Archive of Our Own ^beta

The low yellow
   moon above the
Quiet lamplit house

Blair let himself into the loft, sighing with the deep pleasure of being home, of having a home to arrive safely back to, and slid the keys into the basket as quietly as he could. He closed and locked the door, leaning his head against it for a moment, tired beyond remembrance.

He sniffed and lifted his head. Something smelled good, even to his non-sentinel nose. Portabello mushrooms stuffed with garlic, basil, and tomatoes, a plate of them covered in saran left on the counter. He ate one cold while lifting the other two into the toaster oven and turning it on. Sour dough bread spread with soft butter. And a Harp in the fridge. Oh god. He was home. He was loved.

He took a big swallow of the Harp and wiped his mouth. While waiting for the mushrooms to heat, he stripped his clothes off, right there in the kitchen, leaving on only his tee shirt and socks. The nightlight over the sink let him see well enough to know the mushrooms weren't bubbling yet, so he threw the very dirty clothes into the hamper in the bathroom, peed but didn't flush, and washed his face and hands. He really needed a shower but didn't want to wake Jim, so he decided to wait until morning.

By the time he'd pulled on a clean tee shirt and boxers, the mushrooms were ready. He finished the lager and pulled out another, then carried his plate into his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. If Jim had his earplugs in and the white noise generator on, maybe he'd slept through Blair's late homecoming. Blair didn't want to repay Jim's kindness by waking him at -- he checked his new Indiglo watch -- twelve-fucking-forty am. Christ.

The mushrooms were so good. He licked his fingers and mopped the plate with the bread. Swallowing the last of the lager, he just couldn't face brushing his teeth. One night wouldn't hurt. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. He left the dirty plate on his desk and fell back into his bed, rolling into the covers rather than crawling beneath them. It was all just too much work.

Thank you, he whispered to his sleeping friend, and fell into the powerful sleep of exhaustion.

He woke to the squawk of air in the pipes: Jim showering. Blearily, he checked his watch; it was still dark, but already seven o'clock. Well, that made almost six hours. Not bad. Although he wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep, he needed to pee again, and he really, really needed a shower himself. He hoisted himself from his bed, groaning like the old man he hoped he'd become, and picked up the dirty plate and empty beer bottle, tottering into the kitchen just as the shower shut off.

Knocking lightly on the bathroom door, he said, "Jim, man, gotta take a leak like right *now*."

The door opened, steam billowing out and Jim's dripping face appearing. "Morning, Chief. Come on in." They traded places, Blair sighing as he relieved himself. He flushed and opened the door.

"You mind if I shower while you shave?"

"If you don't mind the changes in water temperature."

"I'll live." He stripped unselfconsciously, something he couldn't have done three or even two years ago, but after the academy, anything was possible. His friend had left him enough hot water to wash himself and his still-short hair, for which he shouted his thanks over the noise of the spray.

By the time he was out and shaved himself, Jim had a couple bagels toasted and coffee dripping. "Thank you, Jim," he murmured, drinking deeply. "And thanks for leaving me some dinner. I'd've just gone to bed hungry otherwise."

"Figured," was all Jim said, staring at the sports page and licking a dab of cream cheese from his thumb. "Time you gotta be at work?"

"Eight."

"I'll drive."

"Thanks."

Jim just nodded.

It was a good morning. Maybe Blair's day wouldn't be quite as shitty as yesterday had been.

"Sandburg!" Simon shouted at him as they came in the frosted glass doors of Major Crimes. Blair tossed his backpack under his desk with a practiced swing and headed straight to his captain's office. He heard Jim park himself at his own desk, nodded at Rhonda, and took the coffee Simon handed him, as smooth a hand-off as any relay racer could hope for.

"Yes, boss?"

Simon rolled his eyes, but by now Blair could decode all his gestures. Simon, too, was in better shape today. Thank god.

"Okay, Detective Sandburg," Simon said, putting his own coffee down and pulling out a document from the printer behind him. "Looky here. A little email from Her Honor da Mayor herself, thanking me for assigning Detective Sandburg to the Gay Pride Parade's Planning Committee. Says you done good, son. Let's see," he brought the print-out closer to his eyes. "Cooperative. Flexible. Spirit of mediation and an ability to find common ground. Recommends you participate in more of these shindigs."

Simon put down the paper and looked at Blair. "I know you worked your butt off, Sandburg. I know you've put in a sixty hour week and it's only Thursday. I know you got called names by some Rotarian and I know you got flirted with by some Man-Boy Love, Association asshole. I know a few of the uniforms assigned to the parade have, uh, said some things. And I know you've done a helluva job.

"So I'm writing you up, my boy. Your first official commendation, done all by yourself, no partner, no assistance. Congratulations."

Blair stared at him. Yesterday had been horrible. Spirit of mediation and an ability to find common ground? He'd fucking *yelled* at the Gay Christian Coalition guy, had told the Dykes on Bikes lady to sit down and shut the fuck up. And what he'd said to the Rotarian -- holy cow. He hadn't known that he'd known those words.

"Simon," he finally croaked. "Is this a joke? Did I fuck up so badly that you're gonna humiliate me? Suspend me? Please don't fuck around, okay?"

Simon looked irritated. "Goddammit, Sandburg. I don't write commendations lightly. If the mayor writes me to say what a great job you've done, if the chair of the planning committee emails me to ask that you be assigned to all future negotiations, and if the fire marshal himself wants you in charge of security at the parade, no, I don't consider that fucking around with you."

Blair swallowed. He ran his hand over his curls and rubbed his neck. He took a sip of the coffee. He sighed. "I have a confession to make," he began.

"Don't bother. I know. It's a shitty committee. I've sat on that committee for the past ten years, in various capacities. They loved you, Blair. You did a good job. Accept the praise and move on. Okay, son?"

At that, Blair smiled. "Yes, sir," he said sincerely, and Simon nodded happily.

"Good man. There's still a lot more work for you to do before this parade can happen, but the negotiations are over. Now it's just the actual preparations. You won't have to be quite so involved, but I still want you to review all security, any changes in plans, stuff like that. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you, Simon." He finished his coffee and took the mug with him, to fill with some of the break room's nastier stuff. Glancing at Jim's desk, he saw no mug there, so brought one back to him as well.

"Trouble?" Jim asked, curious.

Blair shook his head. "Weird shit, my friend," was all he said before settling down to write up his notes from yesterday's meeting. Then he and Jim were scheduled for a deposition about a case, and he had a couple ideas about who they should interview for a theft.

Another day in the life.

Jim had overheard Simon's praise of Blair with enormous pride and pleasure. As if he himself were somehow responsible, which of course was ridiculous. But he was vicariously pleased by the praise, and happy for his partner's success. He had such a hard time expressing his feelings, except of course when he was angry or grumpy. But he tried to find ways to act that might reveal, to someone as sensitive and insightful as Blair, how Jim felt. Of course, Jim admitted to himself, he wasn't exactly sure how he felt, which made revealing it even more difficult.

Seated at his desk, watching Blair review his notes for their upcoming deposition, he tried to think what he might do for Blair. There had to be some way to convey his pride, his delight, really, in having Blair at his side as his real partner. He'd given up so much to reach this point. Daily, Jim swore to himself to make it worth Blair's time, to show him that even if he had lost his old life, this new one was better, richer, more rewarding.

But that was pretty fucking hard, he thought, tossing down his pen, after everything Blair had gone through. And he'd been such an asshole to his loyal friend. Jim was deeply, profoundly ashamed of his behavior, of the accusations he'd made. As if Blair, of all people, could be disloyal. He didn't have a disloyal bone in his body.

Jim bit his lip and put his fingers to his temple. Think, he ordered himself. If Blair were a woman, it would be so much easier. Flowers. Dinners out. Not that Jim had had much luck with women, he realized. Maybe that wouldn't be any easier. At least Jim knew what men liked, what Blair liked. Goofing around on the basketball court. Going to a game. Eating fried food. Even Blair liked Tony's onion rings. So, what, Ellison, he asked himself; instead of a bouquet, order him a bag of onion rings?

Jesus. He looked at his friend, glasses slipping down his nose, hair just starting to grow out again, and felt such a wave of affection wash through him. My buddy, he thought, and blushed. More than buddy. He noticed Rafe watching him from across the room; Rafe smiled kindly at him and returned to his conversation with Rhonda. Jim got back to work.

"Sandburg." Blair looked up from the water fountain in the lobby of the PD to see one of the uniforms, Ted Something, a big, good-looking white guy, gesturing to him.

"Yeah?"

"Detective Sandburg, look at this." He held out a picture of a badly burnt dumpster, the kind found behind grocery stores.

"I didn't know those things would burn."

"Yeah, me either. We got a call last night, though. It was pretty much burnt out by the time we got there. But look at this," and he held out another picture.

Blair studied it carefully, bringing it close to his face. He shook his head. "I can't make this out. Ted, right?"

"Yeah, Teddy Bookman. Those are bones, Detective Sandburg."

Eww. But Blair was a detective now; he couldn't say things like that. No more puking at crime scenes or passing out at autopsies. "I take it they're human or you wouldn't be interested."

"Yeah." Blair looked up at Bookman. Young, enthusiastic, high energy. Kind of like me a few years ago, he thought, except for the hair. "Bucking for detective?" Ted's face dropped, and Blair put his hand on Ted's shoulder. "I didn't mean it like that, Bookman. I'm really interested. Do you want to be a detective?"

"Shit, yeah. Jesus, who doesn't? But that doesn't matter. It's just that somebody died in there, or was killed and put in there. It's -- grisly."

Blair nodded, glancing at the photos again. "Who's doing the forensic work?"

"Maples."

"Fuck."

"Yeah." Maples was nearing retirement and didn't seem to have a lot of enthusiasm for the work anymore. Blair and Bookman sighed in unison.

"Okay. Let me talk to my partner, see what he thinks, okay? I'll keep you in the loop. Maybe you can get some experience."

"Thanks, Detective." Bookman looked at Blair for a few seconds longer, his brown eyes thoughtful. Blair realized that Bookman wore a discreet gold stud in one earlobe. Well. Times, they are a-changing for the Cascade PD.

"Call me Blair, okay?"

"Okay." He stuck out his hand. "Teddy."

"I'll get back to you, Teddy. Give me a day or two."

"Thanks," Teddy said again.

Jim wasn't real interested, not that Blair thought he'd be. "We've already got more than we can handle, Chief," he said kindly, studying the glossy photos. "You're falling asleep on your feet. Let it go."

"I can't, Jim." Jim kept studying the photos, running a graceful finger over the top. "Won't you just look at them? A few minutes out of the day. Your senses --"

"Okay." He smiled up at Blair, standing next to Jim's desk. "Sure. Besides, I love pissing off Maples."

"Thanks, man."

So the next day, Jim and Blair found themselves in the laboratory of Richard Maples, Dicky to his friends, neither of whom was Jim or Blair. Blair felt a little sorry for Maples; he looked tired and had lost weight since they'd last met. Maybe he was ill? But it didn't matter, did it. All that mattered was they find out who had died and why.

Jim studied the bones thoughtfully, Blair at his side. They were bleached white by the fire, which Blair knew meant they'd burned for a long time, long enough to burn out all organic material. Some of the bones had a checkered appearance and small cubes were flaking off them; others were shedding tiny crescent moons. Both were signs, again, of intense heat.

But whose bones? As much as Jim looked and sniffed and even, to Blair's disgust, tasted, there was nothing to suggest who once walked with those bones.

"But look at this," Jim said, pointing. Blair leaned down and squinted.

"An animal?"

"Dog, maybe?" They exchanged looks. "Hey, Doctor Maples," Jim called. Maples sighed heavily and pulled himself to his feet. They showed him the anomalous bones, all mixed together.

"Shit," Maples said sadly. "Poor puppy."

"So it's a dog?"

"Big dog, from the size of the bones. That's the pelvis, and there's a thigh bone. The others, eh. I'll get a student on it, sorting them out."

"Thanks, Doc," Jim said. He picked up the skull, also bleached white, and held it near his face.

"How long will a man lie i' th' earth ere he rot?" Jim and Blair both looked up, but Maples had already turned back to his desk and paperwork. Jim glanced at Blair, checking on him, Blair knew. Blair felt the weight of Jim's concern for him as a comforting pressure. After a few seconds, Jim returned his attention to the skull.

"Look," he murmured to Blair, drawing his attention back from the coroner, "here, and here."

"What are those?" Blair moved his face closer to the skull, finally putting his hand on Jim's to draw it closer. Then he looked up at Jim. "Hammer?"

Jim nodded. "Here and over here are little taps. I guess to render him unconscious. Her. Whoever. But these," and he used his free hand to bring Blair's hand back to the skull. Blair obediently ran his fingers lightly over the indentations. "These are pretty good bashes. I count," and he closed his eyes, "Six. Six," he repeated more confidently.

"So they were bashed to death and then burned?"

Raising his eyebrows, Jim said, "I hope they were dead before they were burned. I think these would do it, but that's for Maples to decide." He set the skull down, his fingers careful. Blair found the gesture oddly touching.

"I'm sorry," Blair told Ted later that day. "Not a whole lot. They were hit with a hammer in the head before they were burned. From the size of the pelvis, it was probably a woman. And we found that a big dog burned with them."

"Dog. Jesus." Ted kicked at the linoleum. "I guess it's just back to looking through missing persons info. I'll cross ref dogs and see what happens."

"Good. Let me know, okay?"

"Sure. Hey, Blair? You wanna grab a beer sometime? After work?"

Blair grinned at him. "My captain'd kill me if it was during work, but, sure. Call me."

Ted smiled shyly. Blair wondered if he'd just made a date and, if he had, if that would be a bad thing. What Jim would think. What purpose it would serve. He smiled at Teddy and headed for the elevator. At the least, he could feel good about himself for a few. That was something.

Evening coming --
   the office girl
Unloosing her scarf

Blair looked over his glasses at Jim. "Yeah?"

"Jesus, what're you reading that's so interesting? I've been calling you for five minutes."

"Sorry, man. What do you need?"

"I'm headin' down to Records. Anything you need?"

"Naw. Well, wait." Blair thought for a moment, looking at the screen. Jim moved behind him and leaned over his shoulder; Blair could feel his warm breath on his neck. He pointed at the open email message.

"Who's that from? That detective wannabe? Tim? Todd?"

"Ted Bookman. Yeah. He's thorough, Jim."

"I'll say. You wanna run some of these names down?"

"You mind?" He twisted in his chair to look at Jim's face, get a better feel for what Jim was really thinking.

"Go ahead. I like his initiative. Let me know what you find."

"Thanks, Jim." Jim absently patted Blair's shoulder before heading downstairs.

Blair started running checks on abandoned vehicles discovered after the bones had been found in the burning dumpster. It was a good idea, and he liked Ted Bookman. And he wanted to solve the case.

Before Jim returned from Records, Blair had narrowed the search down to three: cars owned by two men and a woman. Their cars had not been reported stolen, just found by the cops and ticketed, then yellow tagged. He tried calling the owners but one didn't have a phone and no one answered the other two. He'd have to pay a visit to their homes.

Maybe Jim would want to come with him. Blair could offer to buy lunch; that usually worked. He looked up from the phone when Jim came in and couldn't help smiling.

"Yeah, I'll go with you," Jim agreed. "We can check out the tip we got from St. Germain, about the shipment of meth coming in from Yakima."

The first place they stopped turned out to be owned by a guy too busy to report a stolen car. Blair couldn't believe it; who had enough money not to be bothered by a stolen car? But people were odd, that's all there was to it. No, he hadn't loaned it. It just disappeared off the street a week or so ago, he wasn't sure exactly when, and could he get back to them? He worked at home and if he didn't get this job out, he wouldn't get paid. No, no one was missing. Yeah, thanks for finding the car. See ya.

Jim raised his eyebrows at Blair, who shrugged. Go figure.

The next place, though, was more promising, in a sad way. An older couple who were trying to care for their granddaughter. The woman invited them in for coffee, and they sat in the painfully clean living room, listening to the litany of complaints about their daughter and granddaughter.

"I don't know why God gave us this burden," she wept. "We did everything for her, everything. We're good Christians, and we raised them both that way. But she kept getting arrested, and then she got pregnant. When she had our granddaughter, she just left her here for longer and longer periods. I haven't seen my daughter in four years now.

"And Grace is just like her. Just like her. How could lightning strike twice? What did we do wrong?"

Blair sipped his watery coffee and felt sorry for the daughter and granddaughter, growing up in such a sterile environment. He stared at the ceramic praying hands on the mantel and a picture of Jesus behind the sofa, then glanced at Jim; wasn't his mom named Grace? Such a pretty name.

"When was the last time you saw your granddaughter?" he asked at the first pause.

The woman sighed heavily and began counting back. "Almost two weeks. On Friday afternoon. She was all dressed up in this tiny black slip, not decent for wearing in public. Grace is a pretty girl, Detectives. She just doesn't value herself."

Blair glanced at Jim, envying his control over his emotions and expressions. He looked completely neutral. Professional. Competent. Blair suspected he looked a little sickened. At last he said, "Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Suffield. Here's my card; please let me know if Grace comes home."

Jim stood. "Thank you, ma'am." He waited for Blair to set down his coffee cup and shake Mrs. Suffield's hand, then shepherded him out the door and back into the truck. "Jesus Christ," he muttered when safely shut in the cab. "Imagine growing up in that environment."

"I can't," Blair said honestly. Nor did he want to.

"The timing is right. Two weeks ago. You said Bookman got the call on a Saturday."

"Yeah. It would work. And her car is missing. The grandma didn't seem to put any of this together."

"Let's check out the car."

"We have time? I mean, this isn't our case. Will Homicide mind? Will Simon?"

Jim put the truck in gear and pulled away, smiling slightly. "I'm gonna tell you a secret, Chief, but you can't use it on me, okay?"

"Okay," Blair agreed hesitantly.

"It's easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission."

Blair smiled. "Hell, that's true for students, too."

"Well, all right, then. We'll apologize later, if anybody turns out to care. In the meantime, let's just do the work."

Nodding, Blair felt his smile grow. Jesus, but he loved riding with Jim. The roller coaster, he'd called it once, and it was still true.

"So why you interested in this case, Ellison?" Adamson was another big guy. Jim often noticed how much taller most cops were than his partner; his protective instincts toward Blair kicked in whenever someone loomed over him. He wondered if Blair ever felt that he'd wandered into a Looking Glass world where everyone had grown as large as Alice had when she'd gotten stuck in the White Rabbit's home.

Jim shrugged. "Hey, Homicide isn't making any progress. Just thought I'd take a look. Gotta problem with that?"

"Yeah, actually I do. It's my case. I'm the primary. You wanna work the case, fine. Happy to have you aboard. But check with me first."

"Okay. I'm checking with you. Want some help?"

Adamson stared at Jim. "Your workload a little light?"

"Hey, you just said it's fine if we help, as long as we check with you. I'm checking with you. So."

Adamson glanced at Blair standing quietly a step behind Jim, watching the proceedings with curiosity and a little concern. Jim knew that Blair didn't want to get Teddy in trouble, or put Jim in an uncomfortable position. Finally, Adamson said, "Yeah. It's fine. We could use your help." The tension left Jim's body as he heard Blair start breathing again.

"We found some fibers and blood in the trunk of a car we think belonged to the vic. We took the evidence to Forensics; you'll get a copy of the report. Can we see your case file?"

Adamson shrugged. "Sounds fair. Come on down to Homicide. We've got better coffee than Major Crimes does, anyway."

"I'll bring donuts."

"Bet your ass you will." They grinned at each other. Adamson nodded at Blair and headed back toward the elevator. Blair glanced up at Jim.

"Everything cool?"

"Couldn't be better. Just tell your friend Teddy to watch his back. You don't make detective by pissing off the other detectives." Blair nodded and Jim gently touched his shoulder, taking comfort in the sensation. Grounding himself, he thought of it, when he thought of it. But today, he just touched Blair without thinking about it, relaxing.

"Okay, Chief. We got our own workload to look after. Just for the hassle this case is puttin' me through, you get to do the Matheson paperwork."

"Oh, like you'd've done it otherwise."

"Hey, I might've."

"Yeah, and I've got some prime swampland in Florida I wanna sell you."

"Smart ass."

"Wise ass." Blair sat down at his desk and rolled his chair to Jim's to start digging through the mess to find their notes on the Matheson case.

"So it is Grace Suffield."

"Yeah."

"Jesus. Poor lady. All dressed up in her little black dress."

"Don't think about it, Chief. You can't go back and fix things. Just focus on the real issue: getting the son of a bitch who did this."

"Yeah, but, Jim, it's hard not to think about how young she was, how pretty."

"How fucked up. She was doing blow, Sandburg. Turning tricks, for all we know."

"So? That make her life worth less than if she was a church-going woman like her grandma?"

"You know I don't mean that."

Blair dropped his head. Why was he taking this out on Jim? Jim was right. He needed to focus on what he could do, not on the past. He felt Jim's big hand on his back, patting him comfortingly. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"S'okay. Just, just don't let your feelings get in the way."

Blair wanted to lean against Jim for a moment, just rest against him. Not real appropriate behavior for the junior member of the partnership, he thought wryly, but true, nonetheless. Instead, they stood over Jim's desk, staring down at the report spread across it. Grace's grandmother had provided Forensics with a hairbrush full of DNA, her dental records, and pictures of her and her dog. Also, by some stroke of ill-luck, named Chief. That sent shivers down Blair's spine.

And Grace had been pretty. A bit thin, with wide brown eyes and luscious lips painted a creamy fuschia. She been given to wearing long sleeves, which, as a cop, Blair often found indicative of drugs. An exotic look to have come from her grandmother's home. The dog had been part Husky and part Malamute, a big wolf-like creature with blue eyes and a doggy grin. Blair liked them both, even though he would only know them through their pictures.

Jim stepped a bit closer to Blair, whether to comfort him or simply to see something better, he didn't know. "She was a pretty girl," he said, and Blair had to agree.

"Can we get him, Jim? Is it realistic to imagine we can catch her murderer?"

"I think so. We'll try, at least. She'll have that much of a memorial, Blair; we'll try."

Blair nodded. Jim was right. Blair had called Jim a throw-back, all those years ago, but that wasn't just unfair, it was wrong. Jim was a sensitive, intelligent man with a strong moral compass. Blair liked and respected him. Well, loved him, really. He was proud to be Jim's partner.

"We need to meet with Grace's friends. Find out where she was."

"We'll go see her grandparents again, go through her room. We'll find something."

The two men looked at each other for a moment, standing over the photographs and diagrams and reports of Grace's terrible death. Then, as one, they turned and left Major Crimes.

Poor Grace, was all Blair could think. What a terrible life. Deserted by her mother, left in the care of her uncaring grandparents. Unwanted and not very much loved. Her diary, written in big looping handwriting, was to someone of Blair's intellect and interests pathetic. Sad worries about boys and girls she'd had crushes on. Her wish to act. Her adoration of a soap opera star. Her anger at her mother, the missing Melanie.

Blair thought of his own mother, the peripatetic Naomi. Despite all her travels, Blair had never doubted her love for him. She'd created a life for them in which he'd felt treasured. Still did, really, even though now that he was an adult she felt freer to roam the world. But he knew she carried him with her, just as he carried her. His beautiful mother.

And now he had Jim, too. Another kind of home, one more stable and regulated. Comforting in its own way, despite the differences between Jim and Naomi.

Poor Grace.

Her friends from school weren't terribly helpful, no doubt because he and Jim were cops. She liked to surf. Spent a lot of time at Point Lobos. A druggie. Liked raves, liked clubbing. Loved E, loved the sense of camaraderie it engendered. And loved to dance herself into oblivion, especially at Risky Business, where Blair and Jim now stood, staring into the building, waiting for the manager to show up and let them in.

For the second time in two days, Blair felt a strong desire to lean against Jim, to let Jim handle this case. Technically, it was Adamson's case, not a Major Crimes concern. But Adamson was busy and happy to let Blair search out what clues he could, and Jim seemed happy to assist. So here they were, standing in the misty afternoon, waiting silently in the probably vain hope that someone would have seen something.

Jim nudged Blair with his elbow, and then pointed. Across the street was a fast-food restaurant. "You hungry again?"

"No. But I'm pretty sure I see a security camera out there."

Blair looked up at Jim. "You don't think it caught something . . ."

Jim shrugged. "We'll never know if we don't look. I say we talk to them."

"Yeah, and buy a chocolate shake and garlic fries at the same time."

"Problem, Sandburg?"

He shook his head, smiling slightly. No. Not a problem at all.

The manager drove up, a trendoid bitch with make-up spackled on and eyelashes trembling under the weight of their mascara. Blair wondered what that looked like with sentinel vision, all the goop piled on her tender skin. She was wraith thin, wearing a silky orange sheath not much longer than her panties. Blair found himself staring at her ass; like two apples, tight and hard. No breasts, although he could see her nipples through the clingy fabric. Each ear was ringed all the way up to the top, plus a ring through her right eyebrow, and he was pretty sure he'd caught the flash of a stud in her tongue. Probably studded elsewhere, too, he thought, glancing at Jim. He wondered if Jim could *hear* the metal clanging when she walked, and that made him bite back a grin.

They walked through the cold, echoing empty building, lacking all ambience without the lights, smoke, noise, and smell of a full house. The manager took them upstairs, to a room full of video equipment; it turned out they videotaped the goings on. Blair had some suspicions about the contents of the videotapes, but followed Jim's suit and remained quiet, watching as the manager's long fingernails, painted to look like fireworks exploding, tapped along the edges of the dated boxes until she found the Friday night that Grace Suffield had disappeared. She lit a cigarette as Jim turned on a monitor and popped the cartridge into a built-in player.

Blair heard the manager sniff deeply, as if snorting the cigarette smoke, but kept his eyes on the monitor. There was no sound and the image shifted every ten seconds, but it still made fascinating watching. Couples and menages of every combination came together and parted. Lots of rhythmic dancing, which was probably a lot of fun at the time but just looked stupid and awkward now. He watched as a woman lifted a breast from her low-necked sweater and held it out to a man, as if making an offering. He watched one man go down on another. He watched one man lean over the bar and another come up behind him and begin thrusting, miming intercourse, while the people around them began to laugh and applaud.

Suddenly, Jim straightened up and pointed. Grace. In her little black slip dress. Blair exchanged a look with Jim, then turned to the manager, whose eyes were closed. "Ma'am?" She opened her eyes reluctantly. "Do you know this person?"

She stared at him, expressionless, bored, and then peered at the monitor. He realized she needed glasses. Probably too vain to wear them, he thought, pushing his own glasses up his nose. She shrugged and dragged on her cigarette. "Seen her around," she conceded. "The bartenders might know her. They'll be in in an hour."

Jim and Blair watched Grace as she flickered from camera to camera. Dancing. Drinking. Tossing back something -- pills, probably. Kissing and hugging and dancing. She really did love to dance, Blair could tell, and he thought she was better at it than many of the others.

Then a tallish white male approached her, flicking a lighter so she could smoke. She smiled at him, a friendly, genuine smile that brought one to Blair's face. The lighter snapped shut and the man stepped closer, then the camera switched. They had to wait another thirty seconds before finding them again, dancing now, Grace's arms draped lightly over his shoulders, her cigarette trailing smoke behind him like skywriting. His hands were firmly around her waist as they moved together. He was good, too; they looked good together.

She leaned forward and said something into his ear. He smiled, a slow sleepy smile. Very sexy, Blair thought. He glanced at Jim again, who was staring into the monitor. When Blair looked back, the couple was gone. Jim fast-fowarded through the rest of the tape, but they had left. He rewound until he found them again and then checked the time stamp: one-thirty in the morning.

They thanked the manager, who barely raised her eyelids and gestured with her smoking cigarette. She took their receipt for the video tape reluctantly, holding the slip of paper between her thumb and forefinger as if it were something particularly nasty she couldn't think how to dispose of.

Jim shepherded Blair downstairs and out the door, then across the street to the fast-food joint, to talk to its manager and get their security camera. "Whadya think of her?" Blair asked as they waited to cross the busy street.

Jim shuddered dramatically. "Real ball-breaker, Chief. Vagina dentata."

"I knew she was studded down there."

"Never get through a metal detector at the airport. Okay, now," and he grabbed Blair's arm and pulled him safely across the street. Blair had to smile again.

"So you're not gonna, like, ask her out any time soon?" Jim just shot him a looked from under his long lashes before turning his attention to the very young man wearing a large pin identifying him as the manager, presumably so he wouldn't forget.

Armed with both video tapes, they headed back to the station, stopping for lunch at a Greek drive-through. Two gyros and four baklava, an iced tea and a lemonade. Extra cucumber-yogurt sauce and a big wad of napkins.

Blair thought again how much he loved this life.

"I'm serious, Jim. Listen to me: look at each of these pictures and retain what you see. You need to add the information in each picture to the information in the next. The accumulation of information will create a more complete image."

Jim rubbed his nose, a gesture even he recognized as an attempt to diffuse his irritation. The senses were a burden to him, but he had an obligation to use them, just as Blair had an obligation to help him.

Behind them, Jim could feel Simon's impatient presence, but the years they'd been together had taught Simon to remain quiet and let Blair work. Jim's eyes met Blair's, who returned his gaze steadily, with as much confidence as he could muster. He heard Blair try to relax into a meditative state; their years together had also taught them that Blair's calm demeanor would help Jim with any task.

Finally Jim dropped his eyes to the series of screen captures from the security cameras that had caught the car and two people. Each individual frame was blurred; Blair had ended up eating Tylenol, having given himself a headache pouring over them. But he'd read about a computer algorithm that accumulated data, anticipating the movement of each picture's components and summarizing them into a clear picture. He had known, even as he read the article, that Jim could do this. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew.

Jim sighed and stared at the first picture. He had listened carefully when Blair first explained the procedure and showed him the article; he too felt Blair was right. His abilities and what Blair called the persistence of vision would permit him to do this. Somehow.

After fifteen or twenty seconds, Blair slid the first picture off the pile and let Jim study the next shot. Then he removed the second and let him study the third. There were a series of twenty photos for him to use. After Jim had gone through all twenty, Blair had him start over.

By the end of the fourth go-round, Jim looked up at Blair, his mouth slightly open in surprise. "I, I can *see* it," he stammered. "How? How can I see it so plainly?"

Blair gestured to Simon, who had the sketch artist come into the interrogation room. "Doesn't matter how," Blair murmured, patting Jim on the back. "Just work with Andy here. Let's get a composite put together."

Jim turned to the artist. "White male. Around thirty-five. In good shape, a body builder type. Blue jeans, white cotton long-sleeved shirt. Strong, straight nose. Thick eyebrows." He continued to reel off adjectives while Blair fetched him a cup of coffee and a fresh chocolate donut, trying not to smile too smugly at Simon's astonishment.

"The car's a Camero, a couple years old. Has a long scratch over the front tire wheel. A square sticker on the windshield on the passenger's side, low, in the corner. The antenna is bent."

Simon pulled Blair away from them, frowning mightily. "How? How is this possible?" Jim heard him ask. He turned his head to watch them.

"I told you, Simon. He's just adding the data points from each photo. Any one picture doesn't contain enough, but when you add them all together, you get a complete picture."

"It isn't possible."

"It *is*. You're watching it. Trust Jim, if you won't trust me." But Simon looked disconcerted. He shook his head, then sighed.

"Nice job, Sandburg," he finally admitted, and Jim smiled.

"Thanks, Captain." Jim gave Blair a secret smile, just for his partner. I'm proud of you, he tried to broadcast to Blair, who smiled back. Jim turned back to the sketch artist. It was pretty goddamn cool.

The summer chair
   rocking by itself
In the blizzard

"I don't understand," Teddy said, staring at the sketch of the murderer while sipping his beer. "How the hell did you get this out of the security camera videos? I saw them; there wasn't a clear picture in the bunch."

"My partner has great eyesight."

"I guess so." Teddy looked sharply at Blair, but didn't say anything more. "What's next?"

"Well, Jim and I are going to visit the club later tonight, once things start hopping. Show the picture, ask some questions."

"Can I come?"

Blair looked at Teddy. Finally, he said, "I have to ask Jim. He's the senior partner."

"Yeah, but he'd let me if you said I could help."

Blair ran a hand through his hair, enjoying the feel of it growing out. "I don't know, Teddy. I'll ask, okay? That's all I can say."

"I don't think he likes me."

"Why? That's not true. Jim can be a little hard to get to know --"

"Yeah, Mad Dog Ellison. I've heard all about him. I heard you're the only one who can get near him. You're the only partner he'll accept."

Blair shrugged. "We work well together. He's my friend."

"Yeah. Yeah, I heard that, too."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Teddy put his beer down and turned to face Blair, leaning into Blair's personal space. Blair felt again the sensation of a pull between them, some kind of warm energy buzzing. He enjoyed the feeling even as it worried him. "I want to be your friend, too, Blair," Teddy almost whispered. His beautiful brown eyes were half hidden by sleepy eyelids, and he smelled of lime and sweat and beer and something very sexy. He leaned closer.

"Teddy. What are you doing?"

"You know." Blair didn't pull away. He closed his eyes and let the warmth from Teddy's body wash over him. If he leaned forward just a tiny bit, their faces would meet.

The bar was dark and nearly empty. They were in the back, near the men's room. No one would see. No one would know. Blair could tip his head forward an inch, less than an inch, and his lips would touch Teddy's. He would feel the other man's mouth on his, taste him, touch him. For long seconds they stood near each other, breathing, breathing, and then Blair sighed and pulled away.

"I can't, Teddy."

"You want to."

"It doesn't matter what I want."

"Goddammit, why not? Why not, Blair? Why does everything revolve around Jim? Do you know how often you say his name? Do you know how sick I am of it? Why not me, Blair? Why not me?"

Blair didn't know where to look, what to say. Why not Teddy? Teddy wanted him. He was right here. Blair could go home with Teddy and what would it matter? He'd have someone holding him, touching him, taking him places he so longed to go. He felt Teddy's hand run up his arm and curl around his neck.

"I'm going to kiss you, Blair. You don't have to do anything. Just stand there and let me kiss you." Teddy came nearer, slowly, gently. "Just one kiss, Blair. Just this once." Teddy's lips stroked Blair's as he spoke, and Blair's mouth opened as if by long habit. He felt Teddy's lips press against his lightly, and then with more pressure, his tongue stroking Blair's lips and tongue. Blair groaned and began to kiss him back, reaching out blindly, wanting to hold and be held, to know and be known.

"Jesus," he whispered when they broke for air.

"Come home with me," Teddy whispered in his ear, his breath warm and moist, and he then kissed Blair's neck. Blair groaned again but this time pushed him away.

"I can't. I can't. I have to go," and he grabbed his jacket and the picture, stuffing it back into the manila folder. "I'm sorry, Teddy. I want to, you know I do, but I *can't*."

"Why not? What hold has that asshole got over you? I know he's not fucking you."

"Teddy! Jesus, can you say it a little louder; I don't think they heard you over at the PD."

"Blair," he said helplessly, and to Blair's shame and despair, tears filled Teddy's eyes.

"Don't, Teddy," he pled, backing up, running away. "I can't. I can't." And with those words he turned and practically fled the scene, confused and horny and angry at himself and Teddy and Jim all at once.

But he couldn't go home in this state; Jim would do more than notice. He drove aimlessly around Cascade for a while, listening to his tape deck, trying to shake the mood he couldn't even name. He ended up on Ocean Boulevard, overlooking the yachts. He parked and sat in his car, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The sun was already setting; winter was coming fast to the Northwest. The sky reddened and darkened while he sat and puzzled over what had happened.

When he felt calmer, he started his car and went home. Jim had left a note: Gone out to Prospect Deli to pick up sandwiches for dinner, back soon. Blair jumped in the shower and masturbated furiously, trying to finish before Jim got back, thinking of Teddy's kiss, Jim's face, confusing their touches, wanting so much, so much. His orgasm took him by surprise, a flood of affection toward both men, gratitude toward Teddy, and love for Jim.

He calmed himself, breathing deeply as the water washed away evidence of his confused passion. Jim was home when he finally stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in his ratty blue bathrobe and a towel over his shoulders. "Beer?" Jim offered, holding up a Harp.

Blair took it gratefully and drank a third down at once. "Oh, god, thank you," he gasped as the cold hit his throat and diaphragm.

"Good?"

"Great. What'd you get me?"

"Veggie sandwich with everything, on whole wheat. Chocolate muffin for dessert."

"You're a good man, James Ellison." To Blair's pleasure, Jim blushed and took another swallow of his beer as he shrugged. "I'll pull on some clothes, then let's eat."

"We still going to that club tonight?"

For a split second, Blair thought Jim was alluding to what had happened at the bar. Then he realized how ridiculous that was. "Yeah. Yeah, we better. The sooner we go, the more likely someone will remember this guy."

Jim nodded. "Ten-ish?"

"Yeah. Things oughta be hopping by then. Listen, Jim, uh, you gonna be okay at this club? I mean, you might get hit on by another guy, you know."

"Sandburg. I worked in Vice for three years. I can handle it. Besides, do you think I'm homophobic?"

"Just people-phobic."

"Nice, Chief. So I'm a misanthrope, hmm."

"Ooh, misanthrope. I'm impressed with your vocabulary." Jim wadded up a napkin from the deli and threw it at Blair's back as he headed toward his bedroom to change. Blair kept going, just held his right hand up over his head, all fingers folded down but one. He smiled at Jim's laughter.

To Blair's surprise and slight displeasure, Ted Bookman was already at the club, dancing with an attractive Asian woman. He smiled broadly and waved when he saw Jim and Blair enter. "Shit," Blair muttered, and turned to Jim. "I totally forgot. Teddy asked if he could come with us. I told him I'd have to check with you and then forgot. I guess he decided to --"

"To pull an Ellison and come alone," Jim said, not nearly as grim as Blair had feared. "What? You afraid I'd kick his ass?" Jim shrugged. "He's ambitious. I get it."

"Jim. He. I, this afternoon," but suddenly Teddy was right there, tall and handsome and smiling at Blair with a combination of admiration and affection that caught Blair's breath in his throat. How long since he'd been looked at like that?

"Blair! Dance with me, 'kay? 'Scuse us, Detective," and he pulled Blair onto the crowded, throbbing dance floor. Blair looked back over his shoulder to see Jim tilt his head, an odd look on his face. Then he was jostled by the dancers around him and turned to his partner, who was beaming at him.

"Teddy," he said, shaking his head. It had been a long time since Blair had danced with anybody; he felt awkward and too old for the crowd, but it was dark and noisy and nobody was watching, not even Jim, he saw, checking again over his shoulder, so he shook his head, took a deep breath, and relaxed. "One song," he shouted. Teddy made an I-can't-hear-you face and bounced into him, a friendly shove that turned into a hug, and then Blair found he had his face tucked against Teddy's neck and it felt so fucking good.

When he was sweaty and breathless, he pulled away, leaving Teddy to dance by himself while he went to find Jim, who was pulling on a beer and leaning against the long aluminum bar. He took the beer right out of Jim's hands and drank it down. Jim waved two fingers at the bartender, a big Latino who nodded and brought them two more.

"Having fun, Sandburg?"

"Yeah, actually I am." He drank again. "You okay with, uh."

"Yeah, sure. Your life. Not like our co-workers are here." Jim looked into the mirror behind the bar; Blair followed his gaze and saw Teddy reflected in it, watching them as he danced with a tall thin black woman.

"What's next?"

Jim pointed at the Latino. "He's got a break in fifteen. We'll talk, show him some pictures."

Alfaro, the bartender, did remember Grace. "She was in a lot," he told them, drinking down a bottle of lemonade. "Didn't drink much, but did a lot of E. Some coke, I think," he said unselfconsciously. Jim pointed to the sketch of the guy she had been dancing with. Alfaro shrugged. "Don't know him," he said, and actually sounded sorry. "He do her?"

"Maybe. If you see him, would you call us?" Alfaro nodded, opening another bottle of lemonade before taking Jim's card and a copy of the police sketch.

"Hope you catch the creep who did it," he called after them. Blair gave a little half wave and they pushed back out into the crowd. He didn't see Teddy anywhere and just followed Jim out into the fresh evening air, happy to feel the chill against his sweaty skin.

As they got into the truck, Jim said, "You like that guy. Bookman."

Blair felt himself blush. "Kind of. He's okay. Bouncy, though." Jim laughed, a genuine laugh that made Blair blush harder. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he grumbled, feeling every one of his thirty-one years. "Now *I'm* the old fart."

Jim started the engine and glanced over his shoulder before pulling out into the busy street. "How's it feel?"

"Can I call you 'junior'?"

"I don't think so. Gimme another ten and maybe."

"My pleasure." And Blair thought it would be a pleasure, to give Jim another decade or three of his life. He smiled at the thought, glancing at Jim's handsome face, a bit more weather-beaten than when they'd first met, but not much. Not bad. He sighed.

"It's okay, Chief," Jim said, intuiting his feelings. "I remember when I was the punk. Then you came along and I felt so old. Now it's you and Bookman. And then it'll be Bookman and somebody else."

"If you start singing 'That's Life,' I'll puke right here."

"No worries," Jim quoted Connor, and they went home.

Adamson said, "The case is yours."

Simon said, "Now, wait a minute. They have their own caseload, which they *ought* to be working on. Hmm, boys?"

"Banks, look at the progress they've made. I've got my own caseload to take care of, and I like clearing 'em as much as the next man, but it ain't gonna happen. The Hardy Boys here are onto something."

Simon stared balefully at Jim and Blair. Jim saw from the corner of his eye that Blair was having a hard time not smiling, and he knew that Simon knew that, which didn't bode well for when Adamson left and it was all in the family. Blair had always worn his heart on his sleeve, his obfuscations notwithstanding, and Simon knew him too well after all these years.

And goddammit, Jim thought, Blair *should* be proud of the progress they'd made in this pisser of a case.

"Fuck," Simon finally said, and sat back down at his desk. Blair relaxed very slightly. Adamson smiled at him and left quickly, probably not willing to risk a change of heart. Simon pointed at the chairs in front of his desk and Blair practically tripped over Jim getting into one.

"Thank you," he began, but Simon held up his hand.

"I don't think so. I think you're really sorry this happened. I think it tells your supervisor that you don't have enough work to do, so you have to go to other departments to find work. I think this is the last time this will happen. Are we clear here?"

"Yes, Captain," Blair said, and Jim echoed his words.

"Good. Now tell me why you're interested in this case."

Blair glanced at Jim again, who inclined his head slightly toward Blair. After a few seconds thought, he explained how he'd been approached by Ted Bookman and what Jim had found in the morgue. Simon knew better than anyone that Dicky Maples' work wasn't what it used to be, so he understood. When Blair was finished, he sat back and waited for Simon's reaction.

"Okay," was all he said, and opened his humidor. A sign for them to go. "Gentlemen," Simon called when they'd stepped outside. Blair stuck his head back in. Simon looked up from snipping a cigar. "Solve this. Don't make me look bad in Homicide." Blair bit his lip and nodded.

"Can we solve this?" he asked Jim quietly. Jim shrugged.

"I told you, Blair. All we can do is try."

Those birds sitting
   out there on the fence --
They're all going to die

Jim went back to Risky Business the next night to talk to more of the bartenders and leave a copy of the composite he'd had drawn. He left Blair at home, who didn't complain or demand an explanation. Just watched Jim leave from his seat in front of the television.

Teddy Bookman was there again, too, bopping to the music in the middle of a mob of dancers. When he saw Jim at the bar, he slipped away. "Hey, Detective Ellison," he said, wiping sweat out of his eyes. "Where's Blair?"

"It's past all junior detectives' bedtimes, Bookman."

Teddy grimaced, and waved at the bartender, pointing at Jim's beer. "I don't mean to push my way into your business. I just --"

"Hey, it's okay." Jim studied Bookman; almost as tall as he was, a very handsome man with warm brown eyes and floppy straight brown hair. A sweet smile. "I was an ambitious asshole myself, once."

Bookman nodded, not taking offense, which Jim liked. "Can I help? Get involved some way beyond hanging out here, waiting for the perp to show?"

"Yeah, you can. If he shows up, call me. Don't do anything by yourself."

They stared at each other. Teddy looked away first, and Jim laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm serious, Teddy. I need you to promise you'll call me or Blair and not try to take this guy down yourself. I know you wanna make a name for yourself, and if we catch him, I'll make sure the brass knows what you did. But it's too dangerous. Call us."

Reluctantly, Teddy nodded. "If there's time," he finally said. "I'm not letting him get away if I can't get to a phone."

"Get his plates, get a description of the car, then call."

Teddy's beer arrived just then and he took a long pull, wiping again at his face and hair. "Okay, Detective. I'll call. I promise."

Jim slapped him on the back so hard a little beer slopped over the lip of the bottle. "Okay, tough guy. Don't let Blair down. Don't bullshit us."

"No, sir." He sipped his beer, watching Jim closely. "Uh, Detective Ellison, about Blair -- "

"It's his life," Jim said quickly, embarrassed that he had to glance away.

"You're, uh, you're, uh --"

"Just call, Bookman."

"Yes, sir."

Jim brought his attention back to Bookman and studied him closely, trying to smell if he was telling the truth. But the club was overwhelming with scents and he didn't know Teddy well enough. He finally nodded, finished his beer, and headed home to Blair. Who would, he knew, be very interested in this exchange.

"You think he will? Call?"

Jim shrugged, his back to Blair as he got himself a glass of water. He needed to shower the scent of the club off himself; smoke, dope, sweat, alcohol, body odor -- sometimes being a sentinel sucked. "You know him; I don't. What do you think?"

The pause lasted so long that Jim turned around, looking at Blair over the rim of his glass. At last Blair said slowly, "I honestly don't know. He is ambitious; he'll tell you that himself. He might get caught up in the heat of the moment." He sighed. "I'll call him. I think he'll keep a promise to me."

That made Jim grin as he put down the glass and headed toward the shower. "You like bein' a role model, Sandburg?"

Blair made a face, but Jim could tell he was pleased. "Never thought I'd be a role model for the *pigs*," he said, but Jim took no offense. He was proud of his partner, and grateful for his presence in his life, grateful for whatever Blair could give him.

"Call him," was all he said.

In the end, Jim found the guy. Although he didn't like the club, he made a practice of stopping by once or twice a week for a beer, reminding the bartenders and manager that the murderer very well might be stalking other prey, right there under their noses. Alfaro was especially friendly; Jim thought he might have had a crush on Grace. He kept handing out his business card: to the bartenders, the bouncers, the wait staff, even a few of the regulars.

So it wasn't surprising that one of them called him. Blair was out, trying to mediate a problem with the Gay Pride parade route and a fundamentalist church they'd pass. He'd dressed in his most professional outfit: no earrings, curls slicked down, Cascade PD polo shirt neatly tucked into his khakis. Jim missed the hair, missed the earrings, even missed the flannel, but sent him off with a smile and a pat on the back.

Alfaro called, no surprise, whispering in suddenly Spanish-accented English that "he's here, that guy," and Jim knew instantly who he meant. He was at the club in under twenty minutes, taking time only to swap his sweatpants for jeans and pulling on his Jags cap. The bouncer was expecting him; the entire club seemed aware that something was going on, so Jim was surprised that the suspect was still there, dancing this time with a handsome man who looked too young to have been admitted.

Alfaro at his right and Christian the bouncer at his left, Jim approached the guy. It should have been an easy arrest, in a confined area, the perimeter watched by people Jim had worked to ally to his cause, the suspect unaware of any suspicion against him. Should have been.

Instead, as Jim approached, the guy's eyes flicked up from his dancing partner to Jim, then to Alfaro and Christian, then back to Jim. In a heartbeat, he turned and sprinted toward the swinging doors into the back. Jim slid through the press, trying not to push anyone down but desperate to catch up. A waiter, pinballed by someone trying to get out of Jim's way, lost a tray of drinks; the noise was deafening, and a roar of laughter went up.

Jim leaped over the mess of alcohol and shattered glass, landing heavily against a barstool and knocking it into the bar. He pushed himself off and back into the crowd, now turning to stare. When he reached the swinging doors, the anorexic manager crashed into him; he ignored her angry shouts and gestures, pushing on into the back room.

Which turned out to be a kitchen of sorts, filled with waiters and sous chefs preparing hors d'oeuvres, and with guests doing coke. "Here, here!" someone shouted, and Jim headed that way, looking for the man's blond hair. Then an alarm sounded, deafening him. He fell to his knees, wishing desperately for Sandburg's calming presence and gentle hands, for his warm voice whispering, "Dial it down, Jim. Dial it down."

After only a few seconds, he was able to struggle to his feet and push on, heading toward the flashing red lights at the emergency exit. He breathed with relief the moist Cascade night air, trying to get his hearing and vision under control. A black Toyota Camry skidded, gravel flying as it headed toward the street. Jim dashed after it as it fishtailed; he pulled his gun, mentally regretting the resultant paperwork, and fired at its rear tires. But it was dark, the car was moving erratically, and he was still adjusting from the brilliance of the club's kitchen. He did get a partial of the plates, though.

He holstered his weapon, wiped his face on his shirt sleeve, and said, "Fuck." Then he called for backup.

By the time he'd reached his truck, he'd lost the Camry in the heavy traffic outside the club. He headed off in the same direction, in the vain hope he'd see the car, but after a few blocks gave up and headed back. By then, his backup had arrived: a couple patrol cars and, to his surprise, Blair.

Who was leaning against his Volvo looking exhausted. Jim pulled the F-150 up next to him and leaned out the open window. "I heard there were shots," Blair said, staring into Jim's eyes.

"I'm okay," he answered the unasked question. "Aimed at his tires; got gravel instead. I'm sorry, Blair. I lost him."

Blair shrugged. "You okay?"

"I'm gonna have a bruised hip tomorrow, but that's all. How'd you hear?"

"Meeting was over and I was in the Volvo, warming it up. Call came over the radio."

"Didn't mean to worry you."

Blair smiled ruefully. "When don't you, man. Let's go downtown, get the nasty part over with."

"I'll go. You go home."

"Naw. I'll meet you there, leave the Volvo, and ride in with you tomorrow."

"I'm okay, Blair --" he started, but Blair held up his hand like a traffic cop.

"See you in fifteen," was all he said before climbing back into the Volvo. Jim obediently followed him to the station.

By the time they got there, the partial had been run through DMV and NCIC 2000; by restricting the search to black Camrys in the Cascade region, they'd narrowed the search to half a dozen contenders. Blair hopped on the database and started calling up DMV photos while Jim tended to the necessary documentation for pulling a weapon.

At last, he heard Blair grunt with satisfaction and looked up to find his partner looking grimly pleased. "Got 'im?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair said, and twisted the monitor so Jim could see the image of the man Jim had seen on the videotape. Jim smiled.

"Nice work, partner."

"Nice work, partner." They grinned at each other, before gathering up their possessions and calling the two prowlers who'd met Jim at the club. "Think we need a warrant?"

Jim paused, then picked up the phone on his desk and called Simon. After a few minutes conversation, he nodded at Blair. "By the time we get there, one will be on its way."

Al Schnur lived in a ratty apartment complex near the center of Cascade, just a few blocks from empty store fronts and parking lots for the few drones who still worked down there. A light drizzle had settled in; Jim and Blair sat in the pickup watching the complex, the prowlers around back and on the south side. They could see the Camry parked under a long shed, in space 42. Blair kept glancing at Jim, who rolled his eyes and said, "Really. I fell against the bar. No permanent damage." Blair nodded.

Simon himself brought the warrant to them, and accompanied them to the apartment door. Uniforms were waiting at all points; it was a big bust and there was enough adrenaline to light Cascade Towers all evening. Since Blair was primary, he pulled his gun, glancing at Simon and then Jim. They stepped back, watching cautiously, as Blair stood to the left of the door. "Al Schnur! This is the Cascade PD! We have a warrant and will be entering the premises! Open the door now!"

Silence. Jim looked disgusted. "Somebody's in there," he assured Blair, who motioned to a SWAT team member with a specialty in popping locks. In two seconds, the door swung open. All the men pressed back against the wall as Blair shouted again, "Cascade PD! Come out with your hands up!" Still no response.

Part of Blair was amused by his performance, and it was a performance. Something off of the television he'd seen a hundred times, yet here he was enacting it in all sincerity. When a full minute had passed, he slowly edged his gun around the corner. Nothing. He followed with his flashlight; still nothing. Glancing at Jim, who nodded comfortingly, he stepped into the apartment and flicked on the lights by the door.

Schnur wasn't there. His car was still below and being watched, but he wasn't in the apartment. Blair cautiously checked each room, accompanied by Jim; Simon worked with another patrolman. It was a small place, only one bedroom, one bath, the kitchen and the front room, so there wasn't much to check.

The person Jim had heard, though, was under the queen-sized bed, tied and bound. Another young woman with blonde and fuschia hair, snotty-nosed and terrified. Blair hated to wait while the photographers documented her misery, but Jim put a hand on his shoulder, counseling patience. Eventually, they were able to ease her out from the dust bunnies; she'd wet herself and even to Blair's nose stank with urine and sweat and fear.

When he cut her free, she fell weeping into his arms, and he patted her back gently, murmuring comforting words. Paramedics gathered her up onto a stretcher; he'd interview her later that night, once she'd been treated. "Rape kit," he said quietly into a paramedic's ear, "and bag her hands."

He hated that he knew to ask for these things, even as he realized their value to her and to their investigation.

They spent the rest of the night thoroughly searching the apartment, letting Jim do his best before permitting even the photographers to complete their tasks. Then forensics came in and they headed for the hospital.

Before they left, Simon congratulated them on getting this far. "It's just a matter of time," he reassured Blair, patting him on the back. "You know that; you've worked with us long enough." Blair nodded but said nothing, just climbed into Jim's pickup. He felt Simon's meaningful look at Jim, but he knew he'd be okay.

When they reached the hospital, Jim stopped him before he could open the truck's passenger door. "You all right?"

Blair shrugged. "You were injured. It could have been worse," he spoke over Jim's protestations. "Another young woman might have been killed. But he got away." He shrugged again. "On balance, we did okay. And I know Simon's right; we'll get him, or somebody will, now that we know who he is. We've got his transportation. We can put out an APB on him. Yeah," he concluded. "I'm okay."

"It's just . . ." Jim encouraged, wise to his partner's ways.

He smiled tightly. "I hate that this happened. I'm glad we're here to clean up, but I hate that this happened." Jim nodded, then patted him on the back. They climbed out of the truck and headed into the hospital, to meet the latest victim.

Missing a kick
   at the icebox door
It closed anyway

"No shit," Teddy said, eyes round with amazement. Blair hid his smile; he'd bet big money that three years ago, he'd've looked exactly the same way. They were sitting in a coffee house near the PD, Teddy insisting on paying. "What'd she say?"

"Pretty much what you'd expect. They'd met at a club. Fazool. Had a good time. Shared some blow. Took her home and tied her up. Raped her," he added quietly, and sipped his coffee to hide his discomfort.

"Man. Man, you guys were *so* *close*," Teddy said. "I wish I'd been there."

"Well, keep your eyes open. You got the flyer, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," he pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. "I been studying it."

"Well, you're on the streets all day, in the neighborhood. You have as good a chance as anyone to find the asshole."

Teddy stared down at the reproduction from Schnur's driver's license. "Yeah," he murmured, and the desire to catch the guy emanated from him as strongly as the scent of coffee. "Jesus, Blair," he said, finally looking up. "Thanks for taking me seriously. You really are gonna catch the guy."

Blair shrugged. "Thanks for bringing it to our attention."

Teddy sat still for a moment before sliding his hand across the table to lightly touch Blair's, stroking his fingers around the coffee cup. Blair closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation before sighing and pulling his hand away.

"Please, Blair," Teddy whispered, and the desire on his face reminded Blair yet again of himself. "Why not me? I've asked you before; come on. What could it hurt? I would be so good to you."

Shaking his head, Blair pulled his hands off the table and onto his lap. "I can't explain it, Teddy. I'm really flattered, and I can't lie to you; I am tempted. But it isn't going to happen."

Teddy's warm eyes were sad. "It could be anything you wanted. Anything. Just give me something, Blair."

Blair stood up. "No. And I won't meet with you again. Take no for an answer, Teddy. Like the ladies say: No means no." He felt Teddy's eyes on him all the way through the shop and out onto the muddy street.

He'd forgotten to bring Jim the promised coffee, so he stopped at the cart outside the PD and picked up a grande half-caf along with a cinnamon roll as a treat. He was pretty sure that Jim would smell Teddy on him, probably Teddy's and his own desire as well. The cinnamon roll was a silent apology for that, and Jim would understand.

And he could see in Jim's creased face that he did indeed. When Blair finally settled at his own desk, logging into his email account, Jim rolled his chair next to him. "You okay?" he asked for perhaps the hundredth time on this case. And for the hundredth time, Blair shrugged.

"I will be when this is over."

"Anything or, uh, anybody bothering you?" Blair looked into Jim's kind face, a face that could appear neutral or stony or hard but this morning looked gentle and concerned. Blair shook his head.

"Drink your coffee before it gets cold," was all he said, and Jim obediently rolled back to his own desk, breaking off half the cinnamon roll and handing it to Blair. Blair smiled at the gesture and licked his sticky fingers.

The report Blair handed in to Simon at the end of the day was necessarily incomplete since Schnur had escaped, but was more than adequate to hand to the DA's office. A series of warrants were being prepared and Jim and Blair would spend the next few days interviewing Schnur's friends, family, and co-workers. He was an accountant at a local cannery, Al the Accountant they called him, and a real stickler for details. "Great eye for mistakes," someone had said, and that made Blair think about the type of women he seemed to choose.

They could, in an unkind world, be thought of as mistakes. As he himself could be. Though he'd been fortunate; perhaps a mistake, but not unwanted, not unloved. In fact, deeply cherished, in however idiosyncratic manner. He called Naomi that evening, knowing and not minding that Jim was listening to both sides of their conversation with concern and love.

He also realized that he needed to talk to Jim. That would take a bit more planning, though. He'd had over thirty years experience with Naomi and could pretty well predict what she'd say or do, although there were some spectacular blind spots, too; with only five years with Jim, he still had a lot to learn. And he wasn't ready to risk their partnership on a casual comment.

No, not ready at all.

It was a sunny day, a minor miracle in Cascade, and Blair's spirits were lighter because of it. He was up at dawn, dressed in what he'd come to think of as his uniform: polo shirt and khakis. Jim was dressed similarly, with his usual baseball cap; both wore heavy, flannel-lined black windbreakers that read Police across the back. Blair looked, he thought, all grown up, in a way he had never imagined before. Staring into the bathroom mirror that morning, he wondered how on earth he'd arrived there. The hippie chick's bastard, all decked out in khakis, for god's sake. He shook his head, enjoying the sensation of the curls falling around his face again, and strapped on his handgun. Ready to rock and roll.

Jim was waiting for him, a little anxious, as if he'd smelled Blair's surprise and apprehension, patting him comfortingly on the back as they left the loft. They were to rendezvous with the security detail for the parade and hike the route first thing, leaving staff behind to block off side streets and put up barriers as they went. Blair had arranged for the beach control to be present, too; they used bicycles, and he thought that would be a useful addition to the officers on foot.

Teddy Bookman was there, too, handsome in his black uniform and cap, looking sadly at Blair across the crowd. Blair nodded and felt Jim's hand yet again on the small of his back. Proprietarily, he thought, unsure if that was comforting or not.

Blair sorted out the division commanders, reviewing the security plan, receiving assurances that everything was covered. There'd been no external threats, so Blair wasn't too worried. All the hassles he'd faced had arisen from the participants themselves, jockeying for position and authority. He'd been initially amused, but it had grown tedious; he tried not to be short with them, but refused to budge from the final plan. Occasionally he saw Jim's amused face observing him, but no one questioned his authority.

Finally, they started their sweep. It was a nearly two mile stretch through downtown Cascade, mostly in a straight line, ending up in front of City Hall, where the mayor would make a speech and fifty drag queens would dance. He was looking forward to that, having watched their rehearsals a few times. Pretty goddamn gorgeous men, he'd told Jim, laughing at his own surprise at their voluptuous bodies and Las Vegas-style headdresses.

He and Jim walked through the largely empty streets, relying on Jim's senses to notice anything out of the ordinary. It was cool, almost frosty, and there was a light fog already shredding in the early sunlight. He had high hopes that this would be a good day.

Three hours later, his hopes weren't quite so high. The weather was holding, crowds were arriving in what would obviously be record numbers, the parade was moving through the streets with a humorous dignity, but Blair was exhausted by the behind-the-scenes wrangling. He'd fallen back into his professorial style: firm, loud, and polite, and with a stare he'd used to quell rambunctious football players more interested in flirting with their classmates than in absorbing the material. It was still effective.

Jim stayed near him, his size and build a useful adjunct to Blair's assertiveness. He'd seen Simon a few times, Darryl at his side, but with the other department heads and mayor. The other members of Major Crimes were here, too, including Rhonda, who was marching with her sister and sister's significant other. Jim and Blair had caught sight of her carrying a rainbow banner and waved enthusiastically. She beamed back at them, obviously pleased to see them there.

Blair had brought earplugs for Jim and pulled them out of his pocket when the bands started warming up. He smiled gratefully as he worked them into his ear canals; neither man tried to talk over the cacophony. At last, Blair took one final walk-through of the participants, shaking hands, slapping people on the back, laughing with committee members he'd sworn at a few weeks earlier. It was finally coming together.

And then the first band set out, Kazoos Up the Wazoo, performing Somewhere Over the Rainbow; an enormous cheer rose from the crowd; Drag Kings on Stilts pushed off, and the parade was underway. Blair took a deep breath, laughing at the women tottering on stilts, and grabbed Jim's arm. "Let's walk," he shouted, gesturing, and they worked their way through the crowd, keeping track of who was doing what.

The moment had arrived.

Exhilarated by the crowd's response, both Jim and Blair were high on adrenaline, Blair especially pleased to see such a large turnout because he was feeling a sense of ownership for the parade after all his work. Jim's height let him spot any problems, such as the little boy wandering into the middle of the Attorneys in Briefs skateboard exhibition or the bewildered chocolate lab sniffing at The Gayest Dog float's inhabitants. They worked their way backwards and forwards through the parade route, walking ten miles, it seemed to Blair, instead of the nearly two it encompassed.

Blair was leaning against a barrier, resting his aching back, when he saw Jim take off down a side street. Without questioning his behavior, he followed, ducking under the barrier and pushing through the cheering crowd. Once he turned the corner, he saw the street was empty, but he kept running, checking the side streets and alleys as he ran.

At the third turn to the left, he saw Jim disappear into a building and ran even faster, gasping for breath. He pulled out his cell phone and tried to call it in, pressing 9-1-1 but not bothering to respond to the operator's questions. He stopped just outside the brick opening, trying to calm his breathing as he listened. He thought he heard footsteps, or echoes of them perhaps, and carefully peeked around the corner. It wasn't into a building, but rather a short walkway, with an attractive mural of early Cascade painted on one side. He slipped through it, stopping again when it opened onto a bricked courtyard.

Diagonally from him, he saw Jim, head twisted awkwardly, his short hair held by a blond man who could only be Al the Accountant. Jim's hands were raised and although Blair couldn't make out the words, his voice was calm and relaxed. Schnur jerked on Jim's hair, banging his head against the bricks behind him, and Blair saw the gun pointed at Jim's head.

He froze, trying to figure out what to do. First, he turned off his cell phone, silently slipping his hand into his pocket to do so; then he clicked off his walkie-talkie, clipped to his belt. He unsnapped his holster and drew his gun, trying to breathe regularly and not hyperventilate. His mouth was as dry as cotton and his stomach was roiling.

He began to move to his right, behind a trellis of some climbing bush, pyracantha he thought, thorny and with red berries, that hid trash cans fragrant with a restaurant's leavings. Schnur seemed utterly focused on Jim, asking him questions, Blair thought, listening closely as he drew nearer. He reached the end of the trellis, directly across from Jim and Schnur. He stood for a moment and then moved as quickly and quietly as he could to the next dumpster, perpendicular to where they stood. Jim's eyes followed him briefly before returning to Schnur's angry face.

Now Blair could hear every word. "Why did you have to follow me?" Schnur was asking, and a more stupid question Blair was hard pressed to conjecture. "Why couldn't you leave me alone?" He crouched at the end of the dumpster and drew aim at Schnur. He took a deep breath but before he could speak, he heard someone shout, "Freeze! Cascade PD! Throw down your weapon!"

Teddy Bookman, his face as red as Schnur's, stood in the opening to the passageway that Blair had followed, gun pointing at Jim and Schnur. He stepped nearer to them and Schnur dragged Jim back a step, pressing the gun firmly into his left temple.

"You put your weapon down," Schnur said, suddenly calm. "'Cause I'm leaving and this guy's comin' with me."

The two men stood staring across the courtyard at each other. Put it down, Teddy, Blair thought at him; let him go. But Teddy's arms remained up and out, his left hand bracing his right as he peered along the sights of his handgun.

"No fucking way," Teddy finally said, and Jim closed his eyes.

Blair was aiming straight at Schnur's head. He was only ten yards away. He could make the shot, he knew; he knew his abilities and he knew his weapon's. What he didn't know was whether the bullet would stop in Schnur's head or continue into Jim's, or whether Schnur's finger would reflexively pull the trigger when he was shot. Whether he would ever have the opportunity to tell Jim what he so needed to confess. He had perhaps ten seconds to consider these terrible possibilities when Teddy took a step forward, eyes wide with anger and fear.

"Put. Down. The. Gun," he repeated, and Schnur wavered, Blair could see it, his hand relaxed slightly, the muzzle dropped from Jim's temple, as he considered what to do about Teddy. That was enough for Jim; he dropped like a stone, pushing Schnur's gun hand away from him even as he pulled the hand in his hair down with him. Blair fired, Teddy fired, and Jim was drenched in blood and brains.

Blair thought he'd vomit as he watched Schnur's head explode, but he didn't, he couldn't; he raced to Jim's side and kicked Schnur's gun away, kicked Schnur onto his back, then rolled him onto his stomach and cuffed him. Cuffing a corpse, he muttered to himself, and felt Jim's hand on his leg.

"Hey, hey," he said, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the mess away from Jim's face. "Jesus, are you all right?"

Jim pulled his windbreaker off and threw it away from him, then pulled off his shirt and wiped his face and neck with it. "Fuck," he muttered, and spit several times. He gagged a bit, too, and Blair rested his hands on Jim's shoulders, trying to hold Jim up but really holding himself together.

Behind him, Blair heard Teddy calling it in; sirens were already screaming, probably from his earlier call. He sat down next to Jim and waited.

Teddy approached them cautiously. "You guys okay?" he asked in a strained voice. After a few seconds, Blair looked at him.

"Thanks," he said, but his voice sounded hollow and distant, so he said no more. Jim never looked up from the ground.

And the quiet cat
   sitting by the post
Perceives the moon

Blair poured himself a cup of coffee and wandered to the couch, sitting down next to Jim, who shifted minutely. After a few seconds, he looked up, puzzled. "Want the sports section?"

"No, not right now." They stared at each other. Jim folded the paper and set the stack aside, a signal that he was ready to listen. Blair sipped his coffee and took a deep breath. "We need to talk."

"Blair. Why now? Let's just let it go."

"Unh-unh. I can't let it go. Anyway," he added, "let *what* go?"

Jim blushed. "You know. You and Teddy. What happened."

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know. I thought you were going to tell me."

"Nothing happened. Nothing. But," and now Blair felt himself blush, "Teddy did, uh, he asked." But Blair ran out of oxygen at that point.

"It's okay, whatever happened. Or didn't happen," Jim quickly said. Blair set down his coffee mug and put his hands on Jim's arms. He immediately shut up.

Blair had thought long about this moment. He had realized some time ago that he would have to be the one to say something, unsure whether Jim would be capable of doing so. Both of them were so shy. But Teddy had made Blair realize that more was possible. Made him realize that he needed so much more.

But how to reach that point? What could get Blair where he wanted to be? What would make Jim receptive? An intelligent, perceptive man, Blair felt at a loss at how to broach this topic. Instead, he sat awkwardly, with his hands on Jim's arm, and stared into his friend's face, hoping Jim would read the message there, would find his own courage. His own desire.

At last, Blair said, "I'm really scared, Jim." His voice was thin, so he swallowed and took a deep breath. "But I have got to speak to you or I'm going to die. I know it. I can't not say this."

Jim put his free hand over Blair's. He looked lovingly at his friend, face pink with embarrassment. "I know," he whispered. "I'm scared, too. I don't know what to do."

They sat there for several seconds more and then Blair took one hand off Jim's arm and put it around his waist, scooting a bit closer so their thighs pressed together. The heat of Jim's body shocked him, and for the first time that morning, he felt a tendril of desire uncoil. He wanted this so much. Had wanted Jim for so long.

To his intense pleasure and slight embarrassment, Jim leaned into his embrace and moved his hand to Blair's knee. They continued to stare into each other's faces, and then Jim smiled. A big smile, a goofy, embarrassed smile that caused Blair's face to respond with his own grin. "Oh, Chief," Jim said, and kissed him.

Blair was shocked, and pleased, and scared, and aroused, all at the instant Jim's lips touched his own. He remembered Teddy kissing him, and how wonderful that had felt, but this felt magnitudes better; it felt like coming home, like fitting together, like the most natural, easy action in the world. As if they'd kissed all their lives.

It wasn't the most erotic kiss; both were smiling too hard for that. But when they broke apart, both were blushing and a little breathless. "Oh, Chief," Jim said again, and pulled him even closer. Blair thought, Okay, we can do this, maybe we don't have to talk about it after all, and he leaned up for another kiss, this time trying for something a bit more passionate. Jim's mouth opened under his and he felt Jim's tongue gently stroke his own. Suddenly Blair was more aroused than he'd been in months, and he wanted to do things he didn't even know how to do. His heart was pounding and he couldn't catch his breath.

Jim pushed him down on the couch and lay almost on top of him, never stopping kissing him. "Oh, Christ," he murmured into Blair's neck. "I've wanted this for so long, Blair. I want," and Jim's hands were everywhere, rubbing his shoulders, his arms, his stomach, and then across his groin, and Blair thought if he didn't get his jeans opened he'd do himself an injury.

As if he'd heard Blair's thought, Jim sat up a bit and began working at Blair's jeans buttons, shoving his pants and briefs down his thighs, staring with some undecipherable emotion at Blair's erect penis. "Holy shit."

"Jim," Blair said in a strangled voice, drawing Jim's attention back to Blair's face. He was as red as a fire engine, he felt as if he were burning. Jim lay back down over him and he thrust his hips up against Jim's denim-covered thigh, again and again, until his penis felt raw and burning and then, thank god, he came, all over Jim's jeans and the sofa. "Fuck," he said, letting his head fall back, but Jim wasn't through yet, and right in his jeans he came, pushing his groin into Blair's thigh and his face into Blair's neck. Then he collapsed.

Blair wriggled out from under Jim's weight and smiled at him. "I'm sorry I went off like a firecracker," he said, and Jim laughed.

"Like I didn't? Jesus, I haven't come that quickly in ten years."

"Is that good?"

"Asshole." They smiled affectionately at each other, then Jim sighed dramatically. "Yes, it's good, Sandburg."

"I wanted to, I wanted it to be this way, but Jim --" Blair kissed him, meaning it to be a quick kiss, but it turned into a much longer one, open-mouthed and sucking, exciting him again. "Tell me, tell me," he begged.

Jim rolled onto his side, so he was squashed between the back of the couch and Blair, one hand cradling Blair's head, the other lightly playing with his penis, gently tugging on his pubic hair. He kissed Blair's ear and sighed happily. "Tell you what? What do you want to know?" They were whispering, as if someone might overhear and stop them.

"Everything."

Jim pressed his face back down into Blair's, nuzzling him. "I've wanted you forever. I was so afraid. That's why I was so shitty to you; I know that doesn't make sense, but I'd get afraid, Blair, and then . . ."

"I know, I know," he soothed, running his hands over Jim's remarkable arms and chest, then down his stomach and unbuttoning his jeans, slipping his hand into the mess there.

"When Bookman came onto you, I could smell it. I could smell him on you sometimes. I thought you'd," but Jim stopped, so Blair finished for him.

"You thought I'd go with him."

"He's younger. He's so good looking. He treated you well, better than I did."

"No, no," Blair protested, rolling a bit so he could look Jim in the eye. "He never got me a beer after a hard day. He never saved hot water for me. He never fixed me dinner and left it for when I got home late. He never took care of me, Jim, not like you do. Nothing like you."

Jim smiled bashfully. "I did try," he whispered. "But I was a jerk."

"Yeah. You've been a jerk. And I've been a jerk. And we'll probably be jerks again. It's okay, buddy. I still love you."

Jim blushed but said nothing, just pulled Blair closer to him.

"To bed, don't you think?" Blair suggested.

"Mmm," Jim said, but never stopped kissing Blair's mouth, throat, face, as he efficiently stripped off Blair's shirt and tee, then pulled his own clothes off. "Here is just fine. Anywhere is fine, I think."

Blair thought so, too. In fact, everything was just fine.

"Hey, Teddy's in Seattle," Blair said one evening a few months later, reading the back of a postcard with a picture of the Space Needle on it.

Jim looked up from the morning newspaper he was only now finding time to read and raised his eyebrows. "Got that job, hunh?"

Blair nodded. "Yeah. Detective Bookman. Pretty cool."

Jim's eyes dropped back to the sports section. "He'll do all right," he predicted. Blair stood in front of Jim silently; Jim felt a slow smile tug at his mouth. At last he set down the paper, neatly, as always, and looked up at Blair. Then he reached out and Blair moved into his arms, Jim's head resting against his chest, where he could listen to Blair's heart, the center of his universe. Blair kissed the top of Jim's head and put his arms around Jim's shoulders. They remained like that for a long time, until Jim began to tease at Blair's nipples, nuzzling them through his tee shirt, and stroking the opening to Blair's jeans. He could smell Blair's arousal drifting up, warm and smoky. Blair sighed happily and stepped away, pulling Jim up with him. They stood staring into each other's eyes for a second or two, and then Blair winked at Jim.

"Up those fucking stairs," Jim ordered, and up they went. Those fucking stairs indeed, Jim thought, watching his hand on Blair's ass. The light of the moon filled their bedroom, silvering them, and as he lay on his back under Blair, he saw it gleaming through the skylight, a happy crescent sailing through the night. Then Blair moved his head and he saw no more that evening.

. . . the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
-- Jack Kerouac, On the Road