Author's disclaimer: I earn a lot of money, but not from doing this. They belong to other people.

Author's notes: As some of you know, I'm in the process of 'downsizing' from my fandom involvements. As I was deleting my Work in Progress file I found this fragment I jotted down some twelve months ago now, when in whimsical mood, so I thought I'd give it an airing before I waved a 'goodbye to all that...'. Its a very silly lighthearted story, with no redeeming features whatsoever.

It had been a hell of a week. Blair vowed to himself that the very next time Jim growled at him, he would do something foolish - like fling himself at the man and sigh a fervent 'take me, handsome'. What with a nasty murder case, a rash of University politics and Jim's 'bear with sore head' status, Blair figured he was owed at least one thing - just one simple easy little thing to go right. One wish, that's all, he mediated to the tea kettle, just one little wish. What could it hurt?

"Blair," ouch, not Chief? It was serious. Blair turned to consider his irate, tall, dark and darkly handsome sentinel. "What is - this?" and Jim held up a National Geographic special on panthers. "What - is - this?" slowly, carefully, angry as a wet cat. Oh, great.

"Er, Jim, yeah, heh, great, I've been meaning to talk to you about this, you know, this animal spirit thing? I thought I'd get some materials, you know, if you were interested, so I figured that a nice, light introduction..."

"Gee George, my brain really really hurts when you use big words George, don't use big words George," Jim's sarcasm was heavy, but wounding none the less.

"Ah, stop it," Blair turned away, tipped at the now boiling tea kettle and nearly scalded his hand off. "Shit," he dropped the tea kettle and reached for a towel. "Damn it Jim, I'm only trying to help here, damn, a panther would be easier to live with," and finally certain his hand hadn't blistered, he turned to face Jim again. "Much easier," he added, an undertone but pitched to carry to sentinel ears.

Jim stood still for one long moment. He dropped the magazine and stared at Blair. Just stared. And stared. Blair set down the towel and groped behind him, made very sure the stove was off. Something very strange was going on here. Then Jim blinked, very slowly, his eyelashes lazy but emphatic and then - Jim wasn't there any more.

Blair approached the couch with as much courage as he could muster. Which wasn't much. Jim lounged there in indolent splendour which did not at all make Blair feel happier. Because Jim wasn't Jim. Well, he was. But not. Sure, he still looked like Jim, but he certainly did not act like Jim. For one thing, Jim would never put his feet on the couch. Or have peeled out of his clothes and started licking the back of his hand. Or have washed behind his ears with said hand.

And now he was sort of growling, a low chest deep hungry sounding growl, a growl that did nothing to ease Blair's nerves, especially as Blair was trying to approach in a casual manner. "Heh," Blair encouraged, "you're Jim's panther persona, ain't ya? Cool, nice to meet you at last," and Blair managed to get the holster away from the pile of clothes that the NotJim had discarded. "Nice kitty," Blair said it without thought, but the NotJim didn't seem to mind, because it settled back on the couch and after one large yawn, seemed to doze off to sleep.

Blair locked the door and the windows and made sure he had the gun, fully loaded and set on safety. Then he approached the couch again, wary but determined. "Heh," he said and prodded NotJim's nearest shoulder. "Heh," louder.

The NotJim flexed away then rolled over, onto the floor and upright in one unnervingly fluid movement. Then he stretched, lazy, his eyes large and thoughtful and gazing at Blair.

Blair tried to look friendly and unappetising. But the NotJim just stretched again and strode forward, then around, an insolent survey, sniffing and snuffling at Blair's head, then lower. Blair stood, frozen in place, not quite sure why he felt so calm. Here was his best, practicaly his only true, friend, inhabited by the spirit of a wild animal and all he could think was that Jim was a fine body of a man. A very very very fine body, in fact. "Jim," he ventured it, mildly. "Jim," again, bolder now, and knowing it was now or never, he actually reached out and scratched at Jim's nearest ear. "There."

NotJim pressed into the scratch, then retreated haughtily as if he regretted the indulgence, a long legged easy graceful retreat. "Jim?" Blair was doubtful now.

But NotJim moved his head, tilting, listening to things, then with a big loud eye popping yawn, he settled down on the floor over by the fireplace and seemed to fall right asleep.

Simon would kill him. Slowly and horribly. After all, Simon did expect his officers returned to him in a fit state. This animal spirited, naked and indolent being was not exactly ready for duty. Which Simon would have no hesitation in attributing to Blair. And expect Blair to put right.

Blair sat on the couch, slumped over his own knees and nibbled at his lower lip, regarding the NotJim; about now would be a good time to come up with a plan on how to return Jim to his usual, waking, grumpy, adorable human self. But how? Magic spells, incantations, wish on a star? Who could he call? Panthers-B-Gone?

Blair let out a short squeak - he'd been so busy worrying he'd not noticed that NotJim had woken up and decided to investigate; an investigation which consisted of sniffing at pertinent portions of Blair's anatomy. "Oh, hi, yeah, cat being," and Blair sat very still and tried to radiate calm and un-tasty vibes.

The NotJim licked his lips and raked Blair's face with his souless brilliant eyes, blinking once or twice. Blair thought about smiling but doubted a display of teeth would work in his favour. Then the NotJim slipped over in a liquid silk manner and settled his head in Blair's lap, a boneless, sprawling heavy-weight possession. Blair didn't want to actually identify the sound the NotJim was making, but to anyone else, it would have sounded like a purr.

Ridiculously, Blair felt his eyes close - it was almost hypnotic, the warm steady sound of a somnulent cat. Blair made himself sit up straighter and absolutely refused to stroke the cat's head. Jim, he told himself sternly, this is Jim's head. And he'd not been invited to stroke any portion of that individual, so he'd better get his paws off. Then Blair giggled at his own pun.

The NotJim woke up at the sound and the movement, a pouty frown on his blandly noble face. He gave one impatient snap of fine jaws and then sprawled away, draping himself over the couch, just one leg over Blair's thigh, his foot flexing slowly, lashing, the way a cat would lash its tail. "What?" Blair defended himself, "what, I can't laugh now?" He caught at the lashing tail - foot, foot, he reminded himself, its a foot - and stroked it, placatingly. "I know, I could make you some food?" Cats were always hungry, weren't they? Blair had little experience with animals, maybe it was dogs who were always hungry?

Blair siddled out from under the NotJim's foot/tail and went to rummage in the kitchen. He was aware of NotJim's presence immediately, pressed up against his back, NotJim's hands (paws?) heavy around his waist. Blair tried not to relish this closeness, it was totally wrong to give in to this stealing, honey sweet warmth: Jim was not in his right mind. But he's in his right body, Blair's mind formed the wicked thought for him. And what a body. Let's face it, his name should really be 'Tom'.

Blair shied away, his cheeks heating at that incendiary thought. Enough with the anthropomorphic lust-fest, he chided himself, let's go feed the animals.

Tuna was rejected with weary disgust. Left-over lasagne produced a stony glare. An offer of stir fry was treated with the contempt it deserved. Blair was rapidly running out of options; the NotJim was lapping up milk right now, but he'd got a hungry gleam in his eye and Blair figured he'd better do something about it. Hell, who knew cats were such fussy eaters?

"Yo, cat-being," Blair kept his voice smooth and friendly, "I'm just gonna run to the store, get you a wildebeeste maybe, yum, you'd like that wouldn't you?" edging nearer and nearer the door.

The NotJim set down his bowl full of milk and regarded Blair with his head tipped slightly to one side. The milk moustache added to the incongruously cute picture he presented. Blair felt his heart melt just a little: human, animal, vegetable or mineral, what did it matter; Jim Ellison did it to him, every time.

Blair pulled himself together. "I'm just going to the -" and the rest of the explanation was cut off, because the NotJim decided it was feeding time.

"No," Blair sounded terrified even to himself, "no, really, truly, cat being, I'm not tasty, no sir, yuck, vile, nasty," and he made spitting sounds to indicate just how nasty he would taste. But NotJim didn't seem interested and continued to lick and nibble at Blair's neck and shoulders. "No," were his protests becoming feeble? "No, please, that tickles, stop that," that was pretty emphatically feeble, "no, no, I don't want to have my shirt..." a ripping sound, "well, I never liked it that much anyways but that doesn't give you the right to... " then a low rumbling purr.

Blair stretched and smiled smugly: god, what a wonderful dream, the hottest. He squirmed a little closer to the warm, solid bulk beside him and let his mind wander; images of being pinned, taken, thoroughly and repeatedly, his ass plundered again and again, his nipples teased by a merciless silk-rough tongue, his cock closed in dark velvet wet heat, his body examined and treasured and loved. Hmmmmm, luscious. Ripe heavy memories of the most luxurious loving of his lifetime settled down inside him, making him feel hot and a little breathless all over again.

Maybe the warm solid bulk beside him had something to do with that; it was currently lapping at the ticklish place just above his cock head, and lower, warming lazy licks of contented well being. Blair felt so good, he could purr.

He sat up, cold water dashing into warm sexy thoughts. Oh, god, what in all Hades was going on here? Carefully, reluctantly, he squished one eye shut and then peered down the bed (Jim's bed?) to gaze at the creature happily giving him the blow job that dreams were made off. "Jim?" he squeaked, then gasped at a particularly clever movement of tongue and lips, "Jim?"

The creature hummmed happily and greedily and kept on sucking and licking, Blair helpless to stop it happening all over again, the creamy surge of orgasm forcing the air from his lungs, to lie panting and stunned on a warm, wide chest at last, being petted and stroked and cherised, a much beloved - if mischievious - kitten. "Oh, Jim," Blair felt like crying now, this was either the weirdest dream of his life or a total nightmare, "oh, Jim," and he was held closer and cuddled harder.

"Hmmmmm hmmmmmm," Jim sounded smug. Jim? Jim?

Blair sat up, and glared down at his partner, his - lover? "You're you again?" he asked and accused in one. "Are you?" doubtful.

"Yep," a long lazy stretch and a lot of lip smacking. "All me, hale and hearty and feeling great," Jim snagged him back close and cuddled again. "Just great, Chief," with a lingering suck at the pulse point in Blair's neck.

Blair had yet to learn the gift of golden silence: "So, what happened here, big guy?" he stormed. "I mean, one minute I'm making tea, the next thing, you're some sort of cat being, then you're making love to me like you really mean it and then you're you again and its all -" a kiss shut him up quite efficiently, a long, demanding, owning sort of kiss, shameless. "Well," when Jim relased his lips at last. "Well?"

"You said the panther would be easier to live with," Jim pointed it out mildly, as he toyed with Blair's nearest nipple. "So, I thought I'd see if it was true."

"And?" that was a mistake, Blair knew, he should be angry and self righteous about all this, sounding dazed and dumb with lust was not a good move, strategically.

"Got its compensations," Jim admitted, "wouldn't you -" a loving nip at the nipple, "- agree?"

"So," Blair stretched and gave his lover one final smooching hug, "I'd better feed my wild animal, huh?" and padded down the stairs towards the kitchen.

"That's right, little kitten," Jim pronounced, bossily, and followed after. He inspected the preparations by cuddling up and looking over Blair's shoulder, a process they both enjoyed. "Hmmm," Jim nibbled on Blair's ear, "no coffee for me, kitten," and as Blair turned to stare at him, dumbfounded, he added slyly, "I'll just have some milk."

End