taught me what being a real man was. If I ever do anything good enough to be remembered in this world, it'll be because of him. But will he believe that? Oh, no. He's working for the guy with the horns, you see, busy debauching my radiant innocence."

Anthony glanced heavenward with a pained expression, but Blair kept right on going, hell-bent on riding the tidal wave of his indignation to its inevitable collision with the nearest skyscraper. "He's nuts, you know that? He's crazy. He's effin' certifiable. He's-"

"Right behind you," murmured Anthony.

Blair froze, searching his friend's face for any trace of a joke, but there was none to be found. He turned to find Jim standing just inside the doorway to the sacristy, looking at him with a wondering expression, blinking as if trying to adjust to the light while absently petting a small sandy-furred puppy, which looked up at him adoringly. Blair hastily ran a sleeve across his face in what he hoped was a casual and unrevealing gesture. The sight of his friend's pale face and red eyes shook him even more than the few words he had overheard.

"Hey," said Jim quietly. "Thought I heard you."

"Hey," Blair croaked. How long had the man been standing there listening? He cleared his throat and assumed as casual a stance as he could manage. Karmic debt was obviously accelerating its collection schedule.

"Hello, Blair," piped up Father Thomas, peeking at Blair over Jim's shoulder.

"Uh … hi, Father Tom. How's it going?"

"Just fine. Jimmy and I have been reminiscing." The old man slid past Jim. "Please excuse me. It's time for me to take confession. Jimmy, you'll stop in and visit us again, won't you?"

"Yeah. Sure," murmured Jim, his eyes dropping. "Thanks, Father."

"Take him home, Blair, and put him to bed," continued Thomas gently. "He's had a long day."

"Sure." Blair managed a smile as Thomas passed by. "Thanks, Father Tom."

"Come along, Father Anthony." Thomas guided Anthony past Blair with a firm hand.

"Later, Blair," said Anthony over his shoulder.

"Absolutely," said Blair vaguely, watching the two priests disappear from his peripheral vision. "Thanks, Tony."

Jim raised his eyes and regarded Blair intently, and he and Blair continued to stare at each other until Blair could no longer stand the heavily charged silence hanging between them. Clearing his throat, he slipped into the most readily available diversionary tactic. "Um … who's your friend?"

Jim glanced down at the pup. "Doesn't have a name yet. He's … uh, for us."

Blair adjusted his glasses and peered at his friend, nonplussed. "For us?"

"Yeah." Jim came forward unsteadily and handed Blair the puppy, which wriggled and stretched up to lick Blair's neck and chin. "See? He likes you."

Blair tried to keep a straight face, but the little dog's exuberance was too much, and he started laughing. "Yeah, I got that. Where'd he come from?"

"Just … out of the blue," murmured Jim, rubbing the dog's soft ears. "Father Tom says he needs a home."

"Okay." Blair looked up into Jim's face and quickly looked down again. Something in his friend's eyes made it difficult to maintain eye contact. He stroked the puppy's soft fur, scrambling for something to say. "Simon called."

Jim's hand froze mid-caress.

"You okay?" continued Blair, forcing his gaze upward again.

"Am I okay?" Jim blurted the words with wide eyes. He took a shaky breath and huffed a hollow laugh. "Yeah. Yeah. Fine. You okay?"

"Yeah," said Blair firmly. "I'm okay, Jim."

Jim nodded, his expression unreadable.

"Um … ready to go home?" The puppy settled against his chest, as if seconding the motion.

Jim smiled faintly and nodded, his gaze now riveted on Blair with an uncomfortable intensity.

Blair cleared his throat and stepped to one side, gesturing toward the doors. "Come on, then. Car's right outside."

Jim didn't move, but instead exchanged a wave with Father Tom as he disappeared into the confessional. Blair took him gently by the arm and guided him down the aisle to the door, held it open for him, and with some exasperation pushed him through. Jim immediately stopped and stared about, confused. "It's dark."

"Yup. Been known to happen at night," replied Blair drily, helping his friend down the steps to the street.

"You're patronizing me, Sandburg. Don't patronize me."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Blair opened the passenger side door of the Volvo, but Jim kept looking up and down the street. "What is it?"

"Where's my truck?"

"Wherever you left it," returned Blair tartly, wondering who the patron saint of patience was. "Now get in the car."

"I hate riding in this thing. Can only fit into it if I hitch my knees up around my ears. And it stinks." Jim scowled at the car as if expecting it to cower in response.

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly a bouquet a roses yourself," growled Blair, annoyed all over again, and wondering sourly what the Bionic Nose was smelling this time. "Just get in, will you? We'll find your truck later." He opened the driver's side door and leaned in to lay the puppy on the back seat. The dog curled up and laid his chin on his paws, closing his eyes. Blair slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

Still grumbling, Jim folded himself inside the Volvo and slammed the door shut. Blair peeled out into the empty street, fuming. Fine. His car stank. And puppy dogs materialized out of the blue. And this was all the man had to say after running around Cascade like a maniac all afternoon. If Blair hadn't been so glad to see the big drunk in one piece he'd slug him. Hell, he was considering slugging him anyway. Just on principle.

"Sorry."

Blair glanced at his passenger, startled out of his anger. "What?"

"Sorry," repeated Jim quietly. "Your car doesn't stink."

Blair had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "Gee, thanks, Jim."

"I mean it. Doesn't stink. Smells good. Smells like you."

Blair tore his gaze from the road to stare at his friend in frank astonishment, but Jim's head was back and his eyes closed. "Jim?"

His only answer was a loud snore.

***

"Just one more flight, Jim. We're almost there."

"Fucking elevator never works," muttered Jim, leaning on Blair.

"Yeah, we ought to sue the asshole slumlord that owns this building," returned Blair drily, doing his best not to stagger under the weight of his large partner and the wriggling of the puppy wedged under his other arm. "What's his name again?"

"Shut up. I don't feel so good."

"I wonder why."

"Drank too much. Drank tequila."

"No kidding."

"I hate tequila."

"Which begs an obvious question."

"I wanted to get drunk."

"Sounds like a well-considered plan of action, Captain."

"You're patronizing me again. I told you not to patronize me, Sandburg."

"So noted." They came to a perilously unsteady stop in front of their door, where Blair struggled to keep Jim erect and the puppy in place as he wrestled with the stubborn lock. He could hear the phone ringing inside.

"Hurry up," muttered Jim.

"Hold your horses. If you'd just get a new lock we wouldn't have to-"

"I'm going to puke," said Jim thickly.

"Great," snapped Blair, twisting the key with all his strength. "So much for me smelling good. Try not to barf on the dog, okay?" He shoved the door open and stepped hastily aside as Jim lurched forward in the direction of the bathroom. The sound of the door slamming told Blair that he'd made it, and Blair sighed, shutting and locking the door behind him.

He put the puppy down and followed Jim down the hall, wincing at the sounds coming from behind the bathroom door. "Hey, man, you all right?"

Nothing but groans and retching answered him, so he pushed the door open. Jim was on his knees in front of the toilet, straining and groaning. Blair knelt beside him and ran a gentle hand across his friend's back.

"I'm … big … boy," groaned Jim, clutching the toilet seat so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Yeah, I know," said Blair quietly. "You can pound on your chest and bellow at the moon later, okay? " Jim retched again, and Blair closed his eyes in shared discomfort. "Easy." He continued to caress Jim's back soothingly as the spasms continued.

Jim finally raised his head, breathing hard. Blair flushed the toilet and rose to dampen a washcloth with cool water. "Sorry," rasped Jim.

"Nothing to be sorry about. Here."

"No." Jim ignored the offered washcloth, his breathing becoming labored. Blair knelt beside him again to look into his friend's partially averted face. "No. I'm sorry. I screwed it up. Screwed up everything."

"Nothing's screwed up, man," soothed Blair in as soft a voice as possible. "Everything's okay."

"Okay? What the fuck are you talking about, Sandburg?" Jim's rough, cracking voice echoed off the porcelain and tile, and he turned his head to look Blair in the eye. Blair flinched at the pain in those eyes. "You are screwed. You bet on a loser. You stuck by me and you're screwed-" He immediately began retching again, and Blair let his arm circle his friend's shoulders.

"Barf now," said Blair shakily. "Converse later. You're such a damn overachiever, Ellison."

Jim struck the toilet seat with his fist, unable to respond, and Blair instinctively laid a comforting hand over the fist. Jim continued to throw up until there was nothing left to come up, and then went into dry heaves that made Blair ache to watch. Jim finally straightened, struggling to breathe normally, and Blair handed him the washcloth. Jim wiped his face as Blair flushed the toilet again.

"You okay?"

Jim lowered the washcloth and nodded; it wasn't until he turned his head that Blair saw the tears on his friend's face.

Tears.

Jim didn't cry. Blair had seen him come close half a dozen times in the past three years. But Jim had never let those tears fall, despite everything he'd been through. And he'd been through a hell of a lot. Injury, fear, loneliness and loss had plagued him for as long as Blair had known him. But the man didn't cry. Ever. Until now.

Blair's defenses crumbled like a sandcastle in the surf at the sight. He lifted the cool washcloth to Jim's face, trying to still the shaking in his hands. "Jim. Man. It's okay. We'll … we'll get through this."

Jim held the washcloth over his mouth for a moment, looking at Blair with wide, watery eyes, then crumpled forward, his head pressed to Blair's chest, silent sobs wracking his strong body.

Blair froze for a fraction of a second in shock, then hugged his friend to him tightly. He felt an absurd surge of adrenaline, as if some unnamable instinct were urging him into combat with whatever threatened his friend. Forcing himself to breathe normally, Blair gave Jim's back a slow, soothing caress. "It's okay," he whispered fiercely. "I've got you."

Jim's arms circled Blair's waist, his entire body shaking under the violence of his emotion. "Sorry," came in a harsh voice. "Stupid. It's a lie, all a lie, Chief, all a fucking lie."

Blair rested his cheek against Jim's soft hair, some part of him determined to indulge in the physical closeness that he'd ached for for so long and was certain he'd never have again. "I've got you," he repeated softly. "It'll be okay. Whatever it is, Jim. We'll be okay."

***

Blair started slightly, wakened from his doze by the slight stirring of the man who lay on the bathroom floor with his head in his lap. Blair's left hand was entwined in Jim's hair; his right hand, which had been lying on Jim's chest, was now clasped gently in Jim's. The bathroom was lit only by the dim light from the open door; Blair had turned the bathroom light off when it had seemed to be hurting Jim's eyes. Blair pulled his back away from the cool support of the bathroom wall and peered into Jim's face, trying to make out his friend's features in the dark, stroking Jim's hair back gently.

"I'm awake," said Jim softly.

Blair's hand froze halfway through Jim's hair. His mind darted frantically in search of an excuse for the caress and came up empty.

"Don't stop."

Don't stop. Jim obviously hadn't sobered up yet. Blair allowed his hand to continue moving through the short, soft hair. "Feeling better?" he managed. He felt more than saw Jim raise his free hand – the one not holding Blair's – to touch the curls that veiled his face. It was all Blair could do not to lean into that feather-light touch. But Jim's answer, when it came, blasted Blair's attempt at superficial communication out of the water.

"I've never been normal."

The bleeding grief in Jim's voice crippled Blair's comprehension; it took him several seconds before his friend's words held any meaning. "Normal?"

"Yeah. You know. One of the guys. No secrets to hide. Like everybody else. Normal."

Blair nodded, more to encourage Jim than to indicate any understanding.

"I wanted that more than anything. Still do."

Blair nodded again, still at a loss.

"I was happy as an Army grunt. Never wanted to be an officer."

Blair squinted down at his friend in surprise, wishing he could see his face. "You didn't?"

"No. Sure as hell never wanted my face plastered on magazine covers. Beyond-the-Call Ellison. What a joke. I was no hero."

"You were," said Blair unevenly. "You are."

"Never wanted to be a sentinel, Chief."

Blair nodded again, understanding that all too well. "I know."

"And being just another detective was fine with me. I didn't want to be Cop of the Year three years out of the last four."

Blair scowled in confusion. "You deserved that. You're the best cop on the force."

"I didn't want it. I didn't want to be best. I wanted to be normal."

"Jim, normal is a myth," said Blair gently. "Nobody's normal. Everybody's different, or thinks they have something to hide. Everybody wants to be one of the guys."

"I wanted it bad, Chief. More than anything else. I've always wanted it. I mean, when I was a little kid I … I prayed that my senses would go away. Because my dad hated them so much, you know? He was ashamed of me. I just wanted to be normal. Like Stephen."

Blair suppressed, for the hundredth time, his recurring and virulent desire to give William Ellison a good, swift kick in the ass.

"I think … I think I let it take over, you know? I think I let it run my life. Trying to convince myself I was normal. Trying to convince everybody else, too. And that's what ruined your life, Chief."

"Whoa!" Blair snapped out of his contemplations with a start. "Ruined my life? Who the hell said my life was ruined?"

Jim fell into what seemed to be a confused silence.

"Is that why you went to see Gail Edwards?" demanded Blair.

"She called?" Jim sounded surprised, uncertain.

"Yeah, she called. Isn't that what you expected?"

"Didn't think she'd call. I could tell she believed me. But she said she wouldn't reinstate you."

"I guess she changed what passes for her mind," growled Blair. So Jim thought that letting Snidely Edwards tie him to the tracks of the Rainier Express would restore poor little Blair's ruined life. Typical. Blair had never, in the three years he'd known this man, wanted to smack him upside the head as badly as he did at that moment. "She called."

"Did she give you your job back?"

"She offered me a promotion, actually."

"That's good," whispered Jim. "That's great. I'm glad-"

"And then I told her what to do with it."

Blair could almost feel the shock run through Jim's body. "What?"

"And I told her that if anything a certain shit-faced ex-Ranger had told her went public I'd personally escort the Cascade press on a tour of Rainier's closet skeletons."

"Christ Jesus."

"What the fuck were you thinking, you asshole? Did you enjoy that hell you went through so much that you wanted a second round of it? Or were you so drunk you didn't know what you were doing?"

"I wasn't drunk at all. I wanted to give you your life back." Jim was barely audible now.

"And since when do you decide what constitutes my life? Don't you think I should be able to decide that for myself?"

Jim went silent again, and Blair took a deep breath and reined in his temper. "Geez, Jim. It would have meant the end of your career. I won't even mention-"

"That's over anyway. I res-"

"Consider yourself unresigned," snapped Blair. "Simon's put you on two weeks' suspension."

Jim drew a funny, catching little breath. "You got my job back?"

"You never lost your job. Do you think Simon would let you resign over this? He needs you, Jim. The guys at the station need you. Hell, the whole damn city of Cascade needs you."

Jim's breathing was uneven and shallow; he laughed raggedly. "Yeah. And that's all there is to my life. Right?"

Blair stared into the dark, nebulous shape that was Jim's face, thoroughly disconcerted.

"Jim Ellison, All-American Boy and Supercop. Fuck, Sandburg. Don't I have a say here, either?"

"I'm sorry, man," stammered Blair. He didn't want to be a cop? Jim Ellison didn't want to be a cop? What the hell? "Shit. I just thought…. I mean, that's always been so important to you. As long as I've known you. I figured you just lost it with Rollins and when you woke up tomorrow morning you'd regret resigning."

"I don't," rasped Jim. "I won't."

"Jim, you're not thinking straight right now. Your work is too important-"

"Our work." Jim managed to be emphatic, even with slightly slurred speech. "Our work, Chief. Doesn't matter where it is. Figuring out the sentinel stuff at Rainier could have been our work."

"That would have been hell for you," croaked Blair, his mind's eye wincing shut at the image of Jim being put through his paces like a lab specimen. "I could never do that to you."

"Ditto," mumbled Jim.

"Huh?"

"The PD. Hell for you."

"Oh." Blair stared down at his friend, astonished. "Yeah. Probably."

"Sorry, Chief. Thought it was the right way to go."

"I know. So did I, for a little while."

"That's not who you are." Jim sounded oddly certain.

"No," agreed Blair quietly. "I think I lost track of who I am somewhere along the line."

"Took me a while to figure it out."

"Me, too."

"Took me until I heard Rollins talking about you. To see what it'd be like for you. We couldn't do our work that way."

How long had Jim been thinking of it that way?

Jim's hand touched Blair's cheek. "Sorry."

Blair patted the hand reassuringly. "It's okay, Jim."

"No. I mean for blowing Edwards' skirt up. Should've asked what you wanted."

Blair snorted. "Yeah, you should have asked."

"Should've known you wouldn't do it."

"Yeah, you should have known."

"You'd never let 'em make a lab rat out of me."

"No, I sure as hell wouldn't."

"I never wanted to fall in love with you, Chief."

Blair's breath caught in his throat; he waited, certain that context would make it very clear that he had misunderstood those words.

"I sure as hell didn't want you to love me. But you did. You loved me. I didn't get it at first. I can be pretty damn dense with stuff like this."

Both of Jim's hands curled around Blair's face with infinite gentleness. Blair, numb and silent, laid his hands on top of Jim's. Jim shouldn't be this drunk so long after his last drink. Maybe something had gone wrong with his senses. Maybe….

"And by the time I did get it, it was too late. You'd gone ahead and ripped your heart out to convince the world I was normal."

The acid self-loathing in Jim's tone shocked Blair out of frantic contemplation and into angry speech. "Jim. That's not-"

"Yeah. It is. You fell on your sword, Sandburg. To protect the lie, the lie that I'm not a freak."

"God, Jim, that is such-"

"And I let you do it. Because I had to keep that lie alive. I spent my whole life building that damn lie."

Blair clutched Jim's hands in his own. "You are not a freak."

"Chief-"

"You're not a goddamn freak!" Blair exploded, unable to restrain himself. The idea that Jim thought of himself that way was like a knife in his gut. "Jim – the tests, the diss, all that other crap I said to you when we met – it doesn't mean anything. I just – I didn't know you. I was a selfish prick, okay? I didn't even stop to think how it would make you feel."

"You don't have to-"

"Listen to me! I didn't renounce my work to hide something dirty."

"Sandburg-"

"Shut up! I renounced it to protect you from people who would hurt you, to give you a life as much like the one you want as you can possibly have. And because I'd been careless and put you in danger and I wanted to make it right. I love you, you moron."

Blair came to a screeching halt, panicked.

Jim wrapped firm fingers around one of Blair's hands and, lifting it to his lips, kissed Blair's palm lightly. "Love you, too, Chief," mumbled Jim against the captured hand.

Blair closed his eyes against the sound of those words. He'd have given just about anything to hear them from this man stone cold sober. But Jim wasn't sober. He probably didn't mean a word of what he was saying. And if he did….

If he did, it had taken a bottle of tequila to get those words out of him – and once the effect of that little worm wore off, Blair would never hear them again. Jim would probably not even remember saying them – and if he did, he would hate Blair for hearing them.

"Blair?" Jim tightened his grip on Blair's hand, and Blair suddenly noticed how cold Jim's fingers were. Frowning, Blair laid his other hand on Jim's forehead. Cool and clammy. Jim needed to be rehydrated, and to get off this cold floor. With an effort, Blair fixed his thoughts on the matter at hand.

"Come on, Jim. Sit up. You need water."

"Sleepy," muttered Jim, not moving.

"You can sleep after you drink." Blair slid an arm under Jim's shoulders and with a grimace hauled his friend into a sitting position. "Come on, man. Help me out, here. You're too big to carry." He fumbled up the wall with his free hand and flipped the light switch.

Jim blinked owlishly in the sudden light. "Yeah. Right." He made an effort to sit upright. Blair hauled himself to his feet, cursing under his breath at the pins and needles in his left foot, and hobbled over to the sink.

"No," said Jim decisively, lurching into what a casual observer might describe as a standing position, if he didn't look too closely. "Not bathroom water."

Blair paused in the act of turning the tap to glare at the man. "Excuse me?"

"Not bathroom water. I want kitchen water." Jim turned and wobbled through the door into the hall.

"Whoa, whoa there!" Blair bolted after Jim and steered him firmly into his little bedroom. "I'll get it. Just sit here for a minute." He pushed Jim down to sit on the bed, then snatched up his extra blanket and wrapped it around him.

"Kitchen water," said Jim firmly, pulling the blanket around himself tightly.

"Yeah, man, coming right up." Blair stalked out of his room and into the kitchen, muttering under his breath. "Kitchen water. Like it's not the same hot and cold running crud. Like what comes out of this tap is Evian." Blair turned the faucet and shoved a glass under it, marveling for the millionth time in the past three years that James Joseph Ellison could simultaneously inspire tender, passionate devotion and a continual and violent urge to wring his well-muscled neck.

Kitchen water!

"Kitchen water tastes better," came a loud and insistent observation.

The phone started to ring, and from somewhere in the darkness of the living room, the puppy let loose with a fierce growl. With a scrabble of claws against the wood floor, he bounded into the light and planted himself in front of the wall phone, barking furiously at the offending object. Blair grit his teeth as he turned off the water. "Good dog. Attack," he snapped as he headed back to his room. "Kill."

Jim's businesslike tone followed him down the hall. You have reached 555-1762. Please leave a message after the beep.

"Blair, if you're there, pick up the phone," came Simon's voice at its most dangerous, booming from the answering machine. "Dammit, Sandburg, pick up the damn phone!"

"Maybe the pipes are different in the kitchen," mused Jim thoughtfully, as Blair shoved the glass into his hand.

"Or maybe you're so stoned you can't tell the difference between Perrier and toilet water," snapped Blair over his shoulder as he ran for the phone. "Now drink it!"

"Is this toilet water?" Jim's voice rose plaintively behind him. "Are you making me drink toilet water, Sandburg?"

Blair snatched up the phone. "I'm here, Simon."

"It's about damn time! Where the hell have you been?"

"I've been helping your Officer of the Year find his lost weekend," snapped Blair.

"You found him?" Simon's relief was palpable.

"Over at St. John the Baptist. Tony called me to let me know."

"You should have called me right away!"

"I've kind of had my hands full! Do you have any idea what this guy is like when he's blotto?"

"My condolences," growled Simon.

"You have kitchen water, you dumb-ass!" shouted Blair over his shoulder.

"I'll call off the posse," continued Simon. Blair heard suppressed laughter in his tone and grit his teeth. "Think you can handle him?"

"When have I not been able to handle him?" demanded Blair, nettled by Simon's complacency. If Simon Banks thought that this evening had been a stroll in the rainforest, he had another think coming. "But anytime you want to take over, feel free. You can just come on by and pick him up-"

"No, thanks."

"-along with his kitchen water and his barfing and his puppy dog-"

The puppy chose that moment to interject a few shrill yips.

"I get the picture, Sandburg. Just do your best not to send him to his heavenly reward, okay? Or if you do, hide the body where I can't find it."

"Funny, man," growled Blair, straining to pick up any sound from his bedroom. "Real funny."

"I'll let you get back to it," continued Simon in a pleasantly sadistic tone. "Check back with you in the morning. Oh, and Sandburg. Remember to deliver my message."

"Right," said Blair sourly. He felt in no way prepared to inform Simon that he might be losing his best detective. "Two weeks no cape. Pitchfork up ass. Never been born."

Simon paused for a moment. "Put the drunk to bed and get some sleep, Sandburg. You're starting to worry me." He hung up, and Blair laid the receiver back in its cradle with a weary sigh.

"You're worried," he muttered, stalking back to his bedroom. "Okay, Ellison. I'd better see-"

Jim lifted his empty glass as Blair came in.

"-an empty glass," grumbled Blair, taking it from Jim's hand and laying it on the nightstand. "Okay."

"It was kitchen water," said Jim, in a voice as close to meek as Jim ever got.

"No shit, Sherlock," growled Blair, kneeling to untie Jim's shoes.

"Thanks, Chief."

"You're welcome." Blair pulled off the shoes and stood up to turn back the covers on his bed.

"No, I mean … thanks." Jim smiled.

Blair managed, with difficulty, to restrain a groan. Jim had a certain smile, a smile that had made him willing to jump out of planes and off cliffs, and Blair lived in constant dread of its appearance. The ghastly and death-defying experiences that that smile had presaged were among the most harrowing of Blair's life. And damned if that smile wasn't all over Jim Ellison's face.

Blair hastily shoved him back against the pillows and lifted his friend's long legs onto the bed. "No charge, man. Just get some sleep, okay?" Blair cleared his throat as his voice cracked ominously. He pulled the covers up over his friend, resisted the urge to indulge in one last touch of Jim's tousled hair, and turned off the light.

"Where you going?" asked Jim drowsily, snagging Blair's arm as he turned to leave.

"Thought I'd sack out on the couch," replied Blair in a pathetic attempt at nonchalance, trying gently to remove his arm from Jim's grasp.

"Nah, don't do that," murmured Jim, pulling him down to sit on the bed. "Stay here." He gave Blair a dopey, inviting smile as he pushed the covers back.

"Come on, man, there's barely enough room for you," protested Blair in alarm, his pulse quickening absurdly. "I won't fit."

Jim snorted and yanked Blair down so that he was lying on his side with his back to Jim, then spooned up behind him. "See?" he murmured sleepily into Blair's hair. "Fit just right." Jim settled his arm around Blair's waist.

Blair cursed silently, desperately uncomfortable. Damn the big idiot! What the hell did he think he was doing? He should get up and go sleep on the couch. Right now. Come morning, Jim would never forgive him for having stayed. Blair moved slightly toward the edge of the bed, but Jim tightened his grip around Blair's waist and nestled closer. The firm, muscled warmth of Jim's body pressed invitingly against his back and buttocks, and Blair shut his eyes against the pleasure of the sensation.

Jim obviously had no intention of letting him go; he'd only get aggravated if Blair tried again. He would have to humor him. Blair sighed in resignation. Right. He'd just wait until Jim fell asleep and then he'd go. And if Jim showed any signs of embarrassment over it tomorrow, he'd just tell him, oh so casually, that it was no big deal. What's a roommate for if not to humor you when you're drunk, right? Forget about it, man. No problemo.

Blair kicked off his shoes and slid his legs around into a more comfortable position, then forced himself to relax against his friend's body. It felt good. It felt too good. Too good for something that he'd never feel again. Anger and grief surged again. Jim had no right to put him through this, no matter how drunk he was. He hated Jim.

He loved Jim.

Blair pinched his eyes shut and tried to force the sensations associated with Jim's presence out of his mind, to focus on his own shaky breathing. He fell asleep still trying.

***

Jim opened his eyes and gazed blearily over Blair's shoulder at the alarm clock. The numbers oozed and squirmed before his eyes like a lava lamp, and he closed his eyes again to focus on Blair's soft, even breathing. Maybe if he did that his head wouldn't fall off. There was, of course, merit in the argument that a head that hurt as badly as his did was not necessarily an asset.

Never again. Jim would never touch another bottle of tequila again for as long as he lived, and if it were available in the afterlife he'd politely decline, even if God Himself were the bartender. Mr. Squiggles was terrible and mighty in his wrath, and no mere mortal could endure his vengeance unbowed.

Forcing his eyes open again, Jim made another attempt to read the clock, this time with greater success. 4:43 a.m. They'd slept about six hours. Or at least he had. Blair had still been awake when Jim had drifted off. Awake and shaking like a leaf. What the hell was going on in the kid's head? Why the shakes? He knew how Jim felt. And Blair sure as hell knew him well enough to realize that Jim wasn't going to force himself on him, or make him do anything he wasn't ready for.

Jim very carefully removed his arm from around his friend's waist and rolled gingerly onto his back, breathing deeply against the throbbing behind his eyes. Then again, Blair had a right to the shakes. However rough yesterday had been on Jim, it must have been a lot rougher on Blair. When the Academy deal had fallen through, Blair must have felt like his whole world was caving in. And it wasn't right that Blair had found out about it from Simon. Jim should have come straight home and told Blair about Rollins himself. He had owed him that much. Instead he'd gone haring off with some wild idea of making things right that hadn't stood a chance in hell of working. Blair couldn't have known what he was up to. God only knew what the kid had made of his disappearance. He'd probably been scared shitless. Blair worried about him.

Jim smiled, pain momentarily forgotten. Yeah, Blair worried. Blair looked out for him. God, that had pissed him off at first. Now he wouldn't have it any other way. Nobody had taken care of him like that since Sally.

Jim swung his feet to the floor and stood up, gritting his teeth against the ice picks hacking their way into the back of his eyeballs. Never again, he thought as he made his unsteady way out of Blair's room and down the hall toward the kitchen. I mean it, Squiggles. Ease up. I'll build you a fucking memorial shrine, just ease up! Jim spotted the bottle of Tylenol next to the sink and snatched it up, struggling with the child-proof cap. It finally flipped off onto the floor, and Jim dumped three tablets into his hand and threw them into his mouth. He turned on the water and stuck his mouth under the faucet, slurping and groaning as his pain went off the meter.

A high-pitched explosion of excruciating sound sliced into his eardrums, and he clapped both hands over his ears. Looking blearily toward the source of the agonizing noise, he saw a golden-colored blob of fur with a pink tongue and a black nose lying on the sofa, thumping his little tail against the cushion.

"Oh. Great," muttered Jim. He turned the water off and ambled into the living room to seat himself gingerly beside the blob. "Made yourself right at home, huh? Good for you. Whole damn place is probably infested with fleas and lice and God knows what-all by now." He scratched the puppy's belly gently, provoking some happy snuffling, panting and twitching. Jim sniffed the air suspiciously. Nothing like the odor of doggy-leavings assailed his nose. Amazing. He'd expected to find quite a variety of puddles and abstract sculptures by now. Blair might have thought to put down a newspaper or something. Then again, if Blair had put down newspaper for anyone last night, it probably would have been for his partner.

Nudging his hearing up a notch, Jim heard Blair stirring in his bed. He was awake. Good.

Jim rose from the couch and made his way back down the hall and into the bathroom. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror, Jim stared at the man he saw there. Forty-one. He'd be forty-one next month. Half a lifetime. He reached for his toothbrush absently, but froze as the sound of a racing heart, uneven breathing and an unmistakably unique, salty scent enveloped his senses.

Turning quickly, he strode to Blair's door. Blair was still lying on his side in the dark, eyes shut and fists clenched. "Blair? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," rasped Blair. "What the hell could be wrong? Go to bed."

"Don't give me that," growled Jim. Damn. Now what? "You taught me how to use these ears, remember?"

"Then turn them the fuck off! Where the hell do you get off conducting unauthorized surveillance of my organic functions? Can't I breathe around here without having George of the Jungle sticking his eardrums and olfactory glands into my orifices?"

Jim bit back the angry response that leaped to his tongue. "What's going on, Sandburg?"

"Nothing's going on! I'm just trying to get some sleep."

"Not until you tell me what's going on," said Jim determinedly, coming to stand at the foot of the bed.

Blair opened his eyes and sat up, eyeing Jim with a purely lethal expression. "Fuck. You."

"Talk to me, Sandburg."

"I don't want to talk! I need some sleep, okay? Is that too much to ask?"

Jim considered the exhaustion in Blair's pale face for a moment. "Okay," he said softly, relenting. It could wait. "Come on upstairs, then. There's more room."

"What the fuck are you playing here?" Blair swung out of bed and to his feet, his shout echoing through the dark, small room. "Go to bed! Go sleep it off, okay?"

Jim recoiled involuntarily, stung, and an ominous moment of silence reigned, punctuated only by Blair's ragged breathing. Sleep it off. Sleep it off?

"I'm not drunk, Sandburg." Jim's voice, when he finally found it, was dangerously quiet.

"You're not drunk? The hell you're not drunk! I'm not interested in a tequila-induced cheap screw. Go jack off if you've got a problem."

"Cheap screw?" Jim barely restrained an overwhelming, blindly infuriated urge to knock Blair down. "I want you upstairs because that's where we both want to be, and tequila's got nothing to do with it!"

"You won't even remember this when you wake up tomorrow!" Blair fairly howled with rage and frustration. "And if you do I'll wake up to find my stuff boxed up and ready to go because you can't handle it."

"I can't handle it?" Jim heard his voice rise and twist until he didn't recognize it. "You are fucking projecting here, Sandburg. I told you what I could handle last night."

"You don't even remember what you said last night," spat Blair in a fury. "You didn't mean a word of it."

The words emptied him. "I meant every word," Jim said dully, numb. "And don't worry about me remembering it. I will."

Blair stared at him, panting, wild and suddenly shocked.

Jim tried to laugh; the resulting sound was ugly. "Guess I was doing some projecting. Just forget it, Sandburg. It never happened, okay? Forget it." He turned away, but his vision failed him. He couldn't see in the dark.

He heard rather than saw Blair dart between Jim and the door, felt him lay his hands on his chest. "Jim-"

"Get out of my way," said Jim tonelessly.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, man, but you never-"

"Let go of me, Sandburg." Jim tried to step around him, but Blair blocked him, and kicked the door shut behind them.

"-you never said anything like that sober! And I've never seen you with any guys. How the hell was I supposed-"

Rage finally achieved critical mass. "Any guys? Any cheap screws?" Jim shoved Blair away and brought his right fist up, his entire body assuming a combat stance. Blair froze, and the two men remained silent and motionless for several seconds.

"You want to hit me?" asked Blair shakily.

Jim stood stock-still, unable to force words past his tight throat.

Blair's voice fell to a whisper. "You going to hit me, Jim?"

Jim forced himself to breathe, forced his fist to unclench, lowered his arm. "You can be such a self-centered, clueless little prick," he said between clenched teeth.

"Guilty as charged," croaked Blair after a moment. "Guess that's something else we have in common."

Jim felt his fists clench again.

Blair's hands slid tentatively up Jim's chest and took Jim by the shoulders. Jim stood stiffly, confused, enduring the touch but not reciprocating. Blair slid his hands up Jim's neck to take Jim's face in his hands, then pulled Jim's head toward his own. Jim resisted, forcing Blair to go up on his toes to brush Jim's mouth with the barest touch of lips; he pulled back slightly. Jim, hot and shaking at that light touch, realized dimly that his night-vision was online again. Blair was squinting up at him, as if he were trying to make out the expression on Jim's face.

"This … this isn't a game, Sandburg," rasped Jim.

"Not playing," croaked Blair. He cleared his throat. "I meant every word, too."

Jim floundered for what to feel, to say.

"About loving you," added Blair.

Jim felt the heat rise on Blair's face. "I know," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry." Blair forged ahead with dogged determination. "But I didn't see this coming, man. This was … only in my dreams, you know? I don't get that lucky."

Jim let out a gust of air as a sudden glimmer of understanding broke through.

"And your turbo lift wasn't exactly making it to the bridge last night, so what was I supposed to think? It's not like you gave me any hint before today. Before yesterday, I mean."

"I didn't?" It was the last thing Jim had expected to hear.

"No," returned Blair with renewed irritation. "You didn't."

"You've been a little slow on the uptake here, Sandburg." Jim tried hard not to smile.

"There is no way in hell," snapped Blair, "that I could ever have guessed-"

"Okay, okay," said Jim patiently. "I get it. You're emotionally retarded."

Blair shot him a lethal look, but refused to take the bait. "Jim. Get real. This isn't some sort of guilt thing, is it?"

Jim stared down at his friend in exasperation. "Guilt thing?"

"Yeah, guilt thing. You know. Big Bad Jim wrecks Poor Little Blair's life, so Big Bad Jim gives Poor Little Blair-"

"A consolation prize?" snapped Jim, poised and ready to be stung again.

"God damn it!" Looking thoroughly furious, Blair pounded Jim's chest hard with both fists. "Consolation prize? Are you fucking insane?"

"I'm just-"

"Shut up! You are not a consolation prize. You are the grand prize, get it? You are Mount Everest, the Rosetta Stone, the freakin' Holy Grail!"

Jim laughed harshly. "Been there. Done that." He gasped as Blair seized his face between strong hands.

"No," said Blair, fierce and quiet. "You are. Not your genes. Not your senses. You." His voice gentled; his expression softened. "Just you."

Jim's vision blurred and he leaned down to rest his forehead against Blair's; Blair's arms went around his neck.

"You are such a pain in the ass," whispered Blair.

"So are you," mumbled Jim, tightening his grip around Blair's waist.

"I've been so damn mad at you."

"Me, too."

"Are you still mad?"

Jim paused for a moment to consider the question. "Not at the moment. Are you?"

Blair chuckled softly. "Not at the moment. And this isn't a guilt thing?"

"It isn't a guilt thing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Because I've seen your guilt things, man, and they can be pretty far out there."

"Dammit, Sandburg, it's not a guilt thing!" Jim lifted his head enough to glare. "I'm in love with you, okay? I mean it. I need you to believe me, here."

"I believe you." Blair's hushed confession hung between them for a moment. Then Blair lifted his head and gave Jim a smile that went straight through his brain to his gut and wound up somewhere south of his belt buckle.

Entranced, Jim stroked a wayward strand of Blair's hair back. "You believe me."

"I believe you. Believe in you, too." Blair laid a hand on Jim's cheek, still smiling.

Jim nodded. That was true. God, that was true. Blair had always believed in him. Something Father Tom had said stirred in his mind. "Faith," he murmured.

Blair's expression turned to wonder. "Yeah," he said softly. "Faith."

Jim knew he had some kind of dopey smile on his face, the kind he'd never let see the light of day if anyone else but Blair were in the room. "I believe in you, too."

Blair's smile went blindingly beautiful. He bounced lightly on his toes – something Jim hadn't seen him do for two years. He looked young. And happy. And that was all that Jim was able to absorb before Blair took him by the scruff of the neck and kissed him into orbit.

Goddamn. The boy could kiss. There was nothing like it on the planet – that hot, sweet tongue could melt steel. Melt it slowly and gently; make it shiver and bend to Blair Sandburg's will. And at that moment, Jim wanted nothing more than to bend to Blair Sandburg's will. He suspected he'd want other things soon, though. As a matter of fact, he was damn sure he'd like to do a little bending of his own.

Blair came out of the kiss with a gasp, and Jim shoved his hands up inside the back of Blair's t-shirt, desperate to touch skin.

"You don't know," panted Blair, looking more than a little wild. "You have no fucking idea how long-"

Jim silenced him with lips and tongue, sliding his hands around Blair's waist to pop open the top button of Blair's jeans and slide down the zipper. The scent of Blair's arousal washed over him; Blair groaned into Jim's mouth as Jim roughly caressed Blair's hardening cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. Blair pulled his mouth away with something like a whimper.

"God. Jim. Go slow, man, it's been awhile."

Jim hastily withdrew his hand, cursing habits acquired long ago in brutal, meaningless encounters. It occurred to him quite suddenly that when it came to men, he'd known nothing else. All the furtive, soulless using and being used of his adolescence and early adulthood left him feeling completely unprepared for what he wanted with Blair. His confidence deserted him; he felt as helpless and lost as the seventeen-year-old virgin he'd once been.

"Sorry," he said awkwardly, stroking the soft skin on the small of Blair's back. "Sorry, Chief." He kissed Blair's forehead.

Blair relaxed against him again, his keen gaze searching Jim's face. "You all right?"

"Yeah," lied Jim, shaken. The loving, impossible understanding in Blair's face was rocking the floor under his feet.

"C'mere," murmured Blair. Mesmerized, Jim leaned down. Blair kissed him gently, then began unbuttoning Jim's shirt with trembling hands. "It'll be okay."

Worrying about me, thought Jim as Blair slid the shirt off. He's worrying about me again.

"I know." Jim hesitantly took the bottom of Blair's t-shirt in his hands; Blair lifted his arms and let him pull it over his head. Encouraged, Jim ran his hands across Blair's chest, enjoying Blair's anticipatory shiver, then slid them down to rest on the waistband of Blair's jeans and rested them there, seeking some sign of permission.

Blair smiled, and Jim pushed Blair's jeans and boxers past his hips. Blair stepped out of them and kicked them aside, his color rising.

"You're blushing, Sandburg," murmured Jim into Blair's ear, reveling in the sensation of Blair's erection pressing against him. He caressed Blair's ass.

"So are you," whispered Blair, kissing Jim's ear as he slid Jim's zipper down.

Jim snorted and felt his face grow hotter as Blair slid his hands inside his pants and briefs to rest on his hips. "Hot in here."

"Very hot." Blair slipped pants and briefs down.

Jim let go a little sigh of relief as his own erection was freed. He stepped away from the discarded clothing, moving toward Blair's bed with Blair in his arms. Before he had taken two steps, Blair turned him around and pushed him down on the bed.

Jim tried to sit up, startled. "What are-"

Blair's mouth descended on his as he pushed Jim flat on his back again. Jim relaxed under the sensory onslaught of Blair's mouth, running eager fingers across Blair's back. Forcing his eyes open, Jim realized that Blair had pounced onto all fours above him, his legs straddling him, his hands resting on either side of his shoulders, his hard cock within easy reach and begging to be touched. Jim pulled his right hand from Blair's back and managed to give that beautiful cock a long, slow stroke before Blair gasped and shimmied down, pulling it out of Jim's reach.

"Hey," croaked Jim in protest.

"Hey," murmured Blair, caressing Jim's inner thighs as he pushed them up and apart. "Love you." Without further preamble he slid down and folded his tongue around Jim's balls, laving them with loving enthusiasm.

Jim yelled louder than he had the last time he'd been shot. "God! Oh, Blair, yeah…. Don't…. Just…. Yeah…." He arched his back, pounding the mattress with clenched fists, then let go with something close to a scream as that amazing mouth engulfed his aching cock.

God Almighty. It wasn't like he'd never had anyone go down on him before. But it might as well have been. This wasn't some stranger in a men's room, some anonymous soldier in the night shadows behind the mess hall; this was Blair. And Blair wasn't just going down on him, he was … oh, God. He was savoring him. Enjoying him, exploring him, making love to him with that beautiful, generous mouth and hot, raspy tongue. Taking him in so deep that Jim could practically feel the vibration of Blair's heartbeat through the tip of his cock….

"Blair!" The howl left his throat sore; he felt Blair's mouth slowly slip down the length of his cock and off the end, and groaned aloud as Blair's wet lips pressed the tip.

Blair chuckled and crawled up to lean over him again, all heavy breathing, hair and mischief. "You know, if you keep making all that noise somebody's going to call the cops."

Jim managed to find enough air in his lungs to laugh. He wrapped both arms around Blair's waist and yanked him down, inhaling deeply as Blair's arousal scent intensified and Blair's hard cock rubbed against his own maddeningly. "I'll bet I could make you yell, too, punk," he breathed. "I'll bet they'd hear you all the way down at the station."

Blair licked his lips, debauchery personified, and grinned broadly. "All. Talk."

Jim pondered the assertion for a fraction of a second, then slipped one hand down to rest on Blair's ass. Blair's eyes darkened, his breath quickening as Jim let one finger trace a slow, inexorable path toward Blair's opening. Jim locked eyes with Blair, searching for any sign of discomfort or apprehension, but found only anticipation; he was startled when Blair smiled.

"Make me yell," murmured Blair in a contented tone, as if it were all he aspired to in the world. He lowered his mouth to Jim's. Jim closed his eyes and threw himself enthusiastically into another wet, hot wrestle of lips and tongues. He felt Blair's arm move, heard the drawer to the nightstand slide open – and started laughing again at the urgent pitch of Blair's rummaging.

Blair broke the kiss and glared at him, one hand clutching a half-used tube of lube. "What?" He seized Jim's hand and starting smoothing lube onto his fingers with long, sensuous strokes. "Something funny here, Detective?" Blair thrust his hips up, sending agonizingly intense pleasure up the express lane to Jim's lizard brain.

"No, sir," laughed Jim breathlessly, coherent only by virtue of a supreme application of the legendary Ellison willpower. "Nothing … nothing funny here, sir."

Blair's glare evaporated, leaving behind nothing but wonder. He leaned down and kissed Jim lightly. "You," he said quietly, "are fucking beautiful."

Jim stopped laughing, shocked.

"I mean it," whispered Blair, folding warm, slippery hands around Jim's face. "I need you to believe me, here."

Jim blinked hard to clear his vision. "Gotta … work on that one, Chief."

Blair nodded gravely and took Jim's mouth in his own again, teasing and caressing every nerve ending from teeth to tonsils. Jim allowed himself to wallow in the sensations for a few seconds, then slid his lube-coated fingers down Blair's back to his ass. Blair moaned softly into Jim's mouth and spread his legs a little wider as Jim slid one finger into the crevice between Blair's ass cheeks, and then, with infinite care, into his opening.

Blair's body jolted as if someone had forced an electrical current through it. Gasping, Blair broke the kiss, and Jim froze in panic – but the words "are you all right" died on his tongue at the sight of Blair's ecstatic expression.

"God, yes," murmured Blair, tilting his head up, laying his hands on Jim's shoulders to brace himself. "Just like … yes…."

Jim eased his finger in the rest of the way, then set up a slow, easy rhythm, watching Blair's face in fascination. Blair looked down at Jim, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, his little breaths and cries pitched for Jim alone. God, he was all out there. Everything Blair was, everything he felt, was in his face at that moment. Nothing to hide. Then Blair began to move, and what remained of Jim's capacity for rational thought spun out into the ozone.

Blair's sweat-soaked body slid against Jim's in rough counterpoint to his thrusting finger, grinding his groin into Jim's, pressing their engorged erections against each other with exquisitely paced friction. Jim realized that he was yelling again, that he was close, so close, and so was Blair. Blair's soft cries – inarticulate sounds and disjointed, loving words interspersed with Jim's name – weren't so soft anymore, and Jim had the wild, fleeting thought that maybe the guys in the bullpen would be able to hear him.

And Jim wanted them to hear. He wanted to smash that damn lie in front of Major Crimes, God and everybody. Jim Ellison was in love with a guy. Jim Ellison was fucking a guy and loving it. Jim Ellison wasn't normal - normal was a myth. Everybody wanted to be one of the guys, but Jim Ellison didn't have to be. He was Blair Sandburg's guy. He was Blair Sandburg's sentinel.

Jim came so hard he screamed, clutching Blair to him with his free hand while the other continued to stroke the walls of Blair's passage hard and fast. Blair came, too, shuddering and calling Jim's name in a voice that sounded almost like sobbing. Hot come splattered over their stomachs, chests, and chins, and Blair collapsed onto Jim, his mouth panting hot, moist breath against Jim's neck. Jim eased his finger out of Blair and wrapped both arms around his friend, breathing hard. Dropping a kiss on the top of Blair's head, he closed his eyes.

"You … you okay?"

Jim smiled into Blair's hair. Well, his whole world might have turned upside down, but this much was the same; Blair was still worrying about him. "Uh-huh. You?"

"Yeah. Oh, yeah," murmured Blair fervently. He slid off Jim to lie on his side, his head still resting on Jim's shoulder.

Jim reluctantly removed one arm from around Blair and groped on the floor beside the bed. Grabbing what felt like his shirt, he started cleaning them up. Blair's eyes drifted shut; Jim could plainly see the strain of the last few weeks in his face as dim dawn light filled the room.

"Jim," said Blair drowsily.

"Yeah, babe," murmured Jim, tossing the shirt away and bending low over Blair.

"I'm glad you didn't leave me there. I'm glad. Even if this hadn't happened for us, I wouldn't have traded the last three years for anything."

Jim tried to answer around his tightening throat, and couldn't.

"Believe me."

Jim laughed the tightness away and folded himself tenderly around Blair. "I believe you, Chief."

*****

Blair woke to the smells of coffee and disinfectant, and the sound of Jim's softest voice.

"Yeah, I know. Wasn't your fault. Don't go looking all guilty on me, now."

A few yips identified the guilty party, and Blair could just imagine the crime. Shit. He should have put down some newspaper. Blair sighed and rolled over onto his back. Not the best start to the day. He wondered briefly what disaster doggie droppings portended – then smiled contentedly as memories of the night and early morning filtered into his fogged consciousness.

Whatever. Bring on the disasters. Earthquakes. Tidal waves. Apocalyptic asteroids. Jim Ellison had actually bought The Clue. And not just the no-sex half. Oh, no. Jim had bought it all, the whole enchilada. Hell, Jim had bought it, gift-wrapped it and delivered it personally. Jim Ellison loved Blair Sandburg, and there wasn't anything Blair Sandburg couldn't handle today.

The phone rang, and Jim snatched it up, cursing under his breath. "Ellison. Oh. Good morning to you, too, sir."

Except, of course, Simon Banks. Blair pulled himself out of the bed, glancing at the clock. 7:55 a.m. Simon evidently believed in putting the fear of God into the barely risen. He hastily threw on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt.

"Sorry to have worried you, sir."

Blair snorted as he made his bleary-eyed way into the hall. Jim was renting a houseboat with a scenic view of the pyramids if he thought he'd get off that easy.

"No, of course not. You never worry. My mistake." Jim turned to share a grin with Blair as he shuffled into the kitchen; he was wearing his rattiest bathrobe and obviously hadn't had a chance to shower or shave. A bucket and sponge on the kitchen floor indicated the scene of the crime. Jim's expression became inquiring. "Message?"

"Two weeks no cape. Pitchfork up ass. Never been born," supplied Blair helpfully.

Jim grimaced. "Ah … yes, sir, I'm listening."

The puppy padded around the counter to sniff Blair's bare feet. Blair squatted down and scratched the soft ears, grateful, and not for the first time, that he didn't have Jim's hearing.

"Yes, sir," said Jim patiently. "Irresponsible. Unprofessional."

"Inconsiderate," added Blair in a cheerful tone. "Stupid."

Jim flipped him the bird. "Captain, I don't-" He paused again, casting a brief but expressive glance heavenward.

The puppy started licking Blair's hand, and Blair smiled down at him. "You don't have a name yet, do you?"

"Simon." Jim's voice could have cut glass. "I want my resignation to stand."

Blair froze for a fraction of second. There were some moments when you could actually feel your life taking a new turn, darting off into uncharted territory, and this was one of them. He'd had precisely the same feeling coming up from under that garbage truck three years ago. Shaken, Blair lifted his eyes to Jim's.

Jim looked pale. Tired. Blair rose and moved, borne by both habit and instinct, into Jim's personal space. Jim looked at him with a remote expression for a split second, then wrapped his arm around his shoulders and reeled him in close. Blair slipped his arm around Jim's waist, not certain who was leaning on whom.

"I don't need to think about it. Dammit, Simon, you know how it is. You know how we work. He's my partner. It's both of us or neither, and as things stand now it can't be both of us."

Blair searched Jim's face for any sign of indecision or regret and found none. Of course, searching Jim's face, particularly at 8 a.m., was not likely to be a successful pursuit. Had Jim thought about the consequences at all? Like, where the groceries were going to come from? Shit. What the hell were they doing?

"I know." Jim's voice gentled. "I know you do, Simon. And I appreciate it. There's no one I'd rather work for."

Blair leaned his head against Jim's shoulder and closed his eyes. So this is what Jim had felt like during that damn press conference. It sucked. It sucked big time. He felt Jim's hand caressing his arm.

"All right. Personal favor. I'll hold off for the two weeks. But I'm telling you up front that I'm not going to change my mind."

Blair looked up at Jim and grinned in spite of everything. God, he was a pigheaded son of a bitch. The immovable object to end all immovable objects. The mountain waiting on Mohammed. And he was all his.

God help him.

"Sure, he's right here." Jim handed Blair the phone and moved away with a final caress of Blair's shoulder.

Blair cleared his throat and lifted the receiver to his ear tentatively. "Uh … hi, Simon."

"You told me you could handle him, Sandburg," growled Simon.

Jim snorted, clearly hearing every word, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"I lied," said Blair irritably. Simon Banks was just too much to deal with at this ungodly hour of the morning. "Nobody can handle him. He's Attila the Hun, man. He's the fucking Black Terror of Cascade."

"Damn straight," remarked Jim to no one in particular, looking slightly smug.

"Are you sure he's sober?"

"Yeah." Blair glanced at Jim, who gave him that smile again. Blair swallowed hard as his libido's alarm clock went off. "Yeah, he's as sober as he gets these days."

"Jesus, Blair. Get him to reconsider. This isn't the way to go."

"You may be right, but we're going to give it a shot," said Blair quietly. "Everything happens for a reason, you know."

For some reason, Jim grinned broadly into his coffee.

"Don't go Zen on me, Sandburg. Zen won't pay the phone bill. Do you two have any idea how you're going to make this work?"

"Not a clue." Blair was surprised at how cheerful he sounded – and even more surprised at cheerful he felt, considering he was scared shitless. "But as soon as we have it figured out we'll let you know."

"You do that," returned Simon sourly. He sighed. "Keep me posted, Blair. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah. Later, Simon." Blair hung up the phone and turned back to Jim, who handed him a cup of coffee. "So."

"So," said Jim softly.

"Here we are." Blair moved to stand toe-to-toe with Jim.

Jim smiled down at him. "Uh-huh."

"Two staggeringly attractive bisexual guys with no jobs." Blair took a sip of his coffee.

"And a dog," added Jim, as the puppy jumped up on its hind legs with its front paws on Jim's knees, wagging its tail energetically.

"And a dog," conceded Blair. "Without a name."

"So let's name the dog."

"Your grasp of priorities is mind-boggling, man." Blair shook his head and lifted his cup for another sip.

Jim plucked Blair's coffee mug out of his hand and set it and his own on the counter. Blair opened his mouth to protest, but found himself bent backwards in Jim's arms and Jim's hot, coffee-tasting mouth on his before he could make a sound. Delighted, Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and let his tongue do the talking, all the while doing his level best to ignore the antics of the puppy as he bounced around their legs and yipped at the top of his little lungs. God. Nobody, absolutely nobody, could kiss like Jim Ellison.

Jim lifted his mouth from Blair's and kissed his forehead. "That's my priority," he said huskily. "You're my priority. Us."

Blair hung on to Jim's neck for dear life, certain he'd fall on his ass if he didn't. "Us?" His voice came out in a shaky whisper.

"Yeah," breathed Jim. "Us. Our … home. Our work."

Blair found himself nodding in instinctive understanding. "Okay."

Jim barreled ahead in a strange, intense tone. "If we don't get that right, then nothing else works. We're pretending to be somebody we're not."

"You're right," said Blair softly, bewildered by Jim's sudden insight. There was no doubt in his mind, though, that nothing had ever unraveled his life as badly as failing to put his partnership with Jim first. "Us. I hear that. Our home. Our work."

A few persistent yips from the floor made both of them start and look down at the wriggling ball of sandy fur at their feet.

"And our mystery dog," said Jim wryly.

Blair chuckled. "Yeah, Mr. Out-of-the-Blue."

"Don't knock it, Chief. The best things in my life have come out of the blue." Jim stroked Blair's hair back tenderly.

"Same here." Blair traced the line of Jim's jaw with one finger, heart pounding at the look in Jim's eyes. "And I'm betting on lightning striking again."

Jim smiled, and Blair caught his breath at the new peace in his friend's eyes. "So am I." He pulled Blair close and wrapped both arms around him tightly. Blair closed his eyes, feeling Jim's lips pressing against his hair, then his ear. "Love you, Chief." It was no more than a whisper.

"Love you," murmured Blair. He laid his head on Jim's shoulder and stood very still for a few moments, reveling in the embrace. Up to a point. "Ah … Jim?"

"Mmmm?"

"We stink, Jim."

Jim snorted in obvious indignation. "No, you think? Who's the one with the nose here, Sandburg?"

"We stink really bad."

Jim growled in annoyance and pulled back to look Blair in the face. "Okay, okay. I suppose you want to take your shower first. I can wait. I'll see if I can find something for Blue to eat."

"Our shower," murmured Blair with enough of a leer to make Jim's jaw drop. "Blue can wait."

"Our shower?" Jim grinned from ear to ear, and offered no resistance whatsoever as Blair draped an arm around him and shepherded him toward the bathroom.

"Yeah," breathed Blair seductively in his ear. "Our shower. Our bed. Our floor. Our couch."

"Chief, I like how you think." Jim pushed open the bathroom door, pulling at the sash of his robe.

Blair yanked the sash off and pulled Jim bodily into the bathroom by the front of his robe. "Priorities, man," he said with satisfaction. "You've just got to get 'em right."

End

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