A Dream Deferred
by Ariana Lussier

"Do I even wanna know?"

The smirk in that voice jerked him around, face heating nearly as red as the pile of fabric spilling out of the box. He met Ellison's grinning eyes with ones that slid away to avoid seeing the laughter that threatened to bubble up. "Don't even start," he growled. "Simon wanted a volunteer and he knew better than to ask you."

Still smiling, Jim entered the storeroom. The door swung shut slowly behind him, cushioned by the hydraulic brake that hissed softly in the room lit by a single bare lightbulb. He came over to pick up the mass of white fibers that, properly worn, was a long, silky beard. A matching wig was somewhere under all this, stuffed into a dorky hat that was big enough to fall over his face.

"So you got 'volunteered' for this?" The curve of Jim's mouth was in blatant opposition to his next words, "I am *so* sorry for you."

"Yeah, right. Well..." he turned away, back to the bundle of dusty fake fur. His nose wrinkled at the thought of the numerous -and sweaty- officers that had worn that uniform before and he wondered if the department would spring for a dry-cleaning.

"Not a chance."

The younger man's head jerked around again, "Huh?"

The detective was still smirking. Was he imagining that slightly darker twist? "Simon'd never pay for a cleaning. You're on your own here."

He frowned, "Ellison, since when are you telepathic?"

"I'm a detective, remember, Rafe?" No doubt about it, there was something purring under his voice. "That thing stinks and you dress to the nines every day. You throwing that on would be like Sandburg wearing a suit. Add to that the thoughtful look you suddenly got and you're an open book."

*I hope to God 'not'* Rafe thought, carefully avoiding Jim's eyes. He relaxed a little, reassured that all the older man was doing was reading his face, not his thoughts.

Ellison was a good detective, the best. He'd earned every award and citation ten times over. He deserved the extra leniency the higher-ups granted when he stepped - or leaped - outside protocol. He deserved the occasional considerations their Captain allowed. He even deserved that too-beautiful partner that was his constant companion.

But Rafe couldn't, for the life of him, think of what that kid had done to deserve Ellison.

*Jealous? Oh, a bit.*

The touch on his shoulder made him flinch and he turned a startled look up to Ellison's eyes.

The teasing was gone, leaving a warm ocean of blue concern. A chill skittered up Rafe's back to his scalp and he shivered involuntarily, hoping that Jim-

*Ellison, damn it. Stay professional.*

-would mistake the cause for the coolness in the musty room.

"Rafe?"

*Breathe, Rafe. Just breathe. He's worried about a fellow cop, that's all. Eventually, your dick'll get the idea and settle down.*

"Rafe, are you okay?"

His head bobbed jerkily, "Yeah. Fine."

Jim didn't move his hand; Rafe's world was telescoping down to just that warmth on his shoulder, and those eyes that he clung to, reluctant to let this moment, even if it was only in his mind, end.

Those lips turned downward thoughtfully, "Are you sure? You don't look too well."

Well, he supposed anyone would look a little ill with their heart slamming against the inside of their chest. Rafe wouldn't have been surprised if Jim could hear it.

When the frown deepened, he was tempted to believe he had.

"Just thinking of things." *Oh, great. Now he's going to want to know what.*

Sure enough, Jim asked, "What's on your mind?" *What has you so worked up?* was what the tone and the slight squeeze of his hand was saying.

"Nothing, really." Rafe's hands settled restlessly in the flat box behind him, and he shoved them under the cloth to keep Jim from seeing just how badly they were shaking again.

"So why are you breathing fast?"

*Damn!* That man was just too perceptive. It was a pain in the ass.

Rafe didn't want it any other way.

He tried to think of what to say. It was tough enough with three-quarters of his brain devoted to trying to keep certain things under control. Rafe was, indeed, 'dressed to the nines' in a deep blue silk shirt tucked into dark gray slacks. Any slip in control would be embarrassingly obvious.

*When in doubt,* memory recalled a familiar voice. *Lie.*

*Thanks, Sandburg,* he thought back.

Dredging up a realistic smile, Rafe replied with a shrug, "Just, uh... thinking of transferring. Don't know what the change will be like, so I'm a little nervous about it."

The hand came off almost immediately, "You're leaving Major Crimes?"

Rafe's flash of loss when the warmth left was soothed by the honest dismay in Jim's face. He looked down, tearing his eyes from the depths he wanted to drown in.

Maybe transferring for real wouldn't be such a bad idea. 'Out of sight, out of mind' was how the saying went. He had less than no chance with Jim, and until these longings settled down, the only control he had over them was to remove himself from temptation.

"Where were you thinking of going?" With his eyes downcast, Rafe didn't see Jim's forehead crease in suspicion.

Yes, where would he go? "Uh, I'm not sure." His hand felt the hat and its horrid wig and fisted in the soft strands. He pulled it out to give his hands something to do.

"You're transferring, but you don't know where?" Jim's voice sounded puzzled. "Rafe, that's not making a lot of sense, unless..." the tone hardened into something Rafe usually only heard in reference to Sandburg. "Unless someone here is making things hard for you?"

Rafe turned away to the box, smoothing his face of the half-laugh, half-sob that nearly escaped his lips. *You could say that, Jim.* he thought, twisting the hat in his hands as he willed his nether regions back under control again. It was getting harder - no, tougher... no, more difficult, yes that was the phrase he wanted - every time.

"Rafe? Is it some kind of trouble?"

*Not unless you going berserk because I got too close and the coroner having to use a sponge to get what's left of me out of the dumpster constitutes as a problem, no. Or, if your partner should beat you to the murder. I see how the two of you are together.*

He shook his head as he shook out the dusty suit, yanking out the pillowy 'fat suit' and pounding it hard against a shelf to get the powdery mildew out of it. Jim didn't say a word while he was doing it, perhaps recognizing the venting for what it was.

"Well, I can ask my old captain in Vice if he needs a good detective."

"Vice?"

Jim gave him a sardonic look, "Got a problem with Vice?"

Rafe finally glanced at him again, "Um, no. I just, well... I've heard things-" He snapped his jaw shut, too afraid of what his treacherous mouth would say next.

Was that a sniff? Rafe wasn't sure, he was too busy reminding his body that it was not in charge, not right now. His body was debating the point with some hefty, hard arguments.

Since more of his brain cells were being reassigned to wrestle base desires down to less visible levels, it didn't quite register that Jim was moving closer to him until the other man had set both hands on the shelf behind Rafe on either side of him.

"And where did you hear these... tales?" Jim asked, his voice low.

Rafe's throat closed tight at the dangerous gleam in Jim's eyes. "Just... just hearsay, Jim. That's all."

"And as a cop, you know better than to listen to hearsay, right?"

"Uh, right." Rafe wasn't sure what that look meant, or even if he'd survive it.

"Don't you think you'd better listen to stories from someone who'd been there? Done that?"

*Done what?* he thought crazily. If even a handful of the rumors about Vice were true... "Like what?" Oh shit, he didn't mean his voice to have that edge, but having Jim so damn close to him brought up things that Rafe didn't quite know how to handle, not in the flood that was rushing through him now.

Now Jim's face shuttered, like it did only when something was deeply bothering him. "You'll have to mingle with the lowest of the low, smile and laugh at shit that turns your stomach, even become what you despise - all to get the collar. Do you really want to go to that?"

Rafe frowned. Was this, and not a natural personality quirk, the reason why Jim was so closed off to everyone all the time? "How do you handle it?"

The other man shrugged; Rafe saw right through the careless gesture. "You remove yourself from the whole thing. Then you go home and find something worth living for."

"So those stories *are* true?"

Jim nodded slowly, "Some of them. Most aren't as bad as what really goes on."

"Um, does that include the, uh..."

Rafe trailed off, Jim gave him a curious look. "The what?"

Some of the blood was redirected back to his neck and face and he dropped his eyes. "Nothing," he said. "You're right - I probably wouldn't be able to handle Vice."

"I didn't say that, Rafe. Just..." he sighed. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Your partner won't let you go out there clueless, you two will probably practice stuff to get used to it before going out to do anything."

"Practice?" Rafe asked, his eyes going wide. "How?"

Jim tugged the hat from his unresponsive hands and grinned as he set it on Rafe's head. The turn of his slow smile made Rafe instantly realize he'd given Jim an opening the size of Minnesota. The older man grinned down at him. "If you're really transferring to Vice," he purred. "You'll need to be able to handle little things like... this."

With that, Jim leaned forward and kissed him. *Really* kissed him. Full, on the lips. Rafe's knees locked instinctively to keep him from collapsing in a boneless heap.

It took all he was and would ever be to not lock his arms around Jim's neck and suck hungrily on the tongue that had teased into his mouth. Synapses in areas of his brain that were normally never utilized by humans briefly awoke with a joyful whoop to watch the show. They were joined instantly by the neurons that went AWOL from their assigned duty of keeping his dick still.

His cock surged, pushing for freedom against the seam of his slacks. His eyes had squeezed shut, the image of he and Jim, far away and in completely different circumstances, played across the inside of his eyelids. Every bit of his body, high on hormones, cheered gleefully and strained to return the kiss, the looks, the thousands of comradely touches that could oh so easily be read a little differently now.

But his soul sobbed blistering tears.

Jim and Sandburg hadn't yet 'outed' themselves to anyone - although Rafe was privately certain Simon knew something was going on - but everyone in the bullpen had been taking bets on exactly when they'd become lovers. Rafe was the only one that declined to speculate. Brown had just shrugged and turned away when he refused, missing the longing glance Rafe had cast over at Jim. Everyone in the bullpen had, in fact, except Sandburg.

That was the moment Rafe had *known*. When his eyes shifted a little to notice the anthropologist watching him watch Jim. Those eyes had been filled with a tranquil sadness, an understanding that hurt too much to acknowledge. Not quite pity, but Rafe felt it too close to quibble the point.

He'd yanked his eyes elsewhere, managing to avoid looking at that entire area for the rest of the day. He'd finished his paperwork with a practiced ease that let him do it perfectly while his mind wandered on its own. As soon as his shift was done, his coat was in hand and he was in the elevator and going down. Rafe had ignored the hails from other officers as he headed to his car and drove home.

Not until he was inside, leaning against the door that he'd closed and locked against the heart-ripping day he'd had did he let himself drop the cool mask and slide down to sit on the floor, shaking with internal storms. Sandburg's warm eyes had held more than just sympathy -*pity*- Rafe had seen the edge of possessive jealousy. A lover's jealousy.

That sick realization had slapped him in the face. It was one thing to secretly long for an unattainable man he'd fantasized about since said man's transfer from Vice. It was a whole new torture when the 'unattainable' part was not because Jim didn't swing that way - it was because he'd found someone else.

Someone better.

His eyes had burned, but stayed dry while his mind took off on its own. After a few hours, he'd finally fallen asleep against the door, huddled into a little ball of starving misery.

The next day he'd gone in, stiff and sore, but with a smile that was as cheerful as it was false. He'd taken pains from then on to keep as far from the two as he could.

He told himself it was because he didn't want to intrude - and knowing now that Jim was open about such things, Rafe knew he'd be unable to keep from trying anything that desperate hope made reasonable. In his heart, though, in a deep, secret corner that only spoke in a whisper late at night, he knew that any contact would rip him to ribbons.

And if that made him even quieter, nobody noticed; he didn't talk nearly as much as Sandburg to begin with.

And if it meant he hardly touched anyone anymore, nobody noticed that either; nonverbal communication was Jim's trademark, not his.

He avoided the bullpen whenever they were in there, whether separately or alone. Rafe couldn't bear seeing the glances of increasing concern -*pity*- from Sandburg, and he couldn't handle seeing Jim at all. The man's very existence had become a sweet agony that he craved even as he shuddered from it.

Brown had noticed Rafe was rarely at his desk during the day anymore, but hadn't figured out that Rafe only returned to finish reports only after his oblivious tormentors had gone. He'd seemed to accept Rafe's excuse of mild claustrophobia with only a frown and a shrug.

The detective couldn't care less what Brown believed, so long as nobody guessed the truth. So he did his paperwork after hours, not bothering to log the overtime. And every day, a little bit more of him shriveled up, dry and frozen.

It was on one of those late days that Simon had stopped by his desk and talked him into being the 'department Santa' for the 'Kops and Kids' party they had every year. That was how he'd ended up here, in a close, dirty storeroom with his fondest desire being given to him on a preview basis only.

In the space of an instant, he wondered with dark humor what Jim's reaction would be if he responded - and as soon as his mind was distracted, his body took over and issued orders of its own.

Both arms slid around the sleek muscular body and pulled them roughly together. The motion shoved Jim's thigh between Rafe's legs and the smaller man nearly passed out at the overwhelming sensation. His mouth devoured Jim's, demanding more: another touch, a groan of matching desire, anything to prolong the fantasy.

*Jim.* The mental whisper quivered with the sweet fire and icy tang of unfulfilled longing. Oh, how he wanted this...

The sound of the moan snapped him back to the present. Logic, cold and clear, blasted winter into him and he roughly shoved Jim away. The granting of his darkest wish was a paper-thin illusion, a flimsy masque that stabbed deep and true.

Jim didn't want him, *couldn't* want him. He'd already chosen someone better, someone who'd evidently had the guts to do what Rafe could barely summon the courage to contemplate. Someone who'd actually told Jim how he felt - and by doing so secured a spot in Jim's life that Rafe could only wistfully dream of. Who knows what could have happened if Rafe had somehow managed to do that first?

As Jim stumbled back, Rafe ruthlessly banished that hope. Blair Sandburg would have come along anyway, and he and Jim would have still ended up together. Better by far to never have what he wanted than for happiness to be ripped from him.

"What the hell?" Jim demanded. His eyes were dark and dilated, the blue nearly black. His lips were swollen from the intensity poured into that kiss. Confusion battled with the beginnings of anger in his face.

Pain flooded and crystallized inside Rafe. His voice and words carried its false twin of fury. "What the *fuck* was that about?" he snarled. The edge of the shelf dug into his back and he pressed harder against it, using that pain to take some of the focus from the one in his heart.

Jim's skin reddened a little, but he answered steadily. "Just showing you a little of what you're in for in Vice-"

"What I'm in for?" he shot back, shame burning into desire to strike. "You're saying it's normal for Vice cops to assault each other in the storerooms?!"

The moment the words flew out, he wished he could call them back. That stricken flash that crossed Jim's face was more than Rafe could bear.

Just as quickly, Ellison locked down. Stern, stoic, and utterly removed, he replied, "I didn't want a friend to go into a free-fire zone without warning."

Rafe turned away, damning himself. "Just don't do it again, okay?" He snatched the hat off his head and twisted it roughly in white-knuckled hands.

*Never again, Ellison. Just stay away from me. Just seeing you kills me - don't make it worse. Don't talk to me, don't come near me...*

Behind him, he heard Jim take a deep breath. "Okay."

Rafe's head bowed. He wanted nothing more right then than to just vanish. Remove his interfering presence from everyone's life.

The scrape of the door interrupted that downward spiral. A bit of fresh air and light spilled in over the steps that were leaving. They paused at the doorway.

"I'm sorry," the whisper held pain of its own.

Sorry. A tiny square of tissue that didn't begin to cover the chilled hulk of his misery. The door closed slowly, the footsteps on the other side walking out of his life. His eyes slid closed as he carefully stored the entire scene to memory, precious bits to be taken out later for examination.

Including that moan at the end - it had been Jim's.

His hands tightened suddenly. Rafe didn't even wait for the click of the latch before he gripped the box and hurled it against the wall. *Merry fucking Christmas,* he thought viciously.

His anger drained away almost immediately and he sank down to sit on his heels, wondering how everything could go so completely, fucking wrong in so short a time. Now Jim thought Rafe hated him. With a black spark of humor, he thought that if someone blew his brains out now, all they'd get would be a puff of dust.

He slowly gathered the holiday costume back together, folding it back into a semblance of order and putting it back in the box. Definitely transfer, maybe back to SWAT now that his asshole commander had retired?

SWAT went all over the place; it was no simple 8 to 5 job like most in the department. The restlessness inside him could be soothed by the nearly constant adrenalin high. He'd never have to see Jim or Sandburg again, unless he was one of the guys called out to help with a situation where Jim happened to be on the scene too.

Barring such unlikely occurrences, he'd never have to see them again. Never see their easy camaraderie, the heart-stopping smiles, the bright souls that were only fully revealed to the close friends that they were pledged to.

He could hide in SWAT, forever avoid having to watch and want for the love they shared that was forever out of his reach.

Rafe took the box under his arm, feeling a little less shattered now that his decision was made. He left the storeroom and went back to his desk to get his stuff before heading out.

Brown was right there. "Hey, man." The cop's easy grin faded when Rafe tugged on his jacket without responding. "Rafe? You okay?"

Rafe could feel two pairs of eyes watching him. He shook his head, "No. I'm going to take off. Tell Simon I'm sick or something." He didn't wait for Brown's response; he turned and headed for the elevator, carefully avoiding looking at the two men whose gazes he felt even when the elevator doors finally shut.

It wasn't until he was unlocking his front door, bare of holiday ornamentation, that he realized he left the box with that stupid suit on his desk. Rafe rested his forehead against the cool wood and swore softly and creatively for several minutes.

He wasn't about to go back to fetch it; he'd just deal with everything tomorrow.

He pushed the door open and shut it behind him. His jacket was stripped off and left on the floor as he walked blindly into the kitchen for a drink. He didn't normally drink even beer this early in the afternoon, but he needed something to take the edge off every exposed nerve.

He needed something stronger than beer - the single six-pack of bottles he had in the fridge wouldn't fuzz his mind nearly enough. The only thing he had, though, was a bottle of iced Stolichnaya that his cousin had given him. It had been in the freezer since last Christmas.

His mouth twisted at the thought of the taste. Rafe hated the taste of alcohol, normally ordering mixed drinks or beers if he drank at all. The prospect of facing tonight alone and sober twisted his mouth downward even more and he got the vodka out of the icebox. A juice glass was filled three-quarters full and half of that drunk before he filled the glass to full.

Rafe left the bottle on the counter - he doubted it would have much of a chance to get warm.

Out of long habit, he walked into the living room to press the replay button on his answering machine. A smile almost crossed his face as he listened to his cousin's voice, saying he was sorry he couldn't get the time off from the air force to come visit, but that they could make up for lost time after the holiday rush. A mouthful of the bitter alcohol slid in a burning trail down his throat and he took a second gulp before the message ended.

The next was from Stacy, down in accounting. No, he wasn't interested in the date she was dropping subtle bricks about. He erased that one and listened to two empty messages before the machine whirred, letting him know that those four were all he'd had this Christmas eve.

Rafe tossed back the rest and stripped off his holster and hung it up before going back to the bottle. He emptied his pockets out on the counter, his badge flipping idly onto the smooth white surface. Rafe lifted the glass at the badge in mocking toast, "Merry Christmas, Jim and Sandburg."

He went back into the living room to fall bonelessly onto the sofa, resting his head on the back as he kept a loose grip on the glass he held on his leg. All alone for Christmas, while Jim and Sandburg probably had a nice, cozy evening all planned out. An evening that didn't include him.

*I won't interfere,* he told himself firmly. *Jim's happy, and that's all I really want. Sandburg makes him happy. End of story.*

*I'll love him because he makes Jim happy, but I'll hate him because he's not me.*