Blair entered the Cascade Police Headquarters building and rode the elevator up to the Major Crimes Unit.  Though he'd expected the bull pen to be bustling with activity, it was nearly deserted.  The only person in view was Jim, seated at his desk.  He was writing with his right hand; his left elbow was propped on the desk top, the forearm held straight up.  His left hand was wrapped in a white bandage.

"Jim!" Blair called, hurrying toward him.  "Hey, what's with your hand?"

Jim turned toward him and Blair was shocked to see that his friend's face was covered by cuts and bruises.  Above his left eye and across his left cheek were small adhesive strips.  "Jim!  Man!  What the hell happened to you?"

The detective waved his uninjured hand dismissively, "It looks worse than it is, Chief.  I was climbing through a window chasing a nervous snitch and put my hand down on some broken glass.  The rest--"  He grimaced in embarrassment.  "The rest happened when I fell through the damn window flat on my face."

Guilt engulfed Blair.  "I knew I should've gone with you," he said, clenching his fists.  "I knew it!"

"And done exactly what?  Thrown yourself under me when I fell?  It's not a big deal.  Some technicolor bruises and a coupla stitches in my hand."

"Stitches?  You had to get stitches?"

Jim stopped writing and looked up at his partner.  He frowned at Blair's reaction to what were--for him--minor injuries. "Chief, I've had stitches before.  Probably will have again.  It was a stupid accident. And it's not even my gun hand," he joked.

Blair dropped in the chair by Jim's desk.  "I still should've been there."

"Sandburg, even tough-as-nails anthropologists gotta have some down time.  We got *no* problem here, okay?"

"Sure, okay, Jim."  Blair changed the subject.  "Where is everybody?  I thought the case was breaking."

"It is," said a deep, gravelly voice behind Blair.  Captain Simon Banks had entered the bull pen.  "Glad you could join us, Sandburg."

Jim leaned toward Blair and said in a loud whisper, "Don't mention the earring, Chief.  He's really sensitive."

Sure enough, in the captain’s left earlobe a tiny silver stud caught the light.  Blair was amazed.

"Wow, Captain!  Very hip, sir.  Very cool."

Simon glowered down at him and said, "Very much *Daryl's* idea."  Daryl was his teenaged son.

"So Daryl's got one, too?" Blair asked, and Simon nodded.

"It's a father-son bonding thing," Jim explained helpfully.

Simon gave Jim a dark look, but said, "I was lucky to get away with just an earring.  Can you believe he wanted his *eyebrow* pierced?"  The two men shuddered in unison.

Blair smiled at their reaction.  "You're such a couple of tough guys," he scoffed.

Jim's mouth curved in a slow smile.  "Not everyone is as hard-bitten as you, Willow," he said sweetly.

Looking from Jim's delighted face to Blair's pained expression, Simon asked, "Do I even want to know?"

"No," Blair said quickly.  "It's not important.  Hey, tell me about the case.  I don't know anything."

"Ellison, I thought you were going to bring him up to speed."

"Sorry, Captain.  Haven't had the chance."  Jim waved his bandaged hand and added plaintively, "I was injured, sir."

Simon snorted.  "Well, you'll have to tell him on the way.  It's time to get into position."

"Where're we going?" Blair asked.

Jim stood and grabbed his jacket.  "Come on, Chief.   I'll fill you in as we go."

As they rode down in the elevator, Blair knew that Jim, for all his dismissive talk, was in pain.  The way he carried his left arm, the set of his jaw, all spoke volumes to the younger man.

"Jim, are you sure you should be going?" he asked.  "You're injured, man."

"I didn't put in two weeks' work on this just to miss the end now.  I'm fine."  When Blair would have said more, Jim became brusque. "I said I was fine, Sandburg.  Don't hover!"

Stung, Blair stepped back.

Though his friend had been hovering, Jim immediately regretted his sharp words.  He'd long understood that Blair's sense of personal space was about the thickness of a finger nail.  Part of accepting Blair as a friend meant accepting the fact that he tended to stand close when talking and that he was a toucher.  Jim's personal space was, as Blair frequently commented, more the size of a football field.  The detective tried to overcome this fact, at least where Blair was concerned.

Jim put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.  "Sorry, Chief.  Guess I'm not as fine as I thought.  I've got one helluva headache."

The elevator doors opened at the basement garage, and they stepped out.

Jim fished his keys from his pocket and tossed them to his partner. "Hey, Starsky, you drive," he said.  "I'll ride shotgun."

He walked into the parking garage leaving an amazed Blair to catch up a few seconds later.

Jim gave Blair the address of a warehouse on the waterfront.  They were well on their way before Blair remembered he wasn't supposed to be behind the wheel.  But he felt fine.  The worry and dread that had been his constant companions for the last three days had been pushed aside, displaced by concern for his friend.  Even the feeling of guilt for not being with Jim that morning was gone; Jim was right, there was nothing he could've done then.  But there was something he could do now.  The case was breaking and Jim deserved to be in on the finish.  If his part in that was just to drive the truck, then he'd drive the truck.

"So, what's the case?" he asked.

The Expedition hit a deep pothole.  They jerked right and Jim's head hit the side window.

"Oh, yeah, that's good for the headache," he muttered.  "You were right, Chief; we should carry crash helmets."  Blair grinned at the old joke, and Jim went on.  "The case.  The case.  Well, the short version is, we're here to break a ring smuggling in rare animals.

"Rare animals?  For what--zoos, collectors?"

"Alternative medicines," was Jim's laconic reply.  He looked at Blair to see if he would figure it out.

His partner didn't let him down.  "Oh, like shark fins and rhinoceros horns!  Rare components used by other cultures in healing.  Yeah, there's a huge market for that sort of thing."

"Exactly.  We should have the whole gang trapped in this warehouse.  If we're--"  They bounced again, and Jim concentrated on keeping his aching head still.  "If we're lucky," he finally finished.  "You don't have any aspirin with you, do you?"

"No, man.  Sorry.  Nothing.  Are you *sure* you should be--"  The look Jim turned on him ended that sentence prematurely, and instead Blair said, "Fine, fine.  I won't say another word."

The radio Jim carried crackled to life.  Simon's voice came through, reporting that all units were in place and that Jim should take up a position at the east entrance.  Jim acknowledged, and directed Blair to park in an alley near the east side of the warehouse.

Blair killed the engine.  There was no activity around the warehouse; it looked deserted.  "I don't see anything," he said, frowning.  "What do you hear inside the place?"

"My head's pounding like the hammers of hell," Jim told him.  "No super hearing right now."  He opened his door and slid out.

Blair got out as well and they met at the rear of the truck.  "Stay here," Jim ordered.  "And keep out of sight."

"No way, man, I'm going--"

"Stay, Chief."

"Stay, Chief.  Sit, Chief.  Roll over, Chief," Blair grumbled.

"Good dog, Chief," Jim said with a smile.

The detective ran across to the warehouse's east entrance, pulling his gun as he went.  When he was in position, with a stack of crates between himself and the eastern doorway, he lifted his radio and spoke softly into it.

Blair waited.  In a few seconds, he was surprised to see a man emerge from the warehouse.  He came from behind a small grate at ground level and seemed to have difficulty fitting through the opening.  When he finally stood up, Blair's mouth fell open and he thought for a horrified instant that he was hallucinating again.

The man was wearing a snake wrapped several times around his waist, a bizarre living belt as thick as Blair's arm.  Blair blinked.  There were no golden sparkles, no golden light.

Of course!  Alternative medicines!  Crazy crook was trying to escape with some of the "loot."

The snake-wrapped man was making his way carefully along the street, hugging the wall of the warehouse behind him.  Blair ducked behind the Expedition to keep out of sight.  He realized that in seconds the man would round the corner of the building and come up behind Jim.  With Jim's Sentinel hearing out of commission, Blair couldn't simply whisper a warning.  And if he shouted, the man might still have time to shoot.

Looking at the snake gave him an idea.  It was risky but just might work, and he had no time to come up with anything better.

The snake man was facing away from Blair at an angle and had his attention focused ahead as Blair came out from behind the truck and began to run toward him.  As silently as possible, he raced forward, holding Jim's ring of keys tightly to keep them from jingling.  If he could aim just right--

The snake man reached the building's corner, spotted Jim, and began to lift his gun.  Blair yelled, hoping to distract him.  It worked; the man turned and his gun came around toward the noise.  Blair was out of time; he hefted the only weapon he had and let fly.

The heavy ring of keys found their mark, smacking the snake squarely on one thick coil.  Blair threw himself to the ground as the man fired once, a wild shot that came nowhere near him.  Then the man screamed.

"Get it off!" he shrieked.  "Get it off!  It's cutting me in two! Help!"  The would-be shooter was writhing on the ground, pounding ineffectually at the snake.

Jim ran to where Blair lay.  On the way, he snatched up the gunman's weapon, which had fallen to the ground.

"Chief, you okay?" Jim asked, dropping to his knees by the younger man. "Did he hit you?"

"No, no.  I'm fine," Blair assured him and sat up.  He looked across the street where the snake-wrapped gunman was trying vainly to pull the animal's tightening coils from his waist.

Relief and adrenaline caused Blair to give a shout of laughter at the bizarre sight.  "Better 'n hand cuffs, man!" he yelled.  "One pissed-off boa constrictor!  Wow, for a second I thought it was another hallucination!"

They helped each other to stand, Blair favoring his left knee, which he'd twisted when he hit the ground, and Jim holding up his bandaged hand to keep the blood from pounding painfully in his fingers.  Blair relieved him of the extra gun so Jim could holster his own.

Police and several brown-uniformed animal control officers arrived on the scene.  Animal Control set about dealing with the criminal encased in constricting boa.

Blair's last words finally penetrated Jim's relief at finding his partner unharmed.  "Another hallucination?  What do you mean, you thought it was 'another' hallucination?" he demanded, his blue eyes stormy as he glared down at the shorter man.

Wow, he really can loom when he wants to, Blair thought.  He swallowed nervously.  No more evasions; time to come clean.

He limped to a nearby crate, pulling Jim along with him, and they sat.

"Um, Jim," Blair began.  Boy, this was hard.  His heart was pounding, both in reaction to what had just happened and because he *hated* to tell Jim about the flashbacks.  He really didn’t want to lay this on his friend.

"Don't 'um Jim' me, Sandburg.  Spill it.  Right now."

"Yeah, okay.  Um, I mean, I've kind of been seeing some really weird stuff lately.  I've seen, that is, I've sort of had four flashbacks over the past three days."

"Flashbacks?" Jim repeated.  His confusion lasted only an instant, then his eyes widened and he said, "The Golden.  Flashbacks from the Golden."

Blair nodded.

Comprehension quickly became guilt, and Blair could see the self-blame grow in his friend's shocked eyes.  "Stop it!" he growled, grabbing Jim's uninjured arm and holding tight.  "This is not your fault, Jim. Do you hear me?  Man, with ears like yours, you *better* hear me!"

Softly, the detective began, "Chief, I should've--"

"We are *so* not going down that road again," Blair told him. Punctuating his words by shaking Jim's arm, he added, "It's not your fault some asshole crook spiked a pizza I ate.  You gotta get over this Atlas-bearing-the-weight-of-the-world complex you're into.  You listening to me, man?  Are you hearing me?"

Of its own volition, Jim's mouth twitched, and the detective found himself smiling.  "Atlas-bearing-the-weight-of-the-world complex?  Is that an official diagnosis, Sigmund?"

Blair's heart lifted at sight of that smile and he nodded vigorously, "Of course, man.  I minored in psych, you know."

"Ellison!" Simon yelled, walking toward them.  "You and the kid okay?"

Jim looked up and nodded tiredly.  He had time to say only "Sandburg, we've got to talk" before Simon reached them and they were engulfed by the myriad details of wrapping up the case.

* * * * *

Nearly five hours passed before they got around to having that talk. There were many loose ends to be tied, not least of which was getting the various animals in the warehouse hauled away.  This included the boa constrictor, whose tongue, Blair informed Simon, was considered by certain cultures to be a very powerful aphrodisiac.

"Why am I not surprised you would know that?" the captain said.  The two men were in the hospital waiting for Jim, who was having his hand re-bandaged.

Through a massive yawn, Blair replied, "It's fascinating, sir.  This woman I dated, she once had me spend twenty-seven straight hours--"

"Stop!  Not another word," Simon ordered, holding up both hands. Fortunately, for the captain's peace of mind, Jim had just come out of the examining room.  "Ellison," Simon growled.  "Get your partner out of here."

Blair insisted on driving, so Jim could rest his injured hand, and the detective gave in without a fight.  Once they reached the loft, Blair limped inside and collapsed on the couch.

Exhausted or not, Jim made his customary sweep as they entered.  He picked up the sound of a heartbeat, its rhythm slow as in sleep.  A quick look through the glass-paned doors leading to Blair's room revealed Naomi Sandburg lying on her son's bed with her eyes closed. Her breathing was slow and regular.  She didn't move as they entered.

Jim dropped into the easy chair.  "Your mom's copped your bed, Chief," he reported in a low voice.

Blair resisted the urge to lie down.  If he ever got horizontal, he'd be a goner for sure.  He inhaled deeply, opening his eyes wide to wake himself up.  "Doesn't matter.  I don't want to sleep till we talk.  I need to tell you what's been happening."

"And I need to hear it, Chief.  But you've got to rest; it can wait."

"No, it can't."  Blair was adamant.  "We talk now."

Jim sighed.  "Okay, boss.  We talk now."  He shifted in the easy chair, wincing as he inadvertently put his left hand down for support.

"Oh, man, how's your hand?  And the headache.  Did you ever get any aspirin?"

"The hand's fi--"  The detective stopped in mid-word.  He shook his head once then said matter-of-factly, "My hand hurts like hell.  My face feels like a box of rocks fell on it.  I'm so tired I think I'll sleep for a week.  But the headache's gone.  How about you?"

Blair grinned.  "Ah, we're doing the honesty thing.  Well, I may sleep for *two* weeks, and I twisted my knee when I was dodging bullets so it hurts like crazy.  Probably ended my pro basketball dreams once and for all."

Jim smiled briefly at the joke.  "The Jags may never recover, but you probably got a career pitching for the Mariners."  His face grew serious and he added, "Chief, I should never have let you go into that situation without knowing what was going on."

"And I should've told you about the flashbacks."

"Very true.  So tell me now."

Blair did so.  Hesitant at first, then picking up speed, he described the visions.

Though he didn't dwell on such things, the fear and worry Blair had experienced came through loud and clear to Jim.  It amazed the detective that his friend's strongest emotion seemed to have been guilt--guilt that he might not be there for his partner when he was needed.

An image he wouldn't soon forget came to Jim's mind:  Blair, armed only with a ring of keys, running straight into the gun that was coming to bear on him.  Blair, knowing Jim's Sentinel hearing was off-line, putting himself in harm's way for his friend.

When that gun had gone off and Blair had dropped....Jim's world had narrowed to that one figure lying on the ground.  He didn't remember his radio falling from suddenly nerveless fingers, didn't remember running past the snake guy or grabbing his weapon.  He knew those things had happened, he just had no memory of them.

In truth, *that* was when Jim's headache had gone.  The instant Blair fell, Jim's hearing dialed up as he searched for the sound of that familiar pulse.  The headache had vanished beneath his overwhelming need to know that Blair was all right.

In Blair's darkened room, Naomi came out of her meditation.  Eyes still closed, she lay unmoving.  The doors to the room were slightly ajar and bits and pieces of the men's low-voiced conversation floated to her.

She'd learned of the raid on the warehouse from the television news. Something told her that had to be the case Jim was working.  A worried call to the station had yielded the information, from a sympathetic desk sergeant, that Blair and Jim had been in on the raid but were fine. Unsure when they might get home, she'd decided to rid herself of the last traces of anxiety by meditating.

She didn't intend to eavesdrop, but she didn't want to interrupt by letting the men know she was awake.  So, she remained silent and let the sweet sound of Blair's voice wash over her.  He was explaining to Jim about the flashbacks; she caught enough of his story to know that he was leaving out as much as he was telling.

When Blair finished, Jim said, "Chief, we've got to have a new house rule."

"Never tease the Sentinel?" Blair mumbled, with a sleepy smile.

Jim glanced toward the bedroom; Naomi still hadn't moved.  He snorted and said softly, "Also a good rule, but I was thinking more along the lines of:  Don't keep things from your partner."

"Or your sidekick."

"You aren't my sidekick, Sandburg.  We're partners."

"I was thinking *you* were the sidekick, Tonto."  Jim chuckled, and Blair added, "Equal partners?"

"Of course.  I'm just more equal than you, kemosabe."  It was Blair's turn to laugh.  "You hungry?" Jim asked.  "That snack at the station was hours ago.  I could go get us something."

A yawn delayed Blair's response.  He finally said, "Oh, brother!  No, I'm way too tired to eat.  But if you're hungry, I'll go with you."  He started to get up off the couch.

Blair's reference to "the Sentinel" had been too softly spoken for Naomi to hear. However, his offer to go out came through clearly, and she decided it was time to intervene; her son simply had to get some sleep.

Jim's head turned toward Blair's room as he heard the sounds of movement within.  Seconds later, Naomi opened the French doors and emerged, stretching cat-like and inhaling deeply.

"Oh, what a nice meditation I've had," she said rather pointedly. Moving to the couch, she added,  "Hello, my darling!  I understand from the television that you solved the case.  Are you okay--both of you?"

Blair smiled at her.  "Hi, Mom.  We're fi--well, actually, Jim's hand hurts like hell, my knee's killing me, and we'll both probably sleep for a week."  He shared a look with the detective over the private joke, then added, "We're good, Mom."

Naomi sat on the couch next to her son and put a hand on his face.  "I'm glad you're all right, my love," she said softly.  She rested her forehead against his for a moment, savoring the touch.

Breaking the contact with a little sigh, she said, "You get some sleep, Blair.  I'll come back in the morning and see you."

"Great; I still owe you that tour of the campus," he replied and yawned yet again.

"Good night, darling.  Rest well."  She slipped her shoes on and gathered up purse and jacket.  As she started for the door, she indicated to Jim that he should follow her out.

When they were in the hall, Naomi looked up at him.  Grimacing in sympathy for his bruised and abraded face, she said, "I suppose the other guy looks even worse?"

"The other guy was the window I fell through this morning.  Didn't happen at the raid."

She nodded, then changed the subject.  "Is he really all right?"

"He really is.  We just came from the hospital.  His knee's banged up, but not too bad; he's short on sleep; and there are the flashbacks, which you know about."  Jim frowned.  "The doctor told him that stress can sometimes trigger flashbacks--stress and physical fatigue.  She wanted him to talk with a psychologist, but he wouldn't.  Claimed all he
needed was sleep, and lots of it."

"What do you think?"

"I think he's probably right."  He grinned at her.  "But if I change my mind, I'll drag him kicking and screaming to the hospital myself."

Though it was said in a jesting tone, Naomi realized he was telling the simple truth, and she felt better for hearing it.  "Would you tell me what happened at the raid?  I'd really like to know."

He did so, not forgetting to include the fact that Blair had saved his life.  "I'm sorry this happened, Naomi," he finished.  "I should've--"

"It's not your fault, Jim."  Her words and the philosophical shrug that accompanied them surprised him.  She sighed and said, "I'm having to let go of a little guilt myself.  I did find out earlier today that he'd been having flashbacks.  I wanted him to tell you, but he said he needed to handle it alone.  I should've insisted, but he's just so...."

"Stubborn?  Hard-headed?  Exasperating?  Stop me when I get warm."

She laughed softly.  "I was going to say 'independent.'"  Her amusement faded.  "He told me something else--well, I inferred it from things he said--but it's something I think you should know."

"What's that?"he asked through a yawn.

She hesitated, wondering how he would take what she was about to say. Then, reminding herself she was doing it for her son, she dove in.  "He feels safe with you."

"What?  Safe?  I don't understand."

"He had flashbacks at the university and here at the loft, but he never had one while you were around."  She peered into the loft and saw Blair had finally stretched out full-length on the couch, one hand over his eyes.  Turning back to Jim, she whispered, "Let's just say I don't think you should go out for dinner tonight."

Jim shook his head tiredly.  "He wouldn't thank you for hiring a baby-sitter."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said tartly.  "It's not about baby-sitting. You just told me he saved your life this afternoon, right?  Well, now you can return the favor by, well, saving his sleep.  That's not too much to ask of a friend, is it?"

She stood just inches away, her face tilted up to his, her eyes intent as she made her point.  "It's not, is it?" she repeated.

She was incredibly beautiful and had, for all her sometimes flaky ideas, an equally beautiful heart, Jim thought.  The scent of her jasmine perfume was light and clean.  Before he realized it, he found himself leaning toward her and Naomi was lifting her face for the kiss.  As their lips touched, they both jerked back.

"I should go," Naomi said rather breathlessly, and Jim added quickly, "Oh yeah, I gotta get back inside."

Naomi donned her jacket, fussing slightly with it as an excuse to keep her flushed face averted.  Digging the car keys out of her purse, she said, "Would you let Blair know I'm taking his car tonight?  I'll return it tomorrow."

"Sure."  It came out rather hoarse, and Jim cleared his throat.  "No problem."

Naomi finally looked at him.  Her face was once again alight with mischief.  "You know," she said speculatively, "if you weren't his friend...."

He grinned at her.  "And if you weren't his mother...."

My god, even when they're black and blue, his eyes are beautiful.  Naomi shook her head at her own foolishness.  "You are a good man, Detective Ellison, and a good friend."

"So's your son, Ms. Sandburg."

She acknowledged the compliment with a nod.  "One last thing and then I promise I'll be gone.  Those twin four-year-olds downstairs--I'm dying to know what they call you."

He shook his head.  "Oh, no.  Not a chance."

"After all the embarrassing stories I've told you about Blair, you owe me, detective.  Confess.  How bad can it be?"

He rolled his eyes.  "It's silly.  It doesn't make sense; it doesn't even rhyme."  His protests were in vain.  She merely stared at him, hands firmly on hips.

With a sigh, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear.  His warm breath made Naomi shiver, but the two words he said changed the shiver to a shake of suppressed laughter.

"Are you serious?" she asked, then added, "Strike that.  You wouldn't make that up."

An embarrassed flush tinted his already rather colorful face.  "Hardly."

Naomi turned toward the elevator.  After taking a few steps, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder.  This time there was no mischief, no teasing, in her voice as she said, "You're wrong, you know.  I think it fits perfectly."

She walked away.

Jim leaned against the wall, staring after her, till the sound of Blair's voice brought him back down to earth.

"Jim, you here?"

"Right here, Chief."  Jim came in and closed the front door.

Blair was sitting up again, looking around the room in drowsy confusion.  "We goin' to get dinner?"

Naomi's words came back to Jim:  He feels safe with you.  Tentatively Jim said, "Uh, I don't think so, Chief.  You go back to sleep. I'll...be right here."

"You're not goin' out?"

"Nah, too tired.  I'll find something to eat here.  I'm not going anywhere."

Blair nodded and lay down again.  His eyes closed.  His breathing and heartbeat settled into the slow rhythms of sleep.

Jim sat in the armchair and regarded his friend pensively.  He still had nightmares about Blair's first exposure to the Golden and the painful days in the hospital afterward as the drug worked its way out of his system.  He couldn't believe his friend been trying to deal with flashbacks on his own.  Still, in spite of it all, he'd managed to save Jim's butt today.  With truck keys and one pissed-off boa constrictor.

Jim laughed softly.  Sandburg didn't need a gun; his agile mind was dangerous enough.

He turned off the lights; he didn't need them, and Blair would rest better without them.  Back in the chair, he took off his shoes and propped his feet on the coffee table.  If Sandburg needed him to guard his sleep for awhile, then he would.  He wasn't always able to protect his partner as much as he would like, but this he could handle.

After a while, the moon rose and its soft white illumination filled the loft.

Once, Blair mumbled softly, his heart rate increasing, and opened his eyes.  Jim leaned forward, wondering if he should say something, offer some reassurance.  Before he could do more than form the thought, Blair's eyes found him.  A smile lifted one corner of the younger man's mouth.  He exhaled and his eyelids closed again.  Heartbeat slowed,
breathing deepened, and sleep claimed him once more.

He feels safe with you.

It was weird--to think that he could comfort merely by his presence. Weird, but just a little frightening as well; that kind of trust was a responsibility he hadn't actually planned on.  Of course, he hadn't actually planned on being a Sentinel either.  Yet that was what had brought Blair Sandburg into his life.  Their friendship had to be the most improbable part of the whole crazy package.  Improbable, illogical, nutty, off the wall--

Jim shook his head, a small movement to derail that train of thought. That's what happens when you try to think deep thoughts late at night, he told himself.  You get goofy.

He leaned back and relaxed, dialing sight and hearing down to normal. Sandburg's deep, even breathing was easily audible in the moonlit quiet of the loft.  And that was all he needed to hear just now.

* * * * *

Epilogue

[the loft, two weeks later]

"Man, I cannot read if you keep looking at me like that," Blair said, without taking his eyes from the book lying across his bent knees.

Jim was sitting on the floor in front of the stereo system.  "Like how, Chief?  I'm just minding my own business--"

Eyes still on his book, Blair interrupted.  "No, you're not.  You're looking at me like I'm a grenade you're gonna have to throw yourself on.  Boom!  Sandburg psyche shrapnel all over the place."

His partner laughed.  "That's a lovely mental image, and think of the damage just a little Sandburg psyche shrapnel could do.  Terrifying." He paused then said, "Chief, you'd tell me if....?"

Jim's voice trailed off uncertainly, and Blair finally looked over at him.  Pulling off his reading glasses, the younger man replied, "Yes, Jim.  I'd tell you if.  There's just been that one mental hiccup last week.  I'm sleeping fine, not working too late.  I'm okay, man. Really."

Jim continued to regard him steadily for a few seconds.  Blair nodded once.  And Jim smiled, satisfied.  A knock on the door brought him to his feet.

When he opened the door, the mail carrier handed him a large, brown, padded envelope.  He signed for it and closed the door.

"Hey, Chief, your mom's sent you a present," he said.  He tossed the envelope onto the couch next to Blair.

The younger man read the postmark.  "Mankato, Minnesota.  Three days ago."

"Minnesota?  Funny, I always picture her in some really exotic place."

"You shouldn't be picturing her at all."  Blair tore open the package. Two smaller parcels, wrapped in brown paper, fell out, and he said, "One for each of us.  Mine says, 'Open me first.'"

Jim took the package that bore his name.  He smiled down at the rest of the writing on it.  "Mine says, 'Don't open me first.'"

Blair snorted.  "We read and obey."  He suited action to words and tore open his gift.  His blue eyes lit up at the sight of the contents, then he chuckled.  "Very funny, Mom.  Look at this, Jim."

He held up a T-shirt of a particularly virulent shade of fuchsia. Across the chest, in black letters, was a popular saying:  'I think, therefore I am...dangerous.'

Jim laughed.  "I've always said so, Chief.  Think of it as a warning to the world--you know, like a boxer's hands being registered as lethal weapons.  My turn."

His gift was revealed to be a football jersey with the number 40 on the front.  He held it up and Blair teased, "Yikes, the big four oh.  Be here before you--Oh, wow!  Jim, man, I can't believe you told....Oh, Mom!"

Hilarity overwhelmed Blair's attempt at speech.  His loud laughter was so infectious that Jim found himself smiling in response.

"What's the problem, Chief?" he asked, lowering the shirt and looking over at his friend.

Blair shook his head.  "Jim, turn it....read....the back!"  He waved one hand helplessly.

Jim reversed the shirt.  After a long moment of silence, he said thoughtfully, "Well, she did tell me she thought it fit perfectly."

The loud guffaws coming from Blair choked to a stop.  "What?" he exclaimed breathlessly.  "You're not mad?  You *like* it?"

Jim held the shirt up against his chest so that the back was facing his stunned friend.  Above the number 40, where a surname would normally be, were two words:  SWEET FACE.

Jim pointed a finger toward Blair's T-shirt.  "See, Sandburg, some of us get the brains while others of us--"  He shrugged modestly.  "Well, we get the looks."

The fuchsia T-shirt hit him squarely in the face.

*~The End~*

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