Dream a Little Dream
by Ariana Lussier and Duranee

Gentle hands brushed along his skin, leaving trails of frost and fire everywhere they went. He moaned a little, turning into the ghost-light touches, not wanting to open his eyes to see the phantom's face just yet.

When he finally did crack his eyes open, it made no difference. He was surrounded in warm, blanketing darkness. Vague shapes moved around him, making soft restless noises, nothing like the low sounds of desire from his unseen lover. He floated in that velvety void, letting his head fall back as those fingers stroked along his body once more.

Odd it was, that the man who'd inflamed his senses and soul during the day was absent at night. The shapes had faces, but the only one that swam into focus was the one of his lover. He gasped again, reaching out for the tormentor that smiled and let himself be drawn forward.

Blair's smile was loving and teasing all at once, full of warmth and mischief. Blair took his head into both hands and their lips touched and opened, both groaning as each other's tongues found never-before discovered hotspots in mouths. He fell back, dragging Blair on top of him, kissing the smaller man as deeply and thoroughly as he'd ever dreamed of kissing anyone.

Half-formed murmurs of desire came from his lover and Blair wriggled on top of him in a way that just *had* to be illegal in most states. He arched under Blair, grinding himself into that heavy warmth that touched and tasted and stroked and kissed him until he forgot how to think. He was only capable of feeling and reacting to the sensations being set off by each contact.

Then Blair turned the tables, taking control of the kiss and their lovemaking. He gasped again as his lover thrust hard against him, rubbing their cocks together. His body jerked in answering thrusts and Blair covered him with his body, matching the rough pattern to drive him mindless with need.

The hands that reached for Blair's waist were gently pushed aside and went to his head instead, fingers twining into that silky hair to hold at least part of Blair in place for another kiss. His tongue slid between Blair's lips, pouring into their mouths all the insane desire that Blair's expertise was flooding him with. The younger man moaned again, his hips bucking harder and faster and he tore away from that sweet mouth to fling his head back, screaming silently as he came.

His shriek reached his own ears, stabbing into them and yanking him out of sleep. Rafe's eyes opened reluctantly to the light of day and a warm, wet patch spreading over the front of his shorts.

He lifted his head up to glance down at himself, and let it fall back with a groan of embarrassment that quickly segued into what had to be the *worst* hangover of the twentieth century. The empty bottle of Stolichnaya lying on its side on the nightstand managed to smirk at him without having a face.

*Merry Christmas to all,* he thought blearily, choosing to blame the wet-Blair-dream on the alcohol. The thought brought associated images with it, and he groaned a little, slapping a hand over his face without thinking and wincing as that sent a jarring pain that reverberated all the way down to his feet.

He dragged himself out of bed, grimacing at the ringing of the 'silver bells' in his ears. The sound didn't stop the harsh rush of water from hurting when he stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. Rafe leaned against the wall, resting his throbbing head against the cool tile and wondered how the hell he'd ended up undressed and in bed when the last thing he remembered was sitting on the couch fully dressed.

And how the hell did he end up dreaming about *Sandburg* when it was Jim he wanted?

Deciding that the pounding of water against his skull would be too much torture, he drew a bath instead. The cold water spigot was turned tightly off, so the hot water steamed up without anything to soften the temperature. He took two steps to the medicine cabinet, each step sending a nauseating shock up his body, and fumbled for a bottle of aspirin, tylenol, cyanide... anything to make the sick pain stop.

The white bottle lost nearly half its contents into the sink before he managed to grab any. He stuffed a few into his mouth and dry-swallowed, closing his eyes against the evil migraine demons that were giggling as they stabbed the inside of his head with little pitchforks. Rafe moved slowly and carefully, his stomach sending simple, brightly colored picture messages up to his brain detailing what would happen if it was displeased. The vodka had *burned* going down - Rafe did not want it to make an encore appearance.

Still, for all his care, he made the mistake of looking up at his reflection, and that undid him. He fell to his knees, barely making it to the toilet as his body revolted against his will. And the Stoli burned even worse the second time.

Finally, his muscles quivering in protest at the violence, he finally stopped heaving. Rafe rested his forehead against the porcelain and wondered why alcohol sold in such large bottles didn't come with a gun for the morning after. His arm reached up and he felt around for some of the spilled aspirin to replace the ones he'd just lost.

Rafe sighed, his head swimming with the motion, and slowly crawled into the bathtub. The water was still hot enough to redden his skin and he lay back, carefully resting his head against the edge and just let himself steep for a while. Once he felt brave enough to try washing, he reached for the soap. Keeping his motions as economical as possible, he washed carefully and only got out when the water had cooled to almost lukewarm and his hangover had reduced its cry from a scream to a mere wail.

By the time he'd gotten dressed and cleaned up the messes of the night before and this morning, his head no longer felt so much like an overripe melon. He still spent a few minutes trying to find sunglasses. Midway through his search, he remembered something else and almost whimpered.

The suit. The stupid, red, dusty, who-knows-who's-worn-this-thing Santa suit was still sitting on his desk, and a glance at the clock told him he had no time today to get it cleaned. Rafe sighed as he left for work, wondering just what else could go wrong today.

Ninety minutes later, he knew exactly how much worse it could get. Shrieking, snot nosed children and their impatient parents did not go well with a screaming hangover. Not to mention how much fun he was having with the flashbulbs for the pictures.

He could hear the explanations now. "Well, honey, Santa has a lot of stops to make this year. He's probably worn out because there have been so many good little boys and girls, and he's been up late making sure they all get what they want." It was enough to make him puke. Again.

Rafe plastered a pained smile on his face as the little girl in his lap managed to kick him in the balls for the third time and after yet another picture, handed her off to her frazzled mother. He was sweating inside the dusty and stale suit, and was very, very happy that he only had another thirty minutes of hell to endure.

Glancing around the bullpen, he gasped as his eyes lit on Jim. Chuckling over some comment Simon had made, he looked completely at ease in the black slacks that hugged the sleek muscles in his thighs and his taut ass. And the dark red silk shirt that did nothing to hide the solid planes of his chest looked like something out of Rafe's own wardrobe. The man shouldn't be allowed outside of the house in clothing like that.

Actually, the man shouldn't be allowed to wear clothing at all.

Closing his eyes and muttering a brief prayer, Rafe was suddenly glad that the red fabric of the santa suit was so heavy. He didn't want to have to explain to horrified parents why he was sporting an erection while cradling their precious little ones on his lap.

He was desperately trying to think of icebergs when he felt a tug at his elbow. Swallowing a curse, he turned to see who wanted his attention - and couldn't believe his eyes.

Sandburg was playing the part of 'Santa's Little Helper' and was dressed in a green felt tunic with red and white striped tights. Green felt slippers with curled toes complete with bells and a pointed little cap with matching bells finished off the ensemble, and Blair looked absolutely adorable as an elf.

"Hi, Santa! I'm your helper!" Blair's deep blue eyes were sparkling with mischief and glee as he handed 'Santa' a cup of eggnog.

Suddenly overwhelmed with fragments of this morning's dream, he did his best to banish all thoughts of licking candy canes and tried to will his erection away. "I suppose it's too much to hope that this is spiked?" He did his best to smile at the incubus masquerading as an elf in green felt.

Suddenly serious, Blair dropped the playful act and looked at Rafe with piercing concern. "No, not spiked. Your eyes are almost as red as the suit and your hands are shaking. It looks like you definitely don't need any more. Look man, whatever is bothering you, I hope you know you can talk to me about it." Blair's eyes were warm, but worried as he held out the cup he'd brought over.

All that concern and worry directed toward him from the lover of the man he was lusting after managed to kill his erection entirely. Trying not to snap back at Blair with all the frustration he was keeping hidden, he almost gasped in relief when he felt a tug at his other elbow. Relief that was extremely short lived as he lost his grip on the cup of eggnog in his hand. Time slowed, allowing him the luxury of watching the pale yellow beverage as it cascaded over the red velvet covering his crotch.

Frustration twined with thwarted desire and mutated into an irrational anger. He stood suddenly, turning his back to hide the wet stain from the kids; his day did not need to end with children asking parents why Santa peed his pants.

Blair's mouth dropped into an 'O' and he snatched some napkins to try to blot the eggnog away. Suddenly, the prospect of getting the hell out of here, *away* from the kids, the party and that goddamn elf, was too irresistable. He brushed the helping hands aside almost brusquely as he yanked up the now-empty Santa sack and held it in front of him while he made his way out of the bullpen.

The door was blocked, though. Not by whining kids, curious parents or a pissed off captain, but by Jim - in all that silk and ass-hugging slacks glory. He'd worked around to intercept Rafe and the detective-turned-Santa suddenly found it hard to breathe when Jim's eyes caught his. He tried to look away; the set of Jim's mouth told him Jim had seen Rafe's abrupt treatment of his partner -*lover*- and that he didn't like it at all.

Instead of the blistering venom he instinctively braced himself for, Jim asked instead, "What's wrong?"

That soft tone, so personal in its warmth, scraped inside him. He tried to drag up a half-grin, "Nothing, Jim. Just holiday crap, that's all."

Jim frowned a little, the expression not dark and foreboding as it often was, but expressing a care that Rafe didn't dare fully believe. "Want to talk about it?"

He shook his head, finally able to drop his eyes. "Not much to talk about. My cousin's not gonna make it here until after the holidays and I'm just kind of disappointed." He sighed, hoping Jim would just accept the lie. "I overreacted back there - I'll talk to Sandburg once I get my head together."

"Are you sure?"

Rafe shrugged, "I just need a little time." He smiled as a bit of his old humor peeked out, "And clean clothes."

The grin that wasn't yet on Jim's face was in his voice, "Clotheshorse."

Jim's outfit got a discerning once-over by the other cop; Rafe didn't dare eye him any more than that. "Me? Which of us looks like he stepped out of GQ?"

"Just wait till you get back in here - you'll put me to shame." Rafe just smiled faintly and shook his head a little. Jim nudged his shoulder, still teasing, "Santa *is* coming tonight, isn't he?"

*Oh shit. Behave, dick, behave!*

Plastering a false cheer over the darkness in his heart, he joked back, "Only for good little boys that go to sleep in their own beds tonight."

And a part of Rafe hoped selfishly that Blair still had his own room. The thought of Jim and Blair making love under their Christmas tree, or menorah, or whatever the hell they put in their apartment, was as revolting as it was erotic. He kept the smile on his face from turning too sour as he edged around Jim and left the bullpen.

The suit was soon stripped off and wadded carelessly into its box. Rafe yanked on his pants over his wet shorts and glared at the stupid suit, not mollified in the least by the wry realization that the department would finally have to have the damn thing drycleaned.

Despite the promise he'd made, Rafe had no intention of going back to the bullpen. The ridiculous beard was something he could hide behind, but in there, as himself, he had no such protection from others seeing his face and his every thought as he watched the good cheer he was only a spectator of. He dumped the box back in that now notorious storeroom and made a mental note to give it to Simon tomorrow; he just couldn't go back in there now.

Rafe almost smiled at the look he imagined on Simon's face, when he dropped the box with its sour, smelly suit on his desk. Then thought briefly of the stunned look when he dropped the next bomb: his transfer back to SWAT. He was still good friends with one of the captains there; he was sure he could get a transfer taken care of within a day.

Maybe even tomorrow.

He pushed the door closed and sighed sadly. He'd miss everyone, especially Jim, but the boon granted to him would be his heart. No longer constantly ripped, it would soon heal and be whole again. Mostly.

Now, he wondered as he quietly left the building, how to keep everything a secret so he could leave in peace?

"Why so sudden, man?" Blair persisted as Rafe tucked more things into the box that had once been used to ship reams of printer paper. "Not even time to throw a going-away party."

The taller man just shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "I'm good. They need me."

"So does Major Crimes."

"I have friends over there."

"You've got friends here!"

The other man was poised on the balls of his feet, leaning against the desk that no longer had Rafe's name on it. His eyes gave every indication that he would be every bit as stubborn as he'd ever been. Rafe sighed; Blair wasn't going to let this go. "I have to get-"

*Away. Away from you, away from 'him'. I will 'not' cause trouble for you two, but I won't be able to stop myself.*

But he couldn't say any of that, so he sighed and finished after a beat, "- back to where I can do the most good."

Blair's face clearly said he didn't buy it. "Rafe-"

"Jesus Christ, Sandburg," he finally said in a low voice, sublimated anger starting to bloom. "Can't you learn to just fucking drop something? Or at least recognize it when someone else wants to?"

A hurt look crossed over Blair's face as he took a step back, lifting his hands almost defensively at his tone. "Okay, whatever, Rafe. I'm sorry."

*Yeah, step back. Keep away.* He hefted the box and turned away, nearly losing his balance pulling up short when he saw Jim standing right there. Plenty close enough to have heard Rafe's harsh words to his partner. His lover.

Jim said nothing, only looked at him. He looked quickly away from the unreadable blue eyes and slid around the detective with only a muttered, "Later."

Once in the elevator, the breath he'd been holding in a tight chest left him and he sagged against the wall. It was fanciful, it was childish, but he couldn't help the tiny hope that Jim, or even Sandburg would have followed, persisting in trying to convince him to stay. Juvenile, that hope was, and moreso the unreasonable disappointment when they didn't.

Well, if he'd ever needed an answer to that question he never dared to ask...

The morning had begun with Detective Rafe twirling a pencil in his fingers at his desk in Major Crimes. The afternoon ended when he slammed shut his locker with his newly assigned SWAT gear.

More equipment bulged in a heavy nylon bag and he hefted that onto his shoulder to head home, glad that he'd volunteered for the 'on 'call' roster. Besides a full shift, he could get called in anytime they needed extra guys. It was good, hard work; easy to bury oneself in.

Rafe saw Sandburg when he went out in the parking lot. The other man was sitting on the hood of Jim's truck, his cheerful face turned away, towards where most of Major Crimes and, until now, Rafe himself, usually exited the building. One arm was hooked loosely around a leg that had been pulled up and Blair whistled to himself as he waited for Jim.

His hands stilled suddenly as the car door swung open, even the bag's weight that cut the strap into his shoulder was forgotten as he watched Sandburg waiting for his lover. Green-gold eyes idly traced over his hair, his shoulder, the curve of his back. That back abruptly straightened and Rafe's attention was released to take in the reason why Sandburg had hopped off the truck.

Jim was just coming out the door. Blair's back was still to Rafe, but Jim had a clear line of sight to the former Major Crimes detective. The clear blue gaze that arrowed past Sandburg narrowed a little at the black bag Rafe still had on his shoulder. Jim was no stranger to SWAT, although he'd never been 'one of the boys' like Rafe had; he knew what that bag of gear meant.

Their eyes met only an instant before Rafe broke the contact and hurled the bag into the passenger's seat, dropping into the driver's seat to go home. He resolutely did not look in their direction as he drove away.

It was the last he saw of anyone from Major Crimes for a few weeks.

The circle was filled with the spot his attention was focused on. Only the barest edge of his peripheral vision wasn't taken up by the target down the range, a target that in reality was just a half-inch across and fifteen hundred feet away.

The pad of his finger depressed a little as that digit tightened, levering back the smooth, satiny curve of the trigger. The rifle rammed against a shoulder braced for the shock as the shot spiralled out to cut a neat hole in the cardboard. Rafe raised his head a little, his eyes aching a bit as he looked down the range at the now-tiny silhouette.

Dead on target. A few more like that and he'd be back up to what he considered par. He'd passed the advanced qualifying range test several days ago, but still came down here every day to hone the skills he'd rarely used in Major Crimes.

Precision shooting like this was exacting work, and he was all too happy to clear his mind and devote all his attention to the facades that were methodically perforated. He was starting to get a little bored now, so he'd started putting the bullet holes on the targets in patterns.

This one now was sporting a 'happy holidays' message, done to the cheers of the other two SWAT snipers that had hung around after hours, like him, to practice.The other two guys had shaken their heads, laughing as they left after he'd shot smiley faces into *their* targets. He'd grinned and waved as they cursed him good-naturedly, only turning his attention back after they left. He let his mind blank again as his attention arrowed back to the target with the clustered shots in its head and the morbidly cheerful banner across its chest.

So absorbed was he in perforating the unsuspecting and undeserving pieces of paper, he didn't hear the quiet footsteps approach. It took a moment for the low, but familiar voice to register, and when it did, he was suddenly glad that he'd emptied the clip.

Not that he'd ever actually shoot Sandburg, though he'd once entertained the thought briefly.

He closed his eyes briefly, then took a deep breath and straightened, turning to face one of two men he'd hoped to never see again. "Sandburg," he nodded in greeting, his face still perfectly blank.

"Rafe? Got a minute?" Blair leaned a hip against the partition and directed his steady blue gaze at the former Detective. His signature energy was missing, and there was was an unfamiliar expression lurking in his eyes.

He shrugged, looking away to punch the button that recalled a target back to the front. He leaned his rifle against the partition and propped a foot up on the opposite one that he leaned against. Stacks of spent clips were taking up space in the cubicle, only some of them his - the others borrowed from other snipers - and made a mental note to refill all of them tonight.

The machinery ratcheted and whirred overhead, dragging the mutilated target to him. It would take a little while to get to them, and a small, privately evil corner of him couldn't wait to see the look on Sandburg's face when he saw the unfortunate board.

And he wasn't disappointed. Blair paled as he took in the decorative touches Rafe had added to his target, the heavy stubble along his jaw even more noticable than usual. Swallowing audibly, he took a deep breath and said, "Nice shooting. I didn't know you were such an expert marksman."

"Nobody in Major Crimes did - it never came up."

Blair reached over to remove the target, taking a moment to look at it more closely. "You know, this is really good. I don't think even Jim has this kind of control."

Control. Well, he'd been getting a lot of practice on his control lately. The subject of his skill had never came up, because Jim was usually the one that was behind the scope when sharpshooting was needed. Rafe had never had a problem with staying back while Ellison plunged into the thick of things; it meant fewer trips to the hospital for him.

"Thanks," he said, keeping his voice and face neutral.

"And speaking of Major Crimes.... We all miss you up there. No one has seen you for weeks. It's like you've dropped off the face of the planet." Blair regained a bit of his color, apparently encouraged by his lukewarm welcome.

"I've been busy." Requalification for SWAT was incredibly trying and a golden blossom of pride at how quickly he'd qualified for full duty warmed him a little, cheering him invisibly.

Sandburg didn't look convinced. "Too busy to return the phone calls? Reply to your messages? I even tried emailing you. Hell, man, even Jim's impressed by your disappearing act, and that's saying something." Blair was beginning to build up quite a head of steam. The usual energy had returned, along with the wildly gesticulating hands that always punctuated his statements.

Rafe leaned over to start transferring the empty clips to his bag. "I work late, and by the time I get home, most normal people are in bed." His hand tightened involuntarily as his mind instantly reviewed the words and spat out a few obscene connotations. Rafe grabbed the rifle next and began to methodically dismantle it.

"You can't take five minutes to call someone? Like Henry?" Blair began pacing back and forth in the small space. "He's going out of his skull worrying about you. Wondering what the hell he did to make you want to transfer in less than 24 hours. Taggart's worried that you're in some kind of trouble. And even Simon's been asking me if I could try and talk to you. Hell, the bagel girl wonders where you've been."

"Really?" Despite his turmoil, he almost grinned; that girl was cute and always took a few minutes to playfully flirt with him. Everyone else, though... "I'll call Henry and let him know he doesn't need to switch deodorants, okay? And you can tell everyone that I'm not in trouble, I... I just got itchy feet."

"Well, consult Dr. Scholl and get back to where you belong." Blair stopped his pacing and ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. "Don't you get it? You're like family to all of us. There's this big Rafe-shaped hole at the poker table. In the bullpen. At the track...you know Little Stogie has actually been placing lately?

"What the hell happened? What made you decide to just uproot yourself from all of our lives and take off like a lone wolf or an injured animal?"

Rafe repacked the pieces of his rifle. "Not everyone has to have their lives planned out and everyone, even those whose business it isn't, notified a year in advance," he said, not bothing to soften any of it. He took the target, "I told you, SWAT needs me. You said so yourself, I'm good. I belong here."

Blair stopped, moved in close and jabbed at Rafe's chest with one finger. "Bullshit. You belong up there in the bullpen. With your friends and family. With the team that's developed over the years. That team relied on you for backup. Do you have any idea how many times Jim and I went into a potentially dangerous situation because we knew you and H were watching our backs?"

Blair was close enough for Rafe to notice the hitch in his breathing and the flush on his skin as he mentioned Jim's name. Oh yeah, any doubt about Jim and Sandburg's relationship was whipped away by that look of unmistakeable arousal at the mention of his lover. Blair's lover, not his, what was he thinking?

"Anyone can replace me in Major Crimes, but there's not a whole lot of guys in the department can put a bullet through a gas tank five blocks away. I'm more needed here." He finished packing the last of the gear and shouldered the bag. "SWAT's my family," he added tonelessly as he headed from the range to the doors leading to the locker room.

He heard the muttered curse behind him and wasn't too terribly surprised when he heard Sandburg's footsteps following him. The kid wasn't going to leave it alone. "Rafe, goddammit, don't you walk away from me."

"Not my fault the locker room's over here."

"Great. That's just great. It's like trying to talk to Ellison all over again. I thought he was closed off when I first met him, but you're about to take the cake. What the fuck is your problem, man?" Blair growled as he slammed into the locker room behind Rafe.

He winced a little, "Sandburg, I think if you slam that door a little harder you might manage to disintegrate it." Rafe dropped the bag on the bench and tugged his locker open, making necessary exchanges between locker and bag. Once he'd repacked his 'panic bag' for when he got called in, he started to strip off his tshirt and lay it across the seat. He looked pointedly at Sandburg. "I'm going to take a shower," he said levelly. "Is that okay with you, or do you plan to babysit?"

"Real funny." Blair grimaced and took a deep breath to continue his tirade. "It's like something crawled up your ass and died right before Christmas. I know all about people getting depressed around the holidays, but this is ridiculous. You're acting like a child, so maybe a babysitter is exactly what you need. Don't feed me a line about needing a change or getting itchy feet. I want to know the real reason you transferred."

"You'll be waiting a long time," he muttered to himself; he'd never tell anyone, least of all Sandburg, the real reason he'd taken off. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks, then grabbed a soft blue towel from his locker and went behind the tiled shower partition. He wasn't shy about his body, but no way in hell was he going to parade around naked in front of Jim's lover. *His* lover too, if one wanted to count that morning's dream that he'd had - again. Which he didn't.

Unfortunately, he underestimated Sandburg's persistance, and made the mistake of removing his jeans and boxers before making sure Blair had vacated the locker room. Thus, he was unprepared for Sandburg to come around the corner as he was turning on the water. The spray coming out of the showerhead splattered both of them with water, sluicing down Rafe's well toned body and plastering Blair's white t-shirt to his chest.

Too bad the water wasn't cold enough to hide Rafe's reaction to that visual gem.

Blood that wasn't directed south rushed upwards and he turned away, picking up the soap and swiping it over himself in agitated motions. He tried to keep his voice even, "You know, if you keep watching me, people will talk."

He heard the strangled gasp that Blair tried to stifle, and looked over his shoulder to find the smaller man staring at his ass. The water had soaked through the front of his jeans as well, now, and Rafe's sharpshooting eyes spied the beginning of a very healthy erection. Sandburg recovered nicely, however, and though he flushed a bit as he returned Rafe's stare, his voice was nevertheless steady as he asked, "And why would they talk?"

Rafe turned his head away, nearly smiling at Blair's audacity, and shrugged. "Lucky for you the room's empty. Rumors really fly around here."

The soap was replaced on the tiny shelf, Rafe taking the extra care to make sure he didn't drop it since he was not about to 'bend over in the shower'. He ran his hands over himself, helping the water rinse the lather away and his hands suddenly stopped. Why the hell did Blair have an erection?

A sharp twist turned off the water and he walked out of the communal shower, wrapping his towel around his hips and leaving a trail of water back to his locker. Rafe pulled out a second towel and tossed it at the consultant that followed him, his face and body showing signs of increasing frustration.

Blair caught the towel and nodded his thanks even as he continued on his mission. "Yeah, well, it's not like I haven't been the target of rumors before. And I think trying to find out what's wrong with you is worth dealing with a bit of idle speculation. You know I'm not going to let this go, so why don't you just give in and tell me what the real problem is?"

More determined than ever, Blair scrubbed at his dripping curls perfunctorily and removed his t-shirt long enough to wring most of the water out of it. He wrinkled his nose at the wet cloth and shrugged to himself before struggling back into it. Sandburg folded his arms across his chest and planted his feet firmly to out-stubborn the former detective.

"Alright," Rafe said, admitting defeat. "Something came up and I can't handle it, okay? And yes, I am running away, but dealing with it wouldn't do any good. It'll still be there." Deciding that since Blair had already seen what he had, he let the towel fall to put on fresh clothes. They dragged over his damp skin and he sat down to put on his shoes and socks.

Blair lowered the towel as comprehension flashed across his features. Sighing, he took in the man sitting on the bench, trying to pull dry socks over wet feet. Quietly, and with almost no expression on his face, he said, "Jim told me about the storeroom, Rafe."

Rafe froze.

"Oh?" he asked after a moment's silence. *Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. What exactly did he tell you, Sandburg? That he kissed me or that I was a hair away from fucking him senseless?*

His guts twitched in nervousness as he tried to keep his face and body still. He finished lacing up his boots before looking up into Sandburg's eyes. "What did he say?"

Moving carefully, like a hunter trying not to spook his prey, Blair sat down at the other end of the bench. Still dripping wet, he regarded the man in front of him and pondered how to answer the question. "Originally, Jim was upset that you were leaving. To go to Vice. He's been there, and believe me, he's still got scars on his soul. He wanted to make sure that you knew what you were getting into. Vice is all about difficult choices, and to be honest Rafe, you don't seem like the kind of man who could use people like that and walk away.

"I know that he was...startled by your reaction. And he felt guilty for maybe forcing you into something you weren't ready to deal with." Blair turned to face him fully. "He also felt guilty for liking it."

"He told you that?" Rafe was stunned. He almost allowed himself a surge of hope, that maybe he was good enough for Jim, then squelched it back down. Jim had never shown interest in him; 'liking it' was a purely physical reaction. Like the one he was getting now, looking at Blair in that tshirt that clung to and defined every muscle in his upper body.

He stood, pulling his eyes away and pushed his locker shut. "He didn't happen to say why he went and did that, did he? Or that I sent him back across the room for it?" Awakening lust and pain had hardened his tone once more and he refused to look at Blair.

Though his voice was rock steady, Blair's eyes were a tumultous mix of emotions as he replied. "He mentioned that you shoved him across the room, yes. He also was under the impression that you were enjoying yourself for a while. And he told me because he felt I needed to know."

*And why the hell is that? Why did you need to know? Why the hell did you have to be involved in this at all?* he wondered.

Rafe chose his next words with deliberate care. "We're both men, Sandburg. And I think you yourself know that we as a species get turned on at the drop of a hat."

Blair flinched, then scowled at him. "And your point being?"

He felt a nasty pleasure that Sandburg had gotten the barb, that Jim was aroused by literally anything. Sandburg too, if the accounting department's unofficial tally was even partially accurate. Even Rafe himself was living proof, he realized as he shifted a little to relieve the erection that hadn't gone away at all. "My point being," he said, "is that Jim's a good detective, but in this case he doesn't have a clue."

*And with any luck, he never will.*

Sandburg smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant one. He got up to move closer to Rafe, eyes narrowing as he stood before the man. "Oh, I think he has a clue. You handed him a pretty big one. And I think I've been hanging around detectives long enough to pick up a few things. I think you're handing me a line of bull. Don't try and bluff the master of obfuscations, man. You left because you couldn't handle that kiss."

"Because I couldn't *handle* it?" he gritted out, suddenly unreasonably angered by the challenge. "Are you saying *you* could have handled it?"

"I probably could have!" he shot back, unaware of how thin the ice he danced on was. His very nearness was bringing flashes of Rafe's dreams of him back in agonizing detail. "*I* sure as hell wouldn't have bailed on my friends because I was too chicken to face what was really bothering me."

"Prove it, then!" Rafe snarled, his hands flashing out to grab Sandburg's arms and shove him bodily against the lockers. A terrified part of his mind babbled in confused shock at what he was doing, but that shred wasn't piloting. It wasn't even in charge of the landing gear.

Blair's mouth dropped open as the air was knocked out of him, then Rafe was crushing his mouth to Sandburg's, pressing the full line of their bodies together. His fingers dug into Blair's shoulders, holding him in place as he took the other man's mouth with a frenzied desire that was nearly savage.

Small, frantic noises were attempting to work their way out of Sandburg's throat, hands shoving at his chest in a futile attempt to escape. But Rafe wasn't listening; he couldn't hear anything beyond the demons screaming in his brain and his heart pounding in his ears.

He couldn't feel anything but the hot, wet heat of the mouth beneath his own, the wiry strength of the body in his arms. He didn't notice the protests or when they stopped, but he moaned as he felt those arms come around his neck, the lips clinging to his and the mobile length of Blair's tongue as it joined in the passionate dance.

Sandburg's response was more than he'd ever dreamed of, the other man twisting in his grip not to escape, but to shove himself even closer to Rafe. He felt a hardness thrust against him, grinding into his groin and driving any and all whispers of reason out of his head. His body engaged the autopilot and pushed back, increasing the rhythmic pressure.

The rough kiss had no grace at all, lips pinched and scraped by and against teeth. He didn't care, the taste and feel of that mouth leaped beyond anything his nighttime imagination had come up with. Another thrust from Sandburg had him shove back harder in response and a groan of pain escaped the smaller man as his head struck the locker behind him.

Rafe broke away, staring dumbly at Blair for a moment. The sound had reached past all the mufflers that lust had put up and rationality was reasserting itself. He took in the redness around Blair's lips that he knew would turn to purple bruising and shoved himself back, stumbling as he turned away. His stomach did a sick flip as his mind mercilessly reviewed what he'd just done.

Assaulted Sandburg, practically raped him. And he wanted to do it again.

His bile rose and he tried not to gag as he left the locker room. Unable to face the stunned man still supporting himself against the lockers, he all but ran from there, ignoring Sandburg's belated, "Rafe! Wait!"

He had no idea how he managed to get to his car and get the hell out of there while his eyes were replaying over and over what he'd done to Sandburg. Rubber screamed and smoked as he peeled out of there, driving blindly away.

*ohmigodohmigodohmigod... WHAT DID I DO?! He's a good man, he didn't deserve that, oh God, what the fuck is wrong with me?*

And what would happen when Jim found out?

His nausea roiled and bubbled up, and he had to quickly pull off the street. He rested his head against the steering wheel, trying to will everything down to manageability. Blair would tell Jim. If Jim would tell Blair about the storeroom, Rafe *knew* Jim would find out about this. And come after him. *He's going to kill me.*

And Rafe right then didn't think he'd defend himself against it at all. He wasn't yet at the point that he was about to eat his gun, but he did feel like he deserved whatever messy, painful and ultimately secret death he'd just earned for himself at Ellison's hands.

He remembered suddenly the bag he'd left in the locker room. Good god, where was his head? Probably suffering oxygen deprivation while the rest of his body had too much. He put the Mach 1 in gear and swung back around to go back to the station. He hoped that Blair had gone so he could just sneak in, grab his panic bag, and leave again.

Thankfully, the locker room was empty. Rafe got the sack and left, trying not to see the locker room overlaid by his memory's recall of his assault on Blair. All he could remember was the groan of pain, the feel of the hands that had tried to push him off... he swallowed thickly and turned away again, part of him wishing that Jim was waiting outside right now to clock him.

The gods weren't listening; he got to his car without incident. He drove listlessly home, driving far more slowly than his usual nodding consideration to speed limits. Rafe trudged up the stairs to his apartment, eyes fixed on his feet, and didn't see the note until he was unlocking his front door.

***Rafe,
Tried to catch you here, but you were gone. We gotta talk, man. Don't be so hard to find.
Blair***

He stared blankly at the note he'd pulled off the door. Did Sandburg leave this here before or after they had... met... in the locker room?

Before, it had to have been before. Theoretically, there had been time after for Blair to drive here, but after what had happened, there was no way Blair or anyone would want to talk to him. Unless it was Jim, and it was his gun or some other exotic weapon doing the talking.

The note crumpled in his hand and was dropped to the ground. He went into his empty apartment to try to decide whether or not to just go to sleep for the rest of his life, or to call Jim and let him know he was home, alone and unarmed.

It was a difficult choice.