Many Waters
by Lanning Cook

"Anna, it's okay. That's what friends are for, right? Yes. No problem. We'll see you tomorrow."

"Well?" asked Jim softly as Blair hung up the phone. "What time do you want to go over?"

Blair eyed him wryly for a moment. "I suppose I should be used to your eavesdropping by now."

"I never eavesdrop," lied Jim with studied calmness, sliding over on the sofa in oblique invitation. "I accidentally overhear. Occasionally."

He didn't like butting into Blair's private business. But hell, this had been going on for three weeks now, and nothing unnerved Jim more than an uncommunicative Blair... especially when the subject at hand was women. Well, this particular woman, anyway. Anything could be happening. After all, Blair was such a damn soft touch. That girl could be dragging him into her troubles again, dragging him into danger.

Or into her bed.

Jim cleared his throat, quickly forcing the last thought from his mind.

Blair shot him an unnervingly piercing look, then snorted as he crossed the room and dropped onto the sofa, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. "Uh-huh. What's got your radar up, poster boy?" His feet swung up and dropped with a thud beside the phone onto the newly polished surface.

Jim scowled at the sneakered feet. "Excuse me?"

"The only times I've ever caught you eavesdropping--"

"Accidentally overhearing--"

"Were when, A, you were suffering an attack of Blessed Protector Syndrome--"

"I'm cured," lied Jim again, uncomfortable. Jim hadn't said a word about his vague, undefined fears, hadn't suggested Blair stay away from Anna, hadn't followed Blair on his visits to the shelter or questioned him when he came home. He'd kept it all to himself. And yet here he was, being told all about himself again. Christ, it was getting so a guy couldn't even BPS in total silence without getting read the Riot Act by Detective Blair Sandburg.

"  --  or B," continued Blair blithely, with an appropriate Pinocchio pantomime to communicate his opinion of Jim's statement, "You were jealous."

"I'm not jealous of Anna, Sandburg," growled Jim, yanking a Sports Illustrated from the pile beside Blair's feet. He flipped it open and stared at a sneaker ad intently.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," chuckled Blair, leaning close enough for Jim to detect the heady blend of scents that murmured mate to Jim whenever and wherever he smelled it. "Relax, tough guy. Anna just wants us to talk to one of the women staying at her shelter. She's thinking about pressing charges, but she's scared. Anna thought maybe it would be easier for her to talk to us off the record first, you know?"

Jim lifted his eyes to examine Blair's expression carefully. There was a difference between the truth and the whole truth, and Blair was a master of making the most of that when he thought Jim's peace of mind was at stake. "Yeah, I heard that part. But you've been stewing about Anna for weeks."

Blair nodded soberly. "The last fire was only half a block away from the shelter, Jim. She's worried, she's scared, she needed to talk."

Jim swore silently. The Firefly arsons. He had never been to the shelter Anna ran for abused women and children; he'd completely forgotten that it was in Oldtown. That poor girl just couldn't seem to get a break. No sooner did she start pulling her life together after an abusive marriage and the murder of her brother than some maniac with a yen for burning buildings started setting her neighborhood on fire.

"So that's what all these phone calls have been about? Why didn't you tell me?"

Blair looked at him reproachfully. "Because Anna spoke to me in confidence."

Jim cleared his throat in discomfort, annoyed that he was actually starting to feel guilty. "Well, how was I supposed to know what was going on?" he demanded. "Every time I've turned around lately you've been on the phone with Anna, or over at the shelter."

"So you thought I was having an affair?"

"No!" That was true. Jim hadn't thought it. He'd been too afraid to think it.

"No? You sure? You know me, man. Blair Can't-Get-Enough Sandburg. Maybe I ran out of table legs."

"Dammit, Blair, I didn't think you were having an affair!" Jim saw too late that he was being teased and glared ineffectually, torn between anger and laughter.

Blair grinned and smoothly swung himself over to straddle Jim's lap, his thighs pressed against Jim's hips. "Admit it," he breathed, leaning close. "You were jealous. Just a little bit."

"You're wrinkling my magazine, Sandburg," growled Jim, fighting a laugh with everything in him.

Blair snatched the magazine from Jim's hands and tossed it aside. "Confess," he murmured, sliding his crotch against Jim's provocatively.

Jim started laughing softly, delightedly, letting his arms circle Blair's waist. "I confess. I confess you're a hairy, pushy, horny little pain in the ass."

"Oh, no, that's not what I want to hear." Blair lowered his head and started applying skillful touches of lips, tongue, and teeth to Jim's neck. He spoke between the delicious biting and licking that inevitably drove Jim crazy. "You were jealous. And you were BPSing, too. Confess."

Jim groaned under a paralyzing combination of physical delight and emotional consternation. "Okay. Okay. BPSing. I relapsed. S-slightly."

"Slightly?" The nipping and licking intensified.

Jim made a heroic effort to ignore the exquisite sensations emanating from just under his right ear and concentrate on the conversation. "Blair, the last time you were hooked up with Anna--"

"Shhh," murmured Blair in a soothing tone that conveyed his understanding, then ran his warm, rough tongue over the sensitive skin behind Jim's ear. Jim shivered in spite of himself. "That's over. Wyatt and Krakowa are long gone."

"Yeah," muttered Jim, not reassured.

Blair eased up his maddening ministrations to Jim's skin and brought his head up to look Jim in the eye with a grave expression. "Anna wasn't any part of that world. She's been a good friend to us, Jim."

"I know that," said Jim irritably, wondering how much more guilt the evening had in store for him.

"She helped save our lives."

"I know that too!"

"So if you're on some sort of 'Anna's bad mojo' trip--"

"I'm not. I like Anna, Chief. She's good people."

"But...?"

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Spit it out!"

"Dammit, Chief, there's nothing to spit out!" Jim stared into his lover's blue eyes for a moment, realizing quite suddenly that the 'nothing' was a something after all. "I just  --  she just -- brings back bad memories, I guess. Makes me feel like I'm still tied up and watching that bastard put his hands on you." Jim tightened his grip around Blair's waist involuntarily, struggling to put the ugly images back into the past where they belonged.

Blair's face softened and he leaned forward to touch his forehead to Jim's. "Jim--"

"I'm not saying it makes sense, okay?" Jim heard his voice falter and fall to a whisper.

"Okay, buddy," said Blair gently, his expressive mouth turned upward slightly in a tender smile. "Sense is optional."

Jim snorted, not trusting his voice at the moment. He tried to let his touch speak for him as he massaged Blair's back deeply, working the tense muscles into relaxed willingness.

Blair sighed in pleasure and bent toward Jim's mouth with a wicked gleam in his eye. "But I've got to tell you, man, the 'cure' is mandatory--"

"Screw that." Jim kissed him softly, gently, in gratitude, savoring the taste of the man who always knew when to take and when to give. Blair started to chuckle into the kiss, making all the nerves in Jim's tongue dance pleasurably.

"But... but you're a risk to public health," laughed Blair breathlessly as he broke away. "Consider the global implications, man. You're BPS Patient Zero."

"Yeah," replied Jim with immense satisfaction. "Deal with it, Sandburg." He flipped Blair onto the couch on his back and dove on top of him with healthy enthusiasm, then examined his laughing friend intently for a moment. Blair's dilated eyes, flushed face, and musky scent hit his senses like a Mack truck. "Maybe we should rethink that tattoo idea," he said huskily.

Blair laughed even harder. "Cas... Cascade PD?"

"Property of Jim Ellison," growled Jim, shifting to pin Blair to the couch.

Blair grinned up at him impudently as he briskly fended off Jim's attempts to pin his arms. "Noooo, he's not jealous. Not a possessive bone--"

"Tattooed on your ass--"

"--in his body. Listen, caveman--"

"--in big red letters." Jim snagged one wrist.

"--we are going to deal with these 'possession' issues of yours."

Jim grabbed the other wrist and pinned his friend's arms over his head. "You find Anna attractive. Confess," he breathed, not really knowing whether or not he wanted to hear the answer.

Blair started laughing again, making no effort to free himself. "I confess. I confess you're a balding, pushy, horny, huge pain in the ass."

"Dammit, Sandburg--"

"Yeah, she's attractive! So? Simon's attractive, too. Do you think I want to do the wild thing with him?"

Jim paused at the image. "Do you?"

Blair's eyes flashed. He yanked one hand free and smacked Jim hard on the side of the head. "You are such a--"

Jim recaptured the hand, grinning broadly. "How long have you been attracted to Simon, Sandburg?"

"--dick! So help me God, Jim, if you give him that idea you'll be finding chili peppers in your food for the rest of your natural life."

"Bring 'em on," said Jim gruffly, bending over Blair and releasing his wrists to take his friend's face in his hands. "I can take it. As... as long as you're here to put them there."

Blair's mouth hung open for a moment, and Jim promptly took advantage of the de facto invitation by sealing his mouth over it, tasting it, caressing it with his tongue, doing everything he could to communicate what he couldn't with words.

Jim hadn't understood the concept of unconditional love before Blair had given him his. He hadn't even believed that such a joyful thing existed. But he believed now. The rest of his natural life with Blair was all he wanted from this world. He could deal with chili peppers.

Blair groaned softly and wrapped his arms around Jim's neck, one knee sliding up between Jim's legs to tease him slowly and mercilessly. Jim slid his hands into Blair's curls, kissing him until he was quite certain he'd pass out if he didn't stop.

A shrill electronic trilling assaulted his dialed-up senses, and Jim nearly jumped out of his skin. He broke the kiss, gasping.

"Shit!" He glared threateningly at the source of his discomfort, but the phone continued its offensive behavior, completely unmoved. Blair sighed and reached toward the phone, but Jim pulled his hand away. "Let it go to the machine."

"It might be Anna. I told her to call if there was any trouble."

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" demanded Jim, realizing that Blair had once again evaded full disclosure.

Blair shot him a quelling look and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

Jim didn't need to hear the voice on the other end of the line to know that it wasn't Anna. The momentary flash of pain crossed Blair's face was all too familiar, and it settled into the lines of resignation that Jim had seen far too often lately. Shit. Shit! Not tonight. Jim reached for the receiver, but Blair laid a gently restraining hand on Jim's chest.

"No," continued Blair mildly, meeting Jim's gaze with a wry expression. "This is the little faggot. The big faggot is steam-pressing my negligee at the moment. Can I take a message?"

The barrage of filthy, threatening language that poured, top volume, from the receiver would have been audible to anyone, let alone a man with Jim's abilities. Blair pulled the phone away from his ear and tried to hang up, but Jim, ignoring Blair's attempts to wave him off, snatched the receiver from his hand.

"Listen, dickless," snarled Jim, rolling off Blair and striding into the middle of the room, "if you have something to say, you can say it to my face. Just tell me where and when."

Blair swore softly. Jumping up from the sofa, he came to Jim's side and tried to take the phone again. Jim pushed his hand away.

"Resign, fag," sneered a deliberately distorted voice. "Leave Cascade and take your girlfriend with you, or there might be a couple of body bags in your future, got it?"

Jim froze for a heartbeat; the bastards had just upped the ante. Never before had they made death threats. Never. Then shock gave way to fury; Jim turned away from Blair to hide the savage rage in his face. "Oh, I've got it, all right. And you can tell Mike Avena and the rest of your brain-dead friends that if I see even so much as a procedural violation around Sandburg or me, I will personally cut off their balls and stuff 'em into the nearest meat grinder."

"You fucking--"

"And if I don't find balls where they should be, I'll grind whatever I find." Jim slammed his finger against the cradle button and tossed the phone across the room; it struck the far wall and fell to the floor. He glared at it for a moment, then stalked back to the sofa, sat down and stared sightlessly at the silent phone as, for the twentieth time in the past six months, he considered committing murder. There was a strained, uncomfortable silence.

"Ah... Jim?" Blair's voice had an odd, muffled quality.

"Yeah?" Jim, furious and frustrated, found himself unable to ameliorate the harshness of his tone.

"Who writes your material?"

Jim, surprised, favored Blair with his most intimidating scowl, which of course did nothing but broaden the teasing grin on Blair's expressive face. "Sandburg--"

"Could I get him to do mine?"

"Shut up."

"Then could I get him to stop doing yours?"

"Shut up."

Blair's grin faded to a rueful smile. "Well, one or the other, man. Our styles do not jibe."

"So what else is new?"

Blair eyed him gravely. "You know what's new. Come on, man. We have to be in synch on this one."

"Why?" asked Jim testily, feeling himself being led out of his raging dark despite all resistance. "You good cop. Me bad cop. Works for me."

"No," said Blair gently as he walked over to the sofa and perched on its arm. "Me good cop. You great cop. Don't let those assholes take that from you, man."

"They're not taking anything from me," growled Jim. "And I'm not taking anything more from them. We've tried it your way, Chief. They're not stopping. It's gotten even worse since you joined the force. It's time to stand up."

"We are standing up," said Blair quietly. "Every day we're together."

Jim grimaced. He knew Blair was right, but the 'passive' part of passive resistance went against his grain like a chainsaw. "Then it's time to shove back."

"Shove who back? And how? We don't know for sure who's making these calls. Or who slashed your tires."

Jim gave the coffee table a violent kick, his anger surging again. "Or who keeps leaving those damn notes on your desk, or who painted 'fags' on our door? The hell we don't! Come on, Chief. What do you want, a signed confession from Avena and his good ol' boys?"

"As a cop," replied Blair with soft emphasis, "yes."

"Damn it, Blair, this isn't a case!"

"Maybe not," said Blair quietly. "But if we don't treat it like one, then they win."

Jim rose, unable to remain still any longer, and took his frustrated fury out on the rug as he paced back and forth. "I should have decked the son of a bitch after that first crack. That would've nipped this shit in the bud."

The first salvo in this ongoing guerrilla warfare had taken place in the corridor outside the Major Crimes bullpen the day after a very impulsive, passionate, and public kiss at a crime scene. Their relationship had become common knowledge in the space of twenty-four hours. And Avena certainly hadn't wasted any time getting to work. The cruel leer on Avena's face still taunted Jim in his mind's eye; the insulting way he'd looked Blair up and down as he passed; the crude words that had floated back to Jim and Blair, deliberately audible; the raucous laughter of Avena and his cronies. If Blair hadn't blocked Jim's path so determinedly, he'd have taken on the whole bunch then and there.

Jim harbored no regrets, then or now, about that kiss. He'd nearly lost Blair that day. Again. And Jim was determined never to let another day pass without showing Blair how much he meant to him. But his resolution had been challenged and his anger provoked many times in the six months since then, and no more so than at this moment.

"Oh, yeah," said Blair drily. "That would have done it. I can just see it: Avena and his flatliners laughing it up over a few beers because you're on suspension and they look like the innocent victims of Mad Dog Ellison."

"Hard to laugh with broken ribs," snapped Jim. "It would have stopped there."

Blair regarded him with a troubled air. "Maybe. But something else might have started. Like the guys upstairs wondering if it wouldn't be a good idea to partner you with someone else... or transfer me to some other unit."

The mere suggestion of that possibility froze Jim in his tracks. He stared at his friend. "No, Chief. There's no way in hell Simon would ever--"

"It might not be Simon's call at that point." Blair rose from his perch to stand in front of Jim with an earnest expression. "You're a high-profile officer, Jim. The suits must be twitchy enough about Jim Ellison, Cop of the Year, being partnered with his male lover. If they think that our relationship is negatively impacting your performance as a police
officer--"

"Screw that," returned Jim hotly, realizing with a sinking, panicked feeling that Blair was right. Shit, why hadn't he seen this? "It doesn't. You're the best partner I've ever had, the best partner any cop could have."

Blair smiled sadly. "Jim--"

"I won't be partnered with anyone else," said Jim flatly, every instinct rejecting the idea. "I'll resign first."

"And they win again," said Blair very gently, wrapping his arms around Jim's waist.

Jim fell silent, studying Blair's face for a moment, then pulled the younger man into his arms and held him tightly. He felt Blair's grip tighten around him too. "Shit," he said finally, seeing no way out of the box.

"Yeah," said Blair softly. "Shit."

Jim ran a hand through Blair's soft hair, breathing in his lover's scent, letting it calm him. "You've been carrying that one around awhile, partner."

"You've had enough on your plate," mumbled Blair into Jim's chest.

Jim almost laughed aloud at that. He'd had enough on his plate? Jim's mind cast back over the past few months, cataloguing for the hundredth time everything Blair had been through. The whole dissertation screw-up, for starters. Jim flinched every time he remembered how badly he'd handled that, how he'd nearly thrown Blair away yet again, how all the hard-won trust he'd had in his friend had faltered and failed at that challenge.

But for some reason Blair had stuck with him. No, 'stuck with him' wasn't exactly accurate. Blair's loyalty and devotion had positively shamed him. Jim had watched Blair's press conference like a drowning man going down for the third time, knowing that once again, he'd underestimated and disappointed the most important person in his life. Blair had sacrificed his life long dreams to protect him. Given up his job. Trashed his reputation. Lost most of his friends. Blair had been torn to shreds for a long time.

His time at the Academy had been marked by harassment from both cadets and instructors who'd felt that a man who'd lied to advance his career had no place in the Cascade PD. Blair had doggedly persevered. He'd graduated with honors and taken his place at Jim's side as his partner. That was three months ago now, and they'd done a lot of good work together, enough to silence those who'd questioned Blair's fitness to serve. But not those who questioned the presence in the Cascade PD of two men in love with each other.

And Blair had been like a rock through it all. Jim had never thought his friend weak, but he'd never really seen the full extent of Blair's courage and strength before. The grace with which Blair faced all the painful repercussions of the choices they'd both made reminded Jim again what an extraordinary man had chosen to share his life with him.

"You still there?"

Jim started out of his reverie and chuckled. "Yeah, wolf-boy, I'm here. Just checking for fleas." He caressed Blair's hair lovingly.

Blair's deep-throated laugh rumbled against Jim's chest. "Bad ol' Puddy Tat."

Jim heard the seductive playfulness in that voice and his smile deepened. He let the arm around Blair's shoulders slide slowly down his lover's back; his hand came to a teasing, gentle stop on Blair's ass. "Mrrrroowww," he said softly in Blair's ear.

Blair's laughter rewarded him, and Jim grinned as Blair lifted his head to look at him with bright eyes. "Nice kitty," Blair breathed, pressing against Jim hungrily. "Dance with me?"

Jim caught his breath at the invitation, then eagerly fumbled behind him for the lamp and turned it off, reducing the room to almost total darkness. "Yeah," he said huskily, feeling himself going hard at the dark-eyed desire in Blair's face. "You bet." He deliberately dialed up his senses, relishing the musky scent of Blair's arousal, the feel of his firm, strong body in his arms, the sound of his voice....

Blair slipped out of his arms for a moment to turn on the stereo, and Jim stepped forward eagerly to take him into his arms again as the deep voices of Sam Cooke and Lou Rawls crooned one of the old, slow R&B tunes that Jim loved. Blair chuckled and draped his arms around Jim's neck, pressing himself up against Jim provocatively as Jim nestled his face into the dark mane of Blair's hair, letting his hands wander at will. God, he loved this.

If anyone had told him a year ago that slow-dancing in the dark with Blair Sandburg would become one of his passions he'd have laughed himself sick. But it had. Nothing, absolutely nothing, turned him on like this. He found himself humming softly into Blair's ear, then actually sang the last few words of the first verse in a voice barely above a whisper.

Jim laughed at himself quietly. Singing. Oh, yeah. He was gone. But then again he was under the influence: smelling Blair, tasting him, touching him, moving with him. Nothing he did under that barrage of stimuli should surprise him. Yes, he loved this, loved the man in his arms, loved their life together. No petty meanness or bigotry could touch this or sully it in any way. Jim gently pressed hot lips and tongue to his favorite spot under Blair's ear, and Blair uttered something between a moan and a sigh.

"Jim?"

"Yeah, babe."

"I thought you didn't sing."

"Was I singing?"

"You were singing to me."

"It was the wind."

"Man, you have got it so bad for me."

"Think so?"

"Uh-huh." Blair paused for a moment. "I love this song."

"Me too," whispered Jim, taking Blair's face in his hands. Jim kissed him deeply, sighing into the kiss as Blair's strong, gentle hands unbuttoned his shirt and tantalizingly explored his chest.

I know I laughed, laughed when you left,
but now I know that I only hurt myself
Bring it to me,
bring your sweet lovin',
bring it on home to me.

Both men came out of the kiss a little breathless and stood swaying in unison, foreheads together. "Love you," whispered Blair, barely audible. "Sing to me some more."

"I want you to sing to me," murmured Jim, unbuttoning Blair's shirt slowly.

Blair chuckled softly. "After that performance? Not a chance."

Jim stopped his unbuttoning to wriggle out of his own shirt and let it fall. "Don't toy with me, Sandburg," he growled playfully. "I'm dangerous when denied." He grabbed the waistband of Blair's pants and yanked him closer; Blair offered no resistance.

"Maybe I like you dangerous," Blair murmured, sapphire blues darkening until they were almost totally black as he slipped his hands over Jim's hips and around to slide Jim's pants down.

Jim swallowed hard. He doubted very much that Blair had any idea of just how dangerous Jim could be when it came to dealing with anyone or anything that tried to take Blair away from him. Blair was his.

"Why's that?" Jim unbuttoned the rest of Blair's shirt and slid it off.

"Maybe it reminds me of the day we met." Blair's breathing quickened as he pushed Jim's pants past his hips. Jim felt them slide to the floor and he kicked them away.

"The day we--" Jim suddenly realized what Blair was talking about and flinched. "Oh." Something else he'd never apologized for. "Don't tell me you liked being shoved up against a wall by some double-Y mental case."

"Hell no," breathed Blair, playing with the waistband of Jim's boxers. "I was pissed. Almost kneed you in the balls." Blair paused and dropped his voice to a sultry register. "But I think I might like to try it again. I'll bet it'll be more fun this time."

Holy shit.

"Yeah?" Jim slid his hands inside the back of Blair's jeans and did a double-take. "Since when do you go commando, Chief?"

"I was wondering when you'd notice." Blair rubbed his bulging crotch against Jim with a wicked gleam in his eye.

Jim slipped his hands around and set feverish fingers to unzipping Blair's fly. "I've noticed now," he muttered hoarsely, taking a handful of hardening Blair as the jeans fell away and stroking it demandingly.

Blair drew in a choked little breath and tried with considerable determination to shove Jim's boxers down, but Jim was already moving, steering Blair away from their discarded clothing and toward the wall. Blair went up against it, breathing hard and eyes wide, and Jim pressed against him, one hand fondling Blair's balls as the other hand took Blair by the back of the neck and brought him in for a deep, plunging kiss.

Jim heard Blair groan as Jim's tongue thrust into its usual haunts with unusual force, felt Blair go hard and hot in his hand.

"You're right," rasped Jim as he finally came up for air, achingly hard himself. "It is more fun this time."

Blair's response was an incoherent, guttural sound and a primal thrust into Jim's hand. His head went back, hair spilling down his back, eyes closed and mouth open.

He's beautiful. He wants me. He loves me. And he's all mine.

"Blair." Jim barely recognized his own voice.

Blair's eyes snapped open. "Yes," he panted in answer to the unspoken question. "Now, Jimmy, please--"

"Right now. Right here." Jim yanked Blair to him and kissed him hard, then lowered him gently to the rug and folded himself on top of him, pinning him to the floor, kissing him again, feeling Blair's hot hands on his skin as he worked the boxers over his hips. Jim wriggled them off the rest of the way, looking around a little wildly as he tried to remember where he'd left the lube.

"There," breathed Blair, pointing under the coffee table beside them. The talented fingers of the other hand curled around Jim's cock for one teasing moment.

Jim snatched up the lube so eagerly that he promptly dropped it again, swearing.

"Re-relax." Blair was laughing breathlessly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Damn straight you're not," growled Jim, managing to get a firm enough grip on the thing to open it. He seized Blair's legs and pulled them toward him so that Blair's calves were resting on Jim's shoulders and his opening was clearly visible, then coated his fingers with lube.

"Don't want to go anywhere." Blair was breathing as if he'd run a marathon. "I'm right where I want to be and where I want you to be is up inside m- oh--" Blair gasped and arched his back as Jim slipped a finger inside, then two, moving them in and out harder and more quickly than he usually did, knowing he wasn't going to last.

"Like that?" Jim added a third finger, his whole body shaking and aching as Blair cried out and grabbed Jim's free arm.

"Just like that, just like that," breathed Blair passionately, his gaze never leaving Jim's face. "So good...."

Too close. Jim was just too damn close. Blair's incredible responsiveness to his lovemaking always pushed him to the edge  --  and over it. It never ceased to amaze him that this beautiful man was always so ready for him, so eager for his touch, so phenomenally alive to Jim's every act of love. Jim groaned aloud and pulled his fingers out, stroked some lube onto his cock and thrust into Blair hard.

Blair cried out in surprise and then groaned deeply, clutching Jim's arms. Jim started building a rhythm immediately, going deeper and faster with every stroke, one hand clutching Blair's thigh, the other pumping Blair's cock fast and hard. Blair's face betrayed discomfort at first, but soon his expression eased; the sounds he began to make spoke of nothing but pleasure. Jim let his eyes close, reveling in the sensations of burying himself in his lover, increasing the tempo to a hammering intensity, listening to Blair crying out in pleasure at each thrust, screaming when Jim managed to brush his prostate.

No one could take Blair away from him. No one could hurt Blair. No one could ruin what they had. Jim had him. Here. Safe. All his.

"All yours, all yours," chanted Blair ecstatically, picking up the cadence of Jim's thought as if he could hear it.

"All mine," rasped Jim, feeling the burning start at the base of his spine. Damn. Damn! He was coming too soon. It was always too soon; he could never get enough of Blair Sandburg. With an inarticulate shout, Jim came hard, his hot seed filling Blair, his equilibrium and eyesight lost in a moment of red vertigo. He felt himself falling forward, but was caught in Blair's strong arms as Blair screamed Jim's name and came too, his semen splashing Jim's stomach and chest.

"God," panted Blair faintly. "God. Jim." His hands clenched Jim's shoulders convulsively.

Jim blinked and tried to steady himself as his vision cleared. "Blair." He bent over his lover, stroking the wild, damp curls away from Blair's sweating face. "You okay?"

"Magnificent," murmured Blair contentedly.

Jim pulled himself very carefully from Blair and stretched out on his side beside him, sliding his arm under Blair's head. "Yeah," said Jim gruffly. "You are."

Blair turned his head to meet Jim's gaze, raising a hand to Jim's face. "Beautiful boy," he said with a tired, loving smile.

Jim caught his breath at the naked tenderness in that face. He'd always thought the expression 'my heart skipped a beat' to be a clich頯f the first order. And yet he was certain that Blair's words, the expression on his face, and the touch of his hand on Jim's cheek held Jim's heart motionless for one deliciously breathless moment. Jim swallowed hard and bent to touch his lips to those of his friend.

"So," he whispered, turning his attention to Blair's ear. "Do I get my song now?"

"You've got to be kidding," growled Blair teasingly.

"I want a song," murmured Jim, caressing Blair's chest. "How about 'You Don't Mess Around With Jim'?"

Blair started laughing. "But I do."

"I want my song, Sandburg."

Blair looked up at him for a moment, his expression softening to amused affection. "Okay," he murmured. "How about this?"

***

"With all due respect, sir, this is a bad idea." Simon stared across his desk at Martin Brock, Chief of Police, and maintained his composure with difficulty. What was it about Tuesdays? Aggravating crap always happened on Tuesdays.

Brock frowned and shifted in his chair. "Why? Both you and McNeil say you want to improve relations between your squads. Ease tensions. A joint investigation is the perfect opportunity to do that."

Simon struggled to keep his annoyance from his face at the sound of Tom McNeil's name. The very idea that Tom 'Firecracker' McNeil was concerned about the tension between Major Crimes and his arson squad was laughable to anyone who knew the man. If he'd agreed to this, then the proverbial ulterior motive was lurking nearby.

"Under normal circumstances I'd agree with you," returned Simon evenly, trying to appear reasonable. Which was quite a stretch, considering that he felt anything but. "But these aren't normal circumstances. This arson case--"

"Has become a major case. Five buildings in three months, all in a four-block area. We've been damn lucky that there haven't been any fatalities. And the investigation--"

"Is going nowhere," finished Simon flatly, deciding to take a slightly less diplomatic approach. "Bottom line, sir: Arson has trashed this case and McNeil is looking for the nearest landfill."

Brock leveled his best 'position of authority' glare in Simon's direction, and Simon grimaced in anticipation of the lecture to come. "It's time to put an end to this bad blood between Arson and Major Crimes, Simon. It's gone on too long. If there's something personal between you and Tom--"

"No, sir," said Simon with quiet emphasis. "Not personal. Professional. The conduct of his officers has put my detectives at risk too many times. Off the record, Martin, he runs a wild west show over there. And my men have been caught in the crossfire more than once."

Brock snorted. "Firecracker is not the only captain in the department to bend procedures, Simon." He favored Simon with a rather pointed gaze.

Simon cleared his throat. "I'm not talking about bending the rules once in a while. I'm talking about shredding the damn rule book. You know what I'm talking about. Unauthorized stakeouts and undercover operations, accelerants and explosives and toxic materials missing from crime scenes and evidence lock-up, extortion--"

"That allegation was never proven to my satisfaction," cut in Brock quickly. "Or IA's, for that matter."

"Reckless discharge of firearms--"

"Rafe's still not over that little accident?" Brock looked amused, and Simon bristled.

"He is," snapped Simon irritably. "But I'm not. I would have lost a good officer if that yahoo Avena could shoot straight."

"Avena was disciplined," said Brock impatiently. "That should have been the end of it."

"That's one case among dozens," replied Simon, restraining an impulse to suggest that it should have been the end of Avena's career. "And now you intend to throw Major Crimes' detectives and Arson's yah--" Simon caught the Brock's glare and altered his vocabulary "  --  finest together, with a case of this magnitude on the line? Trouble is inevitable. There must be another squad that could assist Arson with this case."

"Not with the experience your men have."

Simon met his superior's gaze squarely. "I've got a bad feeling about this decision, Martin."

Brock snorted and shifted in his chair. "Dammit, Simon, the fact that your detectives might be put out or have their little feelings hurt because they have to work with the Arson boys is not a valid factor in this decision!"

"I'm not talking about hurt feelings," returned Simon evenly. "I'm talking about the possibility of injured officers and a botched investigation. This is a disaster waiting to happen."

"No, Captain." Brock's voice turned icy and he rose from his chair. "The disaster waiting to happen is wandering around Oldtown setting fires. The next building he burns may take some people with it, and I am not going to let that happen."

"Sir, I realize--"

"I know that Arson isn't the Department's best squad. It's understaffed, and Tom's boys are inexperienced. Your boys are the most experienced we've got. So I want a couple of your best assigned to work this case with Avena and Tucker."

Simon knew from the look on his superior's face that he'd run out of room to maneuver, and he stood up. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly. "I'll assign Rafe and Hen--"

"No, not Rafe," said Brock quickly. "No sense asking for trouble if there are still hard feelings there. Assign Ellison and Sandburg."

Simon managed not to groan aloud. "Sir, I really don't think--"

"They're your best team, aren't they?"

"Absolutely. But there's been some friction--"

"Christ on a crooked crutch, Banks!" exploded Brock in obvious exasperation. "This is a police department, not a social club. I don't give a damn about friction. I want Ellison and Sandburg on this case and that's final. Keep me apprised of their progress." Brock turned and stalked out of Simon's office, drawing curious stares from the inhabitants of the bullpen.

Simon sank back into his chair and shoved an unlit cigar between his teeth absently, doing his best to ignore a curious sinking feeling and failing. Jim and Blair working with Avena and Tucker.

Simon hadn't been working in the Cascade PD for going on thirty years for nothing. He knew when something was up. And there was definitely something up with Mike Avena when it came to Jim and Blair. Something nasty.

Simon knew the drill. He'd seen it all too often during his career. If the truth be known, he had expected the drill the moment he'd clapped eyes on Jim and Blair liplocked on that dock for all to see. And his expectations had proved correct. When he'd heard that Jim's tires had been slashed inside the station parking garage, he'd known that it had started... that nasty something. Simon wondered just how far it had gone, and how far it would go now that these men would be forced to work together on a daily basis.

Simon scowled and clamped down on his cigar so hard that he nearly cut it in two. Yes, he had a very bad feeling about this. Damn Tuesdays to hell.

***

"I know you're trying to help, Blair, but I just can't press charges. It's too dangerous. Not just for me, but for Amy, too."

Blair followed the gaze of the pale woman sitting beside him on the sofa to the child seated on the floor with Jim.

"Still stuck in Molasses Swamp," said Jim glumly, putting his card back in the pile.

The young girl seated across the game board from him giggled. "You're not good at this game."

"Don't you believe it. I could pull that Ice Cream Mountain thing any time now," growled Jim, wriggling to get into a comfortable position on the rug.

"I don't know, man, I think she's got you cornered," said Blair laughingly, exchanging a glance with Anna and Kate, the child's mother. Jim snorted loudly in response and hunkered down over the board.

"I had no idea Jim would get along with little girls so well," whispered Anna in Blair's ear.

"He's certainly wonderful with Amy," murmured Kate wonderingly. "She hasn't laughed like that since... since we left home."

"Oh, kids love Jim," said Blair fondly, watching his friend argue over the game with the four-year-old. "They see right through him." He looked around the pleasant room, marveling at the good that could be done by one determined person. "You've done wonders here, Anna."

"I had a lot of help," said Anna with a smile. Laughter from the upstairs bedrooms echoed down the stairwell as if to affirm her remark.

"This building was a deserted hulk the last time I saw it," said Jim softly, looking up from his game. "I thought the city should demolish it. Glad they didn't."

Blair glanced at his friend and smiled. "Pretty impressive, huh?"

"Yeah. You're doing good work here, Anna." Jim's voice was gruff, but sincere, and Blair restrained a grin. Whatever Jim's reservations might be about Blair's friendship with Anna, his sense of fairness was too deeply ingrained for him to withhold his praise. Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a knight in shining sentinel armor.

"I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here." Kate faltered, her gaze locked on her daughter. "This is the first place I've felt safe in two years. At least until he found me."

"Your husband?" asked Blair gently. He'd known Kate since she came to the shelter, but he'd always respected the privacy of all of Anna's guests.

Kate nodded with a haunted expression. "He keeps coming around to talk to me. He says he wants me to come back. He says he's sorry."

Anna's mouth settled into a grim line, and Blair realized that these must be all too familiar words to her. "But you don't believe him," he prompted gently.

"He's done this again and again. And said he's sorry again and again. But it's different this time. He hurt Amy this time," answered Kate quietly.

Blair saw Jim's head jerk up, saw the flash of anger in those blue eyes as they locked with his own. There were few things that enraged Jim Ellison more these days than a child being abused. "He should be locked up," said Jim harshly. "Now."

"Who, Mr. Ell'son?" asked Amy curiously, looking up from the game.

"A bad guy, sweetie," replied Jim quickly, turning toward her. "Just an old bad guy."

"Do you lock up bad guys?"

"You bet. Blair and I lock up bad guys all the time."

"I'm going to lock up bad guys someday, too," said Amy thoughtfully, returning her attention to her game.

"Good for you, honey," murmured Jim, raising his gaze to Kate.

Kate sighed softly and looked at Anna, who rested a hand on her arm. "Anna, you understand. He has friends in the police department. Pressing charges against him just wouldn't do any good. It would only make him angry. And now that he knows where I am--"

"When did he find you?" asked Blair softly, controlling his own indignation as he watched Jim's jaw muscles clench. 'Friends in the police department' wasn't carte blanche to beat your wife and child, but Kate's husband had evidently led her to believe it was. Blair was looking forward to enlightening the gentleman regarding his true position under the law.

"I'd been here about six weeks. I guess... it was almost three months ago, right, Anna?" Kate turned to her host.

Anna nodded gravely. "He showed up about midnight, drunk, and demanded to see Kate. I wouldn't let him in, and he had a few choice words to say about it."

Kate flinched. "I could hear him yelling and cursing all the way upstairs. He woke up all the children in the house."

Jim muttered something under his breath, and Blair began to wonder if involving Jim in this situation had been a bad idea. This was the first time they'd dealt with a domestic abuse case since they'd lost a young friend to abuse six months ago. It had been tough on them both, but Jim... well, the few people who had managed to get past the Great Wall of Ellison had uniformly reported pretty tender conditions. Emily hadn't been in their lives very long, but she'd found her way into Jim's heart, and Jim's was a heart that bled when a bond was broken.

From the pot to the kettle, thought Blair wryly. Blair certainly had had a harder time coming to terms with Emily's death than he'd let on to Jim. But helping out at Anna's shelter had helped Blair deal with his grief. Maybe this wasn't Jim's answer, though. Jim had a tendency to do the I-don't-like-this-feeling-so-I'll-get-angry mambo, which was a dance that got his sentinel into more trouble at times than even a Class A Intrepid Guide and Shaman-in-Training could successfully deal with. The last thing this situation needed was a Blessed Protector run amuck.

"I finally told him that if he didn't leave I'd have to call the police," continued Anna evenly. "He left, but he was furious. He said I'd be sorry, that he worked for the city and had friends who would make trouble for me. He's been back several times since then, whenever he's had too much to drink."

"Alcoholic?" asked Jim tersely.

"He doesn't think so," answered Kate wearily.

Jim made the deep, growling, almost inaudible sound in his throat that always reminded Blair of Jim's feline alter ego about to pounce. "Has he threatened you in any way?"

Kate shook her head quickly. "No. He's been very upset, but he hasn't threatened me. He says he's concerned about our safety, that this isn't a good neighborhood. And since the fires started, he's called me almost every day to make sure we're all right and to ask me to come home. Last night he told me that he'd stop by today. He seemed very nice and concerned." She paused and cleared her throat with a strained expression. "But I'm really glad you came."

"So am I." Blair frowned thoughtfully. "You're safer here, even with the fires, than you'd be living with him again, Kate."

"I know," murmured the woman, her eyes locked on her daughter.

"Let us talk to him, off the record," said Blair softly, realizing, as he watched Jim's face, that his friend had figured out that this was the 'trouble' Blair had mentioned last night. Maybe he should have told him. And yet, giving Jim even one night without worrying about him had seemed worth a little obfuscation.

"It couldn't hurt to let him know that someone on the force is aware of your situation," said Jim quietly. "It may make him think twice if he's considering doing anything, well...."

"Violent," finished Anna honestly, looking Jim in the eye. "He's been coming around more and more often, Jim. And when Kate's not here, he's extremely angry and threatening. I hope he's sober and reasonable when he gets here."

Kate smiled wanly. "He's almost never sober anymore, especially when he gets home from work."

"What does he do?" asked Jim, absently moving his game piece out of Molasses Swamp.

"Public works," replied Kate wearily. "He works in the sewers. It was all he could get after he left the army. He hates it."

The wicked part of Blair's mind was observing with considerable amusement that some guys were just born to work in sewers, when a loud pounding from the front door derailed his train of thought.

Kate jumped involuntarily and glanced at her watch. "That must be him. He's early."

"I'll get the door," said Anna, placing a restraining hand on Kate's arm as she rose. "You stay here with--"

A sharp explosion of splintering wood and shattering glass brought all the adults in the room to their feet, but before anyone could move a tall, heavy-set man in soiled work clothes appeared in the archway between the foyer and the living room.

"Hey. Hey! Katie. Didn't tell me you were having a party." The man swayed unsteadily, surveying his wife and her friends with undisguised hostility. "Where d'you get off locking that door on me? Didn't I tell you I was coming over today?"

"Charlie, you're in no condition to speak to Kate right now," said Anna firmly, moving toward him.

"You," spat the man scathingly, leaning toward Anna so threateningly that Blair found himself instinctively poised to physically intervene. "You've got nothing to fucking say about when I talk to my wife!"

Blair heard a small sound and glanced over his shoulder to see Amy watching her father with wide, frightened eyes. He felt a surge of violent dislike and anger. Didn't this man see what he was doing to his own daughter? Didn't he care? He saw Jim's eyes narrow and his nose wrinkle, signs of both anger and a strong olfactory reaction. Maybe Jim could smell the sewers in the man's clothes or something.

"Charlie, it's all right," said Kate shakily, moving to Anna's side. "Just calm down. We can talk."

"We're not talking. We're going home. Right now." Lunging forward, Charlie grabbed Kate's forearm.

Blair was beside Kate before he was aware he'd moved. Seizing Charlie's wrist, he yanked the man's hand off his wife's arm and shoved him back. "Back off, man. Just take it easy."

The man leaned forward, his face twisted in anger. "Fuck that! That bitch is my wife. My wife, got it?"

Blair knew without looking that Jim was at his shoulder. He heard Anna telling Kate in a low, tense voice to take Amy upstairs. Kate scooped Amy into her arms and disappeared in the direction of the stairwell, with Anna right behind her, backing away with a grim expression and her eyes locked on Charlie as if to cover her friend's retreat.

"Yeah, I get it," returned Blair evenly, keeping control with difficulty. "What you don't get is that 'my wife' is different from 'my doormat' or 'my garbage can' or 'my punching bag.'"

Ignoring Blair, Charlie bolted after his wife. "Where the hell do you think you're going? Get back here--"

Blair instantly blocked his path. "Stay right--" The man's fist came out of nowhere, careening toward Blair's face before he realized what was happening, and the next moment found Blair sitting on the floor holding his sore jaw. "  --  here," he finished wryly. Looking up, he was not at all surprised to see Jim ramming Charlie against the wall with the wrath of God in his face and the man's left arm pinned behind his back.

"Mistake," hissed Jim furiously. "Big mistake, Charlie." Jim whipped his handcuffs out and slapped one manacle on Charlie's left wrist. "You're under arrest for breaking and entering and assaulting a police officer."

"Police?" Charlie strained to look over his shoulder at Jim, obviously startled. "You're cops?"

"You have the right to remain silent," began Jim in a snarl, closing the other manacle.

"I know the drill!"

"I'll bet you do." Jim looked at Blair, who was still sitting, somewhat stunned, on the floor. "You okay, Chief?"

"Uh... yeah," said Blair hastily, scrambling to his feet. "No damage."

Jim smiled faintly, his frosty rage receding somewhat. "Yeah? You haven't seen your face."

"Cute, Ellison." Blair fingered his swelling jaw gingerly.

"Are you two all right?" Anna appeared in the archway with an anxious expression.

"Ellison?" repeated Charlie as Jim turned him toward the door.

"Yeah, Anna, no problem," returned Jim grimly. "We'll take him to the station."

Charlie looked from Jim to Blair with renewed hostility. "You're those fag cops. You're those fucking--"

"I think we've heard enough from you," snarled Jim, giving the man a rough shove toward the door. "Okay, Chief. Come practice your Miranda on Prince Charming here."

"I'll call you later," said Blair to Anna quickly, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. Anna hugged him tightly for a moment. "Hey. You okay?"

"I am now." Anna pulled back and smiled weakly. "Looks like I've gotten you into trouble again. I'm sorry, Blair."

"It's not you. I've been getting in trouble for the last four years," said Blair wryly, turning to join his waiting partner.

Jim pulled his most intimidating scowl, and Anna laughed softly and gave Blair a gentle push in his direction. "Take care of him, Jim."

"Count on it," said Jim grimly, eyeing Blair fiercely as he came to Jim's side.

***

"No."

Blair did his best to shrug off his shock at Simon's request and look at Jim, who was putting the proverbial immovable object to shame. Blair had never seen his very obstinate friend look quite this obstinate.

"Excuse me?" Simon gave Jim his most piercing glare-over-the-glasses.

"No. Sir," amended Jim flatly, expression impassive and body poised to strike. "We will not work with Avena and Tucker."

"What... why--?" Blair tried to break the tension between the two men with a pertinent question and found himself stammering in confusion.

Simon broke the staring contest he was waging with Jim to shoot his piercing glare in Blair's direction. "Because those are your orders, Detective." He paused and relented slightly. "And mine."

"Yours?" repeated Blair in surprise.

Simon snorted in exasperation. "Do I look like the Chief of Police to you? Have you ever seen me waving from the Grand Marshall's convertible or having dinner at the mayor's house? I work for a living, Sandburg. And that means taking orders."

Blair cleared his throat, nodded, and embraced the better part of valor. Simon returned his attention to Jim, who raised an eyebrow and moved nothing else, like a cat watching a mouse hole.

"Brock a little worked up?" Jim's monotone set off all of Blair's warning bells.

"You might say so." Simon's expression was sour.

"Why us?"

"Because he thinks you're my best officers," growled Simon. "Don't ask me where he got that idea."

"I won't," returned Jim without cracking a smile. "But if Tom McNeil's knuckle-draggers are having trouble catching the Firefly, tell 'em to try using a jar."

Blair jumped as Simon slammed his fist on his desk. "Dammit, Ellison, this isn't a joke! This maniac is cutting a path right through the heart of Oldtown. It's only dumb luck that we haven't had any fatalities yet. That area is undergoing a real revival, a lot of old buildings being renovated, a lot of new people and businesses--"

"A lot of rich friends bending Martin Brock's ear?"

Blair winced inwardly. "Jim--"

"You are out of line, Detective," said Simon icily. "Way out of line."

"Jim," said Blair again, very quietly. "Come on, man. There are people in harm's way over there." Jim tore his gaze from Simon and fixed it on Blair. For one fleeting instant Blair saw the familiar, blind, protective instinct blazing in those blue eyes, and he knew then where Jim's defiance was coming from. "It'll be okay," Blair added gently.

Jim looked back to Simon. "I'll work the case," he said brusquely. "But I want Sandburg reassigned."

"Bullshit!" Blair exploded in surprise and anger, restraining the urge to dump Simon's coffee in Jim's lap. Damn it, didn't the man ever learn? "Who the hell do you think--?"

Simon slammed his open hand on the desk. "Shut up, Sandburg! You're cramping my style." He rose to lean over his desk threateningly, and Jim leaned back in his chair slightly with narrowed eyes. "Who the hell do you think you are, Ellison? You want Sandburg reassigned?"

"He's just BPSing, Simon," put in Blair wearily, containing his temper with difficulty. "He didn't mean--"

"I know what he's doing! No officer under my command dictates preconditions for following my orders." Simon glared down at Jim as if his gaze alone could mold the man into submission.

"It was... a request, sir," returned Jim stiffly, meeting that formidable gaze without flinching.

"Really. Well, before I refuse your request, Detective," returned Simon in a slightly lower, albeit acid tone, "tell me why I should reassign Sandburg."

"I don't want to be reassigned," Blair put forth determinedly, then hastily shut his mouth as Simon spared him a ferocious glance.

Jim was silent for a moment, then looked up at Simon with narrowed eyes and an expression of dawning understanding. "You know why."

"Jim--" began Blair warningly. He and Jim had agreed not to involve Simon in this. It wasn't fair to Simon; it was their fight. That Jim had changed his mind about this made Blair realize that he'd drastically underestimated how seriously his friend took the threats to their safety.

Blair's safety.

"Sandburg, be quiet," said Simon firmly. "What's happened, Jim?"

"The usual."

Blair blinked. The usual? It was a telling answer, but perhaps even more telling was the fact that Simon seemed to understand him.

The older man scowled. "Be specific."

Jim leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Started out with petty vandalism. Slashed tires, defaced door. Then Blair started getting obscene notes dropped on his desk."

"In the bullpen?" Simon straightened.

Jim nodded. "Then the phone calls started."

"And the gist of these phone calls was...?"

"The usual."

Blair flinched at Jim's flinty expression and cool tone, knowing all too well what sort of emotional state they indicated. Simon had to know now that bringing Avena and Jim together was out of the question, unless he'd acquired a taste for dismemberment.

Simon grimaced and sat down. "Did you recognize the voice?"

"Two or three different voices. They were disguised, but I know who they are. Last night it was Mike Avena's chief weasel."

"Tucker?"

"Yes, sir."

Simon watched Jim speculatively for a moment. "I don't suppose your intended response was to pursue charges."

Jim smiled grimly.

"No, of course not," growled Simon, leaning back in his chair.

"Of course not," muttered Blair, casting his most reproachful "you're hopeless" look in Jim's direction. Jim ignored him; his gaze was locked on Simon.

The three men sat in silence for a few heartbeats, then Simon sighed softly. "Listen to me, Jim. I've got no choice in this, and neither do you. I don't like it any more than you do, but I've got to assign both you and Blair to this case. I--"

"Then my resignation will be on your desk in--"

"Jim--" cut in Blair, shocked.

"Detective," interrupted Simon sharply. "Shut up before you say something even more stupid than you already have."

"Dammit, Simon, it's gone too far to take chances! Tucker played the bodybag card last night."

Blair felt his mouth drop open. Death threats. That was new. That was definitely new. That was.... That was....

Jim was out of his chair and pacing, barely leashed violence in every line of his form, in every movement. "And now you're asking us to work with these bastards on their turf? Why not just paint a target on Blair's back?"

No wonder Jim had been such a demon lover last night. Blair knew he'd be sore for days, but as Jim had said once, it was a good kind of sore. Maybe fucking the guide into next week was some sort of sentinel/Blessed Protector threat response. Or territorial response. Or... or.... Shit.

"He was just mouthing off, Jim," said Blair steadily, feeling anything but steady. "He was trying to spook us."

"You don't know that," Jim fired back fiercely. "Neither do I. I've seen cops go down because their backup never showed up. That's not going to happen to you."

"No, it isn't," cut in Simon sharply. "And if I could get a word in edgewise here--"

The door to Simon's office burst open, and Blair leapt out of his chair and whirled, startled, half-expecting to see Avena and Tucker with drawn guns. Instead he saw an extremely large, extremely red, and extremely angry man.

"Banks!"

Blair, staring at the man in shock, heard Simon utter something close to a groan and mutter something incoherent about Tuesdays.

The man stormed through the door and up to Simon's desk, which he leaned against as if preparing to vault it, his short orange-red hair bristling on his scalp like a neon sea urchin. "What the hell do you think you're doing, siccing Brock on me?"

"Tom," said Simon, with a smile not unlike a bear showing its teeth, "have a seat. Gentlemen, we'll continue this later."

"Captain--"

"I said later, Ellison. Out!"

"C'mon, man," muttered Blair, recovering enough of his sense to grab Jim by the arm and haul him out of the office. The door slammed behind them, and Blair heard the shouting begin again. "Ah... Captain McNeil, I presume."

Jim nodded curtly, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door. "They don't call him Firecracker for nothing."

"Bang," said Blair a little weakly.

Jim looked back at Blair, some of the anger-ice melting away. "You okay?"

Blair managed a smile. "Yeah." He glanced around the bullpen. Most of the detectives were out on cases, but the remaining staff were enthusiastically engaged in pretending to work as they listened intently to the major skirmish going on in Simon's office. Blair exchanged a glance with Jim, who smiled very faintly and jerked a thumb upward. Blair smiled in relief and headed for the elevator.

***

"For the tenth time, I did not sic Brock on you!" shouted Simon furiously. "This was his idea, not mine! You don't really think that I want any of my detectives anywhere within weapon-range of yours, do you?"

McNeil jabbed a long, fat, and fleshy finger in the direction of Simon's chest. "That's what this is about, isn't it? That little accident--"

"That little accident nearly killed one of my best detectives," snarled Simon, knowing he had lost control of the situation, but unable to let that 'little' pass. He took a deep, calming breath. "And you know damn well that that is not what this is about. This is about Brock getting pressured because your men have screwed up this case."

"The case is not screwed up!" McNeil's shout made Simon's coffee pot rattle. "We have a suspect. He's under surveillance."

"For how long?" demanded Simon, already knowing the answer.

McNeil's eyes narrowed. "Two months," he replied belligerently.

"Two months and you have nothing. Meanwhile Brock's getting grief from everyone from the Mayor to the Oldtown Homeowners Association, and the press are having a field day with this 'Firefly' business. And then you wonder why Brock is dragging Major Crimes in on this? Come on, Tom, you know the score."

McNeil scowled at Simon, his complexion assuming a less alarming hue. He sank into a chair. "My guys are doing the best they can," he said sullenly. "But this firebug's damn good. He knows his business. He knows how to take out an entire building before the FD can even hook up their hoses. And he's a damn ghost! Not once has he been spotted going in or out of these places. Some of these fires were set in broad daylight, Banks. Broad daylight."

"Who's your suspect?"

McNeil snorted. "A real estate developer. David Leibowitz. He owned all of the buildings. Can you believe the balls on this guy, thinking we wouldn't catch on?"

Simon frowned and leaned back in his chair. "He had a lot more to gain by restoring and selling lots in Oldtown, don't you think?"

McNeil shrugged. "He needed cash fast, obviously, and the insurance payoffs will give him that, unless we nail him. The total appraised value of all those properties is in the millions, now that Oldtown is such a hot locale."

Simon groaned silently at the obviously unintended pun. "Obviously a million-dollar real estate developer isn't going to moonlight as an arsonist, Tom. I assume you're saying he's hired someone."

"Yeah, yeah, of course he has. But I'll be damned if I can figure out how he's contacting the guy. Leibowitz has been staked out, his phone's been tapped. He doesn't take a dump without us knowing about it. And still nothing, not in two months."

"And Oldtown keeps burning. Have you considered the possibility that Leibowitz isn't your man?"

"Oh, come on, Banks! He's got to be. He stands to make millions! It's fucking obvious."

"I don't place much faith in 'obvious,' myself," returned Simon mildly. He leaned forward and assumed his most diplomatic manner, the one that the doctor told him aggravated his ulcer. "Look, Tom. Let's put all our cards on the table. I don't want Major Crimes to be involved in this case any more than you do. But we're both stuck with it. So let's just do what we've got to do to get this wacko locked up, okay? I'm placing all of my A-shift detectives at your disposal."

"All?" McNeil's jaw dropped slightly. "Brock only mentioned Ellison and Sandburg."

Simon shrugged nonchalantly. "I can see now that this is one hell of a big case. It's unconscionable that Brock hasn't beefed up your squad to handle it. It's not fair to withhold necessary manpower and then squawk about no results."

"You're telling me," grumped McNeil, obviously mollified and pleased.

"So take my A-shift and let's get this case put to bed. What do you say?"

"Well, sure. Sure. That's... really decent of you, Banks." McNeil seemed somewhat at a loss for words.

"No problem," said Simon pleasantly, leaning back in his chair. "You'd do the same for me, I'm sure."

"Yeah," said McNeil somewhat uncertainly. "Sure. We're cops, right? We're all on the same side."

Simon showed his teeth in what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

McNeil evidently took the expression as an affirmative. "Ah... now... would Rafe be A-shift?"

"Why, yes," said Simon blithely. "So he is."

"I don't know. It might not be a good idea to put him and Avena on the same case. If he's still got hard feelings over that little... er, that accident--" McNeil cleared his throat. "Well, if I know Rafe, he'll be watching Avena like a hawk. In his face twenty-four seven. There could be trouble."

Simon's smile widened; he picked up a cigar and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb complacently. "Don't worry, Tom. Rafe is a good officer, and he knows how to obey orders. And I give you my word that I will give him very specific orders regarding his conduct during this investigation. Trouble is the last thing I want."

***

"Sorry. I should have told you," said Jim gruffly, after ten full minutes of silent observation of Cascade's skyline.

"Yup," replied Blair in a tone that betrayed his anger, marveling that he could stand beside Jim on the edge of the Cascade PD's roof and not give in to his fear. Jim had taught him that, and so much more. This rooftop had become the one place at the station where they could let down their guard. Rarely had this place been a witness to their anger, however. "Did you think I couldn't handle it?"

"You can handle anything," returned Jim quietly. "It's me. I couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle the thought of someone hurting you. Of me losing you. Never could, you know."

Blair's vision blurred slightly, and he leaned his head against Jim's shoulder, all his anger evaporating. Try as he might, he just couldn't stay angry at this man.

"And since we're on the subject," continued Jim in a slightly more edged tone, "would you mind explaining why you didn't tell me about Anna's pest control problem?"

Blair felt the blood rush to his face. Shit. Busted. "Okay, okay," he mumbled against Jim's shoulder. "Guilty as charged. I didn't want to worry you any more than you already were."

"Meaning you were protecting me. Did you think I couldn't handle it?"

Blair was silent for a moment, thinking hard. "You can handle it," he said finally, quietly. "Sorry, Jim. Really. I'll work on it."

Jim suddenly turned to take Blair in his arms, sighing as if a weight of some sort had been lifted from him. Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's waist tightly and laid his head on Jim's chest, smiling happily. There was nothing in this world better than being held by Jim Ellison... unless it was being laid by Jim Ellison.

No. Being loved by Jim Ellison was best of all.

Blair had known all along that loving Jim, being Jim's lover, wasn't going to be easy. Hell, being his friend wasn't easy. Being close to Jim was like threading the impossibly fine eye of a needle or negotiating the intricate web of an unmarked minefield. The man was a labyrinth of old hurts and fears and rages. And courage. And love. And loyalty. And compassion. And a thousand other things that made all the effort worthwhile. Earning this man's trust had been the most difficult challenge of Blair's life, and he'd paid a high price for it. But it had been worth it. It would have been worth it at ten times that price.

But the price to be paid for being a cop and loving a cop, and for daring to do so openly, continued to amaze Blair. The harassment hadn't been bad at first. But it had slowly escalated to the point where not a day passed in which Blair had been permitted to forget that he and Jim were violating a societal norm that some people had elevated to the status of divine law.

"Still there?"

Blair chuckled softly as he felt the touch of Jim's lips in his hair. He ran his hands up his friend's back soothingly. "Yeah. Just checking for hairballs." Jim's soft laughter rumbled through his chest as one hand caressed Blair's curls. "Jim."

"Yeah, babe."

"We have to work the case. Both of us."

Jim was silent for a moment. "These guys... they're the worst kind of cops. They're the jackboot and white sheet brigade, you know?"

"Yeah, I kind of figured."

"They're capable of just about anything."

"That's a good reason to have a partner around to watch your back, isn't it?"

Jim didn't say anything, so Blair waited, listening to Jim's heart pounding in his chest. "Damn," he whispered finally. "Sometimes... sometimes I wish...."

"Yes?" prompted Blair gently.

"That there weren't so many damn chili peppers."

Blair pondered the statement for a moment, then lifted his head to study Jim's face. "Come again?"

"Chili peppers," repeated Jim, a little irritably. "You know. Like when somebody ruins a perfectly good homemade salsa by putting in those damn chili peppers."

Blair peered up at his friend, wondering frantically what strange substance Jim could have been exposed to that would have produced this odd dementia. "Jim, I never put chili peppers in the salsa. Are you all right?"

"Dammit, Sandburg, I'm being metaphorical here. Could you just go with it?" Jim glared down at him in obvious, healthy annoyance.

"Oh." Jim, being metaphorical. Well, stranger things had happened. "Okay, man. I get it. And the metaphorical chili pepper represents...?"

"You really are a brat sometimes, you know that?" demanded Jim, yanking Blair tightly to him. "The chili pepper is whatever goes wrong, okay? Whatever wrecks a good thing."

"Oh," said Blair in soft contrition and sudden understanding.

"Good things like this," grated Jim, bending toward him. "Like... us."

"But they haven't wrecked us, have they?" Blair stroked Jim's cheek gently.

"No. But they're trying," returned Jim grimly. "They're trying damn hard, Chief. And it's not just us. Look at Anna. She tries to do the right thing, to do good work. Does she get cut a break? Hell, no. She gets a wacko arsonist burning his way through her neighborhood and her doors busted in by our pal Stinky."

Blair couldn't help laughing. "Stinky?"

"I could swear I've seen that guy before, but I'd have remembered the stench. You wouldn't believe the smells on him," growled Jim. "He must have been hanging out in every toxic waste site in the state. I want a shower."

"You smell good to me," said Blair soothingly, pressing against him.

Jim looked down at him with a frustrated expression, obviously unwilling to be soothed. "You see what I'm saying, right? Her good thing is being wrecked, too."

"Jim, if you've taught me anything, it's that good things don't just happen by wanting them. You've got to fight for them."

"Yeah, it's always about a fight, somehow." Jim leaned his head against Blair's and closed his eyes. "I'm just... tired of fighting, Chief. I'm tired."

"I know," whispered Blair, hurting for him. He tried not to think about all the years Jim had been fighting the good fight all alone, with no one to help him, no one to talk to. They were both quiet for a moment, holding each other.

"You're right, though," Blair said finally, forcing determination into his tone.

"Yeah?" Jim opened his eyes and straightened, looking slightly surprised.

"Getting assigned to Arson is one honkin' big chili pepper."

Jim stared at him for a moment. Then that broad Ellison grin chased away his grim expression and the light came back into his eyes. "That's what I say."

Blair grinned back, swallowing the lump in his throat. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Jim started laughing, and leaned down to Blair conspiratorially. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to take that chili pepper up to Brock's office and shove it up his--"

"Whoa, man, isn't that insubordination?"

"All's fair in love and war, babe."

"So which is this?" chuckled Blair wryly, draping his arms around Jim's neck.

"Both, Chief," answered Jim with a tired but tender smile. "As usual."

***

"When is this going to stop? How many times are you going to drag me down here? Damn it, I'm the victim here!" Jim watched as a slightly-built middle-aged man slammed his fist onto the interrogation room table with an anguished, frustrated expression.

"How much longer are they going to keep that up?" asked Blair sharply, looking up from the case file he was reading to glance at the proceedings in the next room through the one-way glass.

"Damn Gestapo bullshit," muttered Jim, disgusted. He had no problem with leaning hard on suspects if he genuinely believed they were guilty. But even a moron like Mike Avena must have realized, from the facts of the case, that this wasn't the man they were looking for. "They know he's not the guy. They're trying to maneuver him into incriminating himself. Where the hell is his attorney?"

"On the way, finally. He said at first that he was innocent and didn't need one."

"A lamb to the slaughter," growled Jim, itching to yank Leibowitz out of there and tell him to go the hell home.

"Have I ever mentioned what a great public defender you'd make?" Blair glanced up at Jim over the tops of his glasses, a gesture intended to aggravate, although it had long since ceased to do so. All it did now was make Jim think how much he wanted Blair to leave his glasses on while they made love. A harsh voice broke into his erotic reverie.

"You're breaking my heart, Leibowitz," sneered Avena. "How much are you set to collect again?"

Jim shook his head in disbelief that this farce of an 'investigation' had been permitted to continue this long. Leibowitz had been under constant surveillance for two months. At no time had he been in the vicinity of Oldtown. At no time had he contacted or been contacted by any person with a criminal record or held any telephone conversation of a suspicious nature. He had no police record whatsoever. His family had no police record whatsoever. His friends had no police record whatsoever. His business associates had no police record whatsoever. Christ, the guy was probably related to Mother Theresa or something. David Leibowitz was as squeaky-clean as they came.

"They're barking up the wrong tree," said Blair absently, shaking his head over the file.

"They're barking in the wrong forest," replied Jim impatiently, turning off the intercom.

"If we did this kind of work, Simon would have our heads decorating his office wall," said Blair with a scowl of disapproval, flipping impatiently through the file. "Look at this, Jim."

"Yeah, I saw it."

"How could McNeil let Avena get away with this?"

Jim snorted, watching Avena gesticulating wildly as he shouted at Leibowitz. "Maybe he's sleeping with him."

Blair shot Jim a scandalized look.

"Hey, I've heard of cops being sexually attracted to their captains," continued Jim nonchalantly, his gaze riveted to Blair's reflection in the glass.

Blair's look became lethal. "Don't go there, Ellison. Don't even think about going there."

Jim was distracted from telling Blair exactly where he wanted to go by the slamming of the door to the interrogation room. Avena had left the box, leaving a visibly shaking David Leibowitz behind, head in his hands. Jim glanced at Blair. "Ready for some intra-departmental cooperation, partner?"

"Yup," said Blair briskly, flipping the file closed and pushing his glasses back up his nose. "You?"

"I'm always ready," growled Jim with a deliberate swagger, opening the door.

Blair grinned and opened his mouth to say something that Jim knew he wouldn't like, but lost his opportunity when Simon strode around the corner at top speed and bore down on them like a charging rhinoceros, wearing his most intimidating scowl. Jim groaned inwardly. He knew that look all too well.

"Ellison, I need to speak with you for a moment."

"Yes, sir?"

"In private." Simon glared at Blair pointedly, and Blair cleared his throat.

"Ah, yeah. Meet you in the conference room, man." After one curious backward glance, Blair sauntered down the hall toward the Arson Squad's conference room, his nose once again in the case file.

Jim tore his eyes away from his partner's retreating form and stepped back as Simon stalked into the observation room. With a stifled sigh, Jim followed him and closed the door behind him. "Sir, the meeting's starting in--"

Simon's cigar jabbed suddenly towards Jim's chest, effectively silencing him. It was all Jim could do not to step away from the battle-light in Simon's eye.

"Shut up. I have a few things to say, Detective, and the only thing I want to hear from you is 'Yes, sir.' Do I make myself clear?"

Jim nodded, realizing with a sinking feeling that Blair was not the only person in his life who was familiar with the Riot Act.

Simon glared meaningfully.

"Yes, sir," said Jim hastily.

"Now you know that Avena or one of his cowboys will try to get a rise out of you at this meeting." He paused significantly.

"Yes, sir," supplied Jim, pondering the uncanny resemblance Simon bore to his army drill sergeant.

"They will not get a rise out of you. That is an order."

"Yes, sir." Simon was a little taller, though.

"You will remain calm, cool, and collected. You will be an oasis of reason in the desert of madness."

"Yes, sir." A poet, too.

"You will uphold the professional standards of the Cascade Police Department in general and the Major Crimes Unit in particular."

"Yes, sir." And his cigars were cheaper.

"You will work this case, you will solve this case, and you will return to the Major Crimes fold without kicking any fellow officer's ass, either metaphorically or literally."

"Yes, sir." And Simon knew what 'metaphorically' meant.

"Ellison, are you listening to me?"

Jim started slightly, inadvertently coming to attention as he snapped back to awareness. "Yes, sir."

Simon shot him an acid look over the rims of his glasses, and Jim briefly contemplated the fact that this gesture produced nothing even remotely resembling lust. Obviously the phenomenon had nothing to do with glasses and everything to do with Blair.

"Are you calm, cool, and collected, Detective?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now I have a question for you." Simon crossed his arms over his chest, his cigar wedged between two fingers. "How do you and Sandburg do it?"

Jim felt his mouth drop open. "Ah... excuse me?"

"Mess with the odds, Ellison. Pervert the laws of probability. Unravel the fabric of the universe."

Jim recovered his composure. "Sir, I don't under--"

"The man you dropped off at booking this morning is Bob Tucker's brother."

"Tucker?" Jim felt the short hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Avena's stooge?"

"You see?" Simon smiled ferociously, and Jim fought back the mental image of a grizzly bear showing its teeth. "Now what are the odds that you could manage to make a situation this bad even worse?"

"Sir, this was a legitimate arrest--"

Simon snorted and waved dismissively. "Dammit, Jim, I know that! That's the beauty of it. That's what boggles the mind. That circumstances inevitably arrange themselves around you and Sandburg in a way that produces these spectacular coincidences."

Jim cleared his throat, wondering how long his captain had been contemplating the science of metaphysical anomalies. Blair would love this. "Sandburg says there's no such thing as a coincidence, Captain."

"Sandburg's from Mars," snapped Simon irritably. "Whatever you two are doing to the universe, Detective, knock it off. It's messing with my odds and reducing my effectiveness. Got it?"

"Got it," said Jim briskly, irreverently wondering who would inform the universe. "Sir, about Tucker's brother--"

"Tucker's already posted bond and little brother is hitting the streets even as we speak," replied Simon sourly. "Just watch your step, Jim. The grudge level is hitting an all-time high. Now, what are you?"

Jim stared at his captain for a moment, perplexed, then hazarded a guess. "Calm, cool, and collected?"

"Right." Simon nodded in satisfaction. "Now get moving." He strode to the door and yanked it open, then looked over his shoulder. "And Ellison?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Stow the BPS, Detective. You're getting worse than my mother." Simon shoved his cigar back between his teeth and disappeared.

Jim sighed resignedly to the empty room. "Yes, sir."

***

Blair chuckled softly as the observation room door closed on the beginning of Simon's lecture. So Dad had finally decided to haul Blair's Blessed Protector into the metaphorical woodshed. Well, maybe a little tough love was in order. Sometimes Jim needed a reality check in the form of Simon Banks' patented whup-ass. Getting Blair reassigned? Resigning? Like hell. Neither of those was an option, and Poster Boy should know that by now. Blair was beginning to suspect that in moments of BPS crisis Jim conveniently forgot that Blair was a cop. Well, he was, and Jim couldn't tell him to stay in the truck anymore.

Not that Blair had ever stayed in the truck. That truck was completely metaphorical. But if he hadn't stayed in the truck when he'd been an observer, he sure as hell wasn't going to now that he was a cop, and Jim had just better learn to live with it. Blair yanked open the conference room door and stepped inside, but was surprised to find it empty. He glanced at his watch; he was ten minutes early.

Sighing, he slipped into a chair at the large table and flipped open the file again. The record was a hodgepodge of assumptions and faulty logic, and the fact that Leibowitz was Jewish sneered at the reader from between the typed lines as the only justification for continuing to consider the man a suspect. Blair felt his expression harden as he fought back his anger. This was unconscionable. Simon would have ripped these guys new assholes. But McNeil wasn't Simon. There weren't many men in Simon Banks' league.

Blair heard the door swing open and glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Jim. He didn't.

"Well. If it isn't Detective Sandburg." Mike Avena barked an ugly laugh.

Blair turned his attention back to the file. "Avena," he said coolly.

Avena seemed to hesitate for a moment, then walked over to perch on the table beside Blair. "So now you're working Arson."

"Yes."

The man bent toward Blair and spoke in a low, venomous tone. "Just so you know. None of us are interested in your pretty little Jew-boy ass."

Blair kept his eyes on the folder in front of him. "Really? Not even you?"

Avena shoved Blair's left shoulder back, causing the chair Blair was sitting in to spin around so that Blair was facing him. "How did you do it, Sandburg? How did you turn a normal guy like Jim Ellison into a kike-loving fag?"

"Gee, I don't know," returned Blair acidly, bracing himself. "One morning Jim just came down to breakfast and said, 'Hey, Sandburg, I'm a kike-loving fag,' and I said 'Far out. Let's fuck,' and that was that. Maybe it was the Manischevitz."

Avena grabbed Blair by his shirt and hauled him out of his chair. "Listen, you little--"

"Take your damn hands off me," snapped Blair, shoving the man towards the open door. Was the guy crazy? McNeil and a dozen other people were due here any minute. He moved away from the door, observing Avena intently.

Avena watched him with a malevolent expression. "You listen to me, Sandburg. This is your last warning. Resign. Or I will personally do you, fag."

"I'm not going anywhere," Blair shot back. "Neither is Jim. Deal with it, Avena, because I'm sick of your ignorant bullshit."

Avena's eyes widened in obvious surprise, then narrowed in anger. "Maybe you need a taste." He lunged toward Blair.

And landed flat on his face.

Blair stared at the prone figure for a heartbeat, his hands still raised in a defensive posture, then raised his eyes to the two figures standing in the open doorway.

"Aw, geez, Mike. What happened?" drawled Rafe, leisurely withdrawing the foot that had obviously been in Avena's path. The arson detective scrambled to his feet, swinging around to face Rafe.

"I think he tripped over something, Rafe," said Henri in earnest concern.

"No, really? Did you trip over something, Mike?" Rafe's smile was like battery acid.

"Fuck you," growled Avena threateningly. "Fuck the pair of you!"

"I love it when he talks dirty," remarked Henri to no one in particular as he slid into the chair beside Blair's.

"What a man," returned Rafe rapturously, taking the seat on the other side of Blair's. "Have a seat, Sandburg."

Blair sank into the chair between his two friends with grateful look and a rueful grin. He had no idea why these two had arrived just when they did--Rafe had never been on time for a meeting in the entire three years Blair had known him  --  but his theory that BPS was contagious rather than congenital was rapidly gaining credibility. "Thanks."

Rafe glanced over his shoulder at Avena, who still stood there glowering. "What's the matter, Mike? You want to sit in my lap?"

Snarling something under his breath, Avena stormed to the other side of the table and sat down as Tom McNeil bustled into the room with a large group of his detectives. "Rafe! How's it going? Sandburg, Brown. Ready to join the Arson team?"

"Yes, sir," said Rafe with shocking sincerity and a brilliant smile. "You bet."

Blair hid a laugh with a loud cough.

***

"What the hell do you mean, not our man?" Avena leaned over the conference room table belligerently.

"Which word confuses you, Avena?" returned Jim through gritted teeth. They were only twenty minutes into this meeting, but the oasis of reason had already run dry. "Not? Our? Man?"

Jim heard Blair's soft sigh in his right ear. He spotted quickly suppressed grins from Rafe and Henri. Megan cleared her throat in a very ladylike manner, and Taggert was suddenly seized with a coughing fit. Most of the Arson squad, however, were looking at Jim like a starving man looks at a side of beef.

Avena barked a short laugh and nudged his partner Tucker, who was seated beside him. "Look who's going to tell me about being a man. Look who's--"

"That's enough!" snapped McNeil. "Hear the man out, Mike, and can the shit."

"There's nothing more to say that your own case file doesn't say for me," said Jim, trying to modulate his tone, to appear reasonable. The looks that Avena and Tucker were giving Blair made him feel anything but reasonable at the moment. Every glance was a sneering, vulgar insult. "You've got nothing on this guy after two months of trying. Maybe it's time to move on."

"Bullshit," barked Tucker, moving restlessly in his chair. "Come on, Ellison, we're talking over a hundred million in insurance payoff. Are you telling me that's not enough motive for you?"

"Don't you know Jewish lightning when you see it, Ellison?" snapped Avena. "Explain it to him, Sandburg."

Jim felt his stomach drop and the hot blood of anger rush to his face. He opened his mouth to shout.

"Never heard of it," said Blair in a cool tone that silenced Jim before he could say a word. He glanced at Avena over the top of his glasses. "Explain it to me, Avena."

Avena's eyes narrowed appraisingly. He said nothing.

"I hope the explanation isn't an Arson Squad policy to charge a suspect based on his ethnicity," continued Blair evenly. "Because that's not only illegal, Detective, but it could come back to kick your teeth in."

Avena stiffened, and Jim howled with silent laughter. Attaboy, Chief. Give him a kick in the balls for me, too. He saw Rafe studying the ceiling, lips twitching.

"Metaphorically speaking," resumed Blair pleasantly after a heartbeat. "I mean, if the press got the idea that Captain McNeil's squad was on some sort of neo-Nazi Gestapo kick--"

"Yes, yes, your point's well taken, Sandburg," cut in McNeil hastily. "And I'm sure Mike didn't mean anything by that. I don't tolerate bigotry on my squad and my men know it."

Jim contained himself with difficulty, torn between laughter and contempt. This guy was all mouth and no brain. McNeil seemed completely oblivious to the fact that this wasn't his squad any longer. He had lost control a long time ago. This was Avena's squad. The men around this table looked to Avena, not McNeil, both before they spoke and afterward. It was Avena who set the tone of the discussion. The Arson squad tolerated McNeil's presence and humored him, but in all matters of leadership, they ignored him.

"Yeah, we know that, Captain," said Avena with a surreptitious look around the table. There were enough answering smirks to let Jim know just how far McNeil's authority had eroded, and exactly how many officers were following Avena's lead. "No offense intended, Sandburg." The man's voice dripped insincerity.

"None taken," returned Blair in the same tone, his gaze snapping away from Avena dismissively and back to the map of Oldtown hanging on the wall behind McNeil. The locations of the five burned buildings were marked with red pins, forming a loose circle a few blocks in diameter around the heart of Oldtown. Blair had been studying it ever since Jim had entered the room, and Jim wondered what had set his partner's mind into overdrive.

Avena's lip curled and he turned to Jim. "So let's hear your theory, Ellison. Let's see your prime suspect."

"I don't consider anyone a 'prime suspect' until I get facts, Avena," replied Jim, adopting Blair's cool tone as he leaned back in his chair. "Even if Leibowitz was hiring someone, who's he hiring? And how is this guy getting into these buildings in broad daylight, loaded with accelerants, without anyone seeing him? These aren't some abandoned warehouses down by the docks he's been torching. There's activity everywhere down there. People are out on the streets around the clock in Oldtown. How does he do it?" He glanced at Blair, who was scribbling furiously on the pad in front of him.

"You tell us," returned Tucker in a hostile tone. "You're the expert."

"Grow up, Tucker," put in Rafe irritably. "The idea here is to get this guy. Unless you have some problem with that?"

"What the fuck does that mean?" snapped Tucker, stiffening.

Jim scowled as Tucker's heart rate shot off the scale. Rafe had certainly hit a nerve. Blair slid his notepad past Rafe and in front of Jim. "It means that we're supposed to be working this case together, Tucker. We don't have to like it. We just have to get the job done."

"Nobody here has a problem with getting the job done," put in McNeil quickly.

"Of course not," put in Avena smoothly. "Now here's what we need from Major Crimes...."

Jim glanced down at Blair's pad. His partner had recreated the map on the wall, with an addition. A large X was drawn in the center of the circle of arson locations, with the words "Anna's shelter?" scribbled beneath it. Jim gave Blair a startled glance. Well, of course Anna's shelter was too close to the arsonist's latest handiwork for comfort. But as he met his partner's intense and thoughtful gaze, he realized that that wasn't what Blair was implying. A connection?

"...around-the-clock surveillance on Leibowitz...."

What could the shelter, or anyone living there, have to do with the Firefly? The faces of the residents flashed past Jim's mind's eye. A dozen physically and emotionally battered women and their children. Highly unlikely that any of them had either the experience or the motivation to pull off a string of highly destructive arsons. But, assuming a connection, they must then either be perpetrators of the crime... or intended victims.

"...bound to break sooner or later...."

Targets? Not of the fires themselves, obviously, but of the fear they produced? What would anyone gain by frightening them? Okay, worst case scenario... the shelter closed. Then what? Well, then the property would go on the market and Anna's guests would have to find somewhere else to go. If someone wanted the property badly enough, that might be a motivation. But there were dozens of properties available within a two-block radius of the shelter, and most of them were a lot cheaper than Anna's would be, since hers was already renovated. As for Anna's guests, they would either find another place to stay or go back home.

"...Ellison's right and you know it...."

Jim shifted uneasily in his chair, ignoring the arguing detectives around him. Go back home to abusive husbands. He thought of the violent rage in Charlie Tucker's face and flinched. That son of a bitch would just love the idea that his wife had nowhere to go but back to him.

"...if I weren't a lady...."

Jim drew a startled breath and stared down at Blair's sketch again. Charlie Tucker. A man with a motive? He wanted his wife out of Anna's shelter, obviously. He was a raging alcoholic, which certainly diminished his capacity for judgment and increased his capacity for lunatic behavior. But there had been something else about the man that had disturbed Jim from the minute he'd laid eyes on him, and it hadn't been his violence.

"...calm down, people...."

Jim groped for that something for a moment, and then realized what it was. The stink. The smells on Tucker had been incredible, a cocktail of almost every foul odor to which Jim had ever been exposed. The drive to the station had been almost unendurable, even after dialing down his olfactory sense. He'd had to roll down his window, despite the cool, wet weather. He had tried not to isolate those scents then, but now....

"...any time you want to step outside, Brown...."

Human waste. Stagnant water. Animal carcasses. All of which were to be expected in someone who worked in the sewers. But those weren't the smells that had bothered Jim on his 'what's wrong with this picture' level. There were others, smells that didn't usually cling to people in that intensity. Gasoline. Kerosene. Fuel oil. All sorts of petroleum products, in fact. And some other scents were even further outside the norm.

"...any of you give a damn that you've got the wrong man?"

Hastily, he snatched up Rafe's pen and scribbled 'Stinky--nitrated compounds, Tucker's brother' under Blair's drawing and shoved it back to him, his mind flying. Shit. Shit! If only he hadn't been distracted by Blair being hit. He'd been so furious, so eager to get the bastard booked that he hadn't stopped to analyze those smells. And now this guy was free. Jim saw his partner's eyes widen. Then Blair picked up his pen and started scribbling madly.

"...hell do you know about arson...."

Jim's gaze fell on Tucker, who sat across the table from him, glowering. He remembered all too well the scandal that had erupted when large quantities of accelerants and explosives had gone missing from Arson's crime scenes and evidence lockups. Jim wondered now if some of that missing material had somehow found its way to Charlie Tucker. He sure as hell hadn't found it floating in the sewers of Cascade. But Charlie was no professional arsonist. How had he avoided being seen?

"...know an arse when I see one...."

A shrill trilling sound cut through the heated discussion and drew all eyes to Tucker as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, and with a perfunctory glance of apology to McNeil, slid away from the table to stand beside the window as he answered the call.

"...this is getting us nowhere...."

Blair slid his pad back past in increasingly curious Rafe, and Jim examined his partner's excited scrawls. 'SEWERS--TRAVEL, STORAGE' was scrawled at the bottom. Behind each arson site was scribbled 'BACKS ONTO ALLEY' and 'MANHOLES?'

Manholes.

"What?" hissed Tucker into the phone, drawing curious stares from the detectives not involved in the ongoing discussion.

Jim spared him a stare before returning his gaze to Blair's tablet, but Blair snatched it back again, wrote furiously, and shoved it back.

Jim glared and dialed up his hearing, ignoring the odd look Rafe gave him.

"...and she wouldn't come with me, do you believe it? Katie wouldn't come with me, so I pulled my gun and told her she didn't have anything to say about it and that fucking dyke that runs the place rushed in and went for the gun and it went off! Jesus Christ, Bobby, what'll I do? What'll I--"

"Shut up, just shut up for a second," muttered Tucker, too softly for anyone but Jim to hear. "How bad is she?"

Jim felt Rafe's hand on his arm and realized that his face must have betrayed the impact of what he had heard. Both Rafe and Blair were looking at him anxiously.

"She's not moving, but she's still alive. Christ, Bobby, tell me what to do. There are cops outside, and Katie and Amy are crying. There's nobody else in the house. She must have gotten them all out while I was talking to Katie. What'll I do? Make a break for it?"

"No, no. Stay put--"

"Detective, would you care to join us?" snapped McNeil over his shoulder.

"Excuse me, Captain, I've... I've got a little family problem...." Tucker made his way toward the door.

Anna down, mouthed Jim to Blair, wondering how the hell they were going to get out of there and to the shelter in time to do any good. Jim saw Blair blanch and start to rise as he interpreted the code.

"And where do you think you're going, Sandburg?" demanded McNeil in an exasperated tone.

Blair was prevented from answering by a small explosion as the conference room door swung open with the force of a typhoon. Without a word of explanation, Simon Banks strode up to the wide-eyed Bob Tucker, who froze, still clutching his cell phone.

"Tell him that the building is surrounded and to release his hostages immediately."

***

"Dammit, Ellison!" Simon lowered his voice as the cops bustling around him looked at him curiously. The street outside Anna Calkins' shelter was seething with the noisy activity of police, paramedics, press, and a steadily growing crowd of curious onlookers. "What did I tell you about messing with the universe?"

Jim's face assumed its most stubborn lines. "He's the Firefly, sir."

"Of course he is." Simon shook his head wearily, yearning for the good old days when the odds were the odds, and no sentinels or their neo-hippie partners were around to disturb the balance of the cosmos. "You're preaching to the choir, Ellison. I'm saved. I believe. I am a charter member of the Ellison-Sandburg Church of Spectacular Coincidence. The fact remains that you've got nothing but your nose and a few educated guesses to back that up, none of which the D.A. is likely to consider grounds for an indictment. And in case it's escaped your attention, Detective, we have a more pressing problem with Charlie Tucker at the moment."

Simon glanced over his shoulder at Bob Tucker. Pale and sweating, the man paced agitatedly as he clutched his cell phone, striving desperately to persuade his brother to allow a paramedic team inside to bring out Anna Calkins. Blair stood at the arson detective's elbow, listening intently with a grim expression as Avena and McNeil hovered nearby.

"It hasn't escaped my attention," replied Jim stiffly. "Anna's a friend."

Simon swore softly, turning back to Jim. "Sorry, Jim. But let's take this one disaster at a time, all right?"

"Captain, if Charlie gets back into the sewers to his stash, you could have the mother of all disasters on your hands."

"Explain," snapped Simon, not certain he wanted to hear anymore.

"I smelled nitrated compounds on him, Simon."

Simon did his best not to let his cigar fall out of his mouth. "Explosives? Are you saying--"

"I'm saying that it wasn't only accelerants that went missing from Arson a few months back. There was C-4, too. A lot of it."

Simon felt his stomach drop. Jim was right. There had been enough missing C-4 to take down several blocks of Cascade real estate. If Jim and Blair were right and all that was stored in one place, underground....

"If that stuff is detonated, we could have a crater where Oldtown used to be," continued Jim in an undertone.

"It won't be detonated," growled Simon. "Charlie's not going anywhere. That building is sealed tight--"

"Charlie's letting the paramedics in," burst in Blair breathlessly, skittering to a stop in front of them. "McNeil's talking about sending an officer in with them. Simon, I--"

"Request denied," snapped Simon. "You're not going anywhere." Simon saw the relief on Jim's face and restrained a grin.

"She's a friend," said Blair quietly, obstinately. "I should--"

"Obey orders, Detective." Simon paused, gentling his tone. "Think, Sandburg. He'll recognize you immediately."

"I could put on--"

"We don't even know if she's still alive."

"She's alive," said Jim flatly, his eyes riveted on the windows of the shelter. "Damn. If I'd only--"

"Don't start that again!" cut in Blair sharply, then shot Jim an apologetic look. "Look, even if you'd had the time to place those scents, there wasn't anything you could have done about it. It's not like you could say to the guys in booking, 'He smells like gasoline and C-4, book him for the Firefly arsons and throw away the key.' This isn't your fault."

Jim glanced at him wryly. "Have I ever mentioned what a great public defender you'd make?"

Blair grimaced, but Simon saw the growing steadiness in the man's eyes, the growing humor in Jim's. Damn, they were good for each other. Good partners, irrespective of any of the blandishments of true love. Simon did his level best to ignore the 'true love' aspects of his two best detectives' relationship whenever possible. True love aggravated his ulcers.

"I can do this, Simon," continued Blair quietly.

"No, you can't," returned Simon firmly. "And do you know why?"

Blair glared up at him, his expression a study in frustration. "Because you say so?"

"The rookie's sharp," remarked Simon sarcastically to Jim, whose lips twitched suspiciously. "That only took him... what, four years to learn?"

"Yeah, he's a little slow, Captain," returned Jim gravely. "But give me fifteen or twenty years and I might make a decent cop out of him."

Blair favored both of them with a disgusted look and turned to stare at the building in front of them, muttering obscenities under his breath.

"Banks!"

Simon turned to see McNeil bearing down on them. "One disaster at a time," he shot to Jim, who nodded absently as he laid a hand on Blair's shoulder.

"I know this is your call, Banks," growled McNeil, coming to a halt in front of Simon. "But you ought to send a detective in there with the medics. We can't waste this op--"

"Charlie Tucker has been hanging around the station off and on for years. Do you know who he'll recognize and who he won't?" Simon glanced over McNeil's shoulder and was surprised to see Tucker and Avena striding toward them at top speed. Simon didn't know these two particularly well, but something in their faces rang every internal alarm Simon had. Tucker had that same frantic, scared-shitless look he'd worn from the moment Simon had accosted him in the conference room. No small wonder. The man was a hair's breadth from being charged as an accessory. But Simon noted with sharpening attention a couple new developments: Tucker seemed unable to look either Simon or McNeil in the eye, and Avena had a predatory satisfaction in his eyes that made Simon's short hairs rise.

"Charlie wants to talk to you, sir," said Avena coolly, extending the cell phone.

Simon took the phone, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Banks."

"I've changed my mind." Charlie's voice was wild, agitated. "About the paramedics."

Simon restrained an oath. "Why? Letting that woman die won't help you."

"What?" Blair appeared at his elbow, looking strained and furious; Simon waved him peremptorily to silence.

"You want her to live? Send in Ellison and Sandburg with the medics." Charlie's tone turned bizarrely triumphant.

Ellison and Sandburg? What the hell was this? "That is not an option," snapped Simon. He realized as he met Blair's gaze that Blair had overheard Charlie's demand.

"He wants us," said Blair quietly to Jim, looking up into his partner's face searchingly.

Jim nodded, his jaw working. "Captain--"

Simon waved him away furiously, knowing what was coming. "Charlie, you're just digging yourself in deeper. Think about what you're doing."

"What's the problem, sir?" Avena asked McNeil, just loudly enough to be overheard. "The goal is to get the Calkins woman out of there. And after all, you said that it would make a lot of sense to have a detective go in with the medics--"

"As an undercover officer, not a hostage!" hissed McNeil with considerable choler. "Use your brain, Mike!"

"It seems like an ideal opportunity to get a couple of officers inside, sir," persisted Avena softly.

Simon restrained an almost overpowering urge to knock that let's-do-it-for-the-good-of-the-force-sir smirk off the man's face. "No deal," he said curtly, not sure whether he was speaking to Charlie or Avena.

Blair tried again. "Captain--"

Simon deliberately turned away from the compassion and courage in that face. It was beginning to reduce his effectiveness. "Charlie, this is a stupid move. If Anna Calkins dies, you'll be facing a murder rap. Are you--"

"Captain," said Jim in a firm voice that drew every eye. "We're ready to go."

Simon cupped his hand over the mouthpiece as he snatched the phone away from his ear. "Take off the cape, hot shot, you're not going anywhere," snapped Simon in a stage whisper, cursing silently as he realized his options were becoming more and more limited.

"Every minute we stall is Anna's," said Blair quietly. "And she may not have that many left."

Damn. There were moments when Simon hated this job. He lifted the phone to his ear again. "Charlie, I'll consider your request if you'll release Kate and Amy as well."

There were moments when he hated himself.

"It's not a request! You send Ellison and Sandburg in here, unarmed, with the paramedics, and I let the paramedics take what's-her-name. That's the deal."

"You have to give us some time. Ellison and Sandburg aren't here--"

"Don't you fucking lie to me! They got here when you did, Banks. You've been talking to them for the past half-hour. You'd better get 'em in here, 'cause the bitch isn't looking too good." Simon heard sobbing in the background, and looked up to meet two sober pairs of blue eyes.

Damn!

"All right," said Simon heavily. "Five minutes."

Forget the job. There were moments when he hated the universe.

***

"Tell me the truth, Simon. Does kevlar make me look fat?" Blair wondered if his voice was shaking as badly as he thought it was. Probably, but if Simon didn't stop pacing like that he was going to wear a trench in the asphalt, and being a smart-ass had always gotten Simon's attention in the past.

"Shut up, Sandburg!" Simon paused in his pacing long enough to glare.

Good, it still worked. Blair took a deep breath and ducked as the paramedic team lifted their gurney over the police barricade. "No, really. Does it make my ass look big?"

Simon muttered something that Blair suspected was obscene. "Jim, will you muzzle this menace?"

Jim glanced up as he finished securing his vest. "Muzzles have thus far proven ineffective, sir."

Blair forced a laugh from his tight chest and wiped his sweating palms on his pants.

Simon snorted and came to a halt in front of them. "You keep cool heads in there, you hear me? Take no unnecessary risks. I don't have the time to housebreak another pair of detectives."

Blair had a sudden vision of Jim being swatted on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper and smiled faintly as Jim slipped on his headset. "Taggert? Right. Stand by." He glanced at Simon with what passed for a smile when Jim was in combat mode. "We'll be back before you have time to change the kitty litter, Captain." Jim caught Blair's eye and held it long enough for Blair to take a deep, steadying breath.

"See that you do." Simon bit down so hard on his cigar that Blair was certain he'd cut it in two.

The three men stared at each other for a heartbeat, then Jim turned to Blair.

"Ready?"

"Hell, no," said Blair weakly. "Let's go." He ducked under the barricade and gestured for the paramedics to follow him.

Jim fell in beside him, grim-faced and white as a sheet, and gave Blair a cop-acceptable swat on the shoulder, followed by a not-so-cop-acceptable caress on the back as they moved steadily forward. "By the book, Detective," he said, the ice in his tone at dramatic odds with the tenderness of his touch.

Ah, the Ranger voice. Hear me and obey, for I once killed a hundred men with a potato peeler. Blair was amused. You'd think that after four years Jim would have figured out just how wildly ineffective that routine was. "Which book is that?" asked Blair in as sprightly a tone as he could manage.

Jim shot him a lethal look. "Mine."

"Meaning I stay in the metaphorical truck?"

"Meaning keep your eyes open, your head down, and your mouth shut," snapped Jim fiercely. "Don't even think about taking this guy on. Are you reading me?"

Blair chuckled softly. "I love you, too, poster-boy." He was vaguely aware of a throat being cleared behind them, and he couldn't have cared less.

Jim grimaced in obvious frustration. "Dammit, Blair, I'm serious."

"Me too," murmured Blair gently.

Jim drew a shaky breath and for one fraction of a second hesitated, one foot on the first step leading to Anna's front door. "Chief."

"Yeah?"

"Me too. I mean--" He glanced over his shoulder with an uncomfortable expression at the two strangers behind them. "You know."

"Yeah, I know." Blair swatted his arm and continued up the steps, swallowing hard. "Hey, Jim?"

"Yeah?" Jim's voice was very soft, his shoulder brushing Blair's as he mounted the steps at Blair's side.

Blair drew in a deep breath. "On a scale of one to ten, just how big a chili pepper is this?"

***

Simon spat out his mangled cigar as he watched his two friends climb the steps to the front door of the shelter. Letting those two go in there violated every instinct he possessed. The whole setup stank to high heaven of something nasty, and if there hadn't been a life on the line... but there was. There was.

To protect and to serve. There were very few men truly born to the calling, and Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg were two of them. Simon ground the remains of his cigar under his heel absently. They'd be all right. They would. They'd been in more dangerous situations than this one and had come through none the worse for wear. Still, the unnamed, undefined something nasty teased the edge of his consciousness.

"Banks!"

The stentorian roar broke in upon Simon's musings and he turned to see an enraged, red-faced Tom McNeil gesticulating wildly as he ploughed through what appeared to be a stampede of police officers and press. Simon gaped for a moment, then sprinted toward the crowd.

"McNeil! What the hell is going on?"

McNeil seized Simon by the arm and dragged him in the direction of the stampede, bellowing furiously in his ear. "A good officer, huh? Knows how to obey orders? Stop him now, Banks! Now!"

"Stop--" McNeil yanked Simon through the far edge of the crowd, which was ringed around a small open area between the communications van and one of the barricades. "  --  who? Hell's bells," he finished in a stunned voice as he got his first good view of the attraction. "Damn it, Rafe!"

Detective Rafe was in the process of engaging in his own peculiar form of intra-departmental cooperation, which evidently involved sitting on top of Detective Avena and pounding the shit out of him. His fellow officers seemed to find the new approach stimulating, for Arson, Major Crimes, and uniforms alike were urging their respective friends on in an atmosphere not unlike a Roman gladiatorial game or a cock fight, and all before the eagerly voracious eye of the press. Video cameras whirred and flash bulbs crackled. Even the civilian onlookers were yelling.

Jesus H. Christ. Trust Rafe to let his pants down in front of God and everybody.

"Detective Rafe!" His voice didn't carry over the shouts of the police officers and press as they jostled for a better view. Simon caught sight of Henri, who was doing his best to prevent Tucker from joining the fight. Well, at least it hadn't turned into a free-for-all. Yet. Simon shook off McNeil's clutching arm and strode to Rafe's side, then hauled him off Avena. The man was still swinging.

"Son of a bitch! You back-stabbing son of a bitch!" shouted Rafe, lunging at Avena, who promptly howled inarticulately and launched himself from the ground in Rafe's direction.

McNeil intercepted him. "Okay, Mike, that's enough!"

"Detective, consider yourself on report and off--" began Simon furiously, but was prevented from saying anything more when Rafe stooped down, snatched something off the ground and shoved it in Simon's face. It was a cell phone.

It was Charlie Tucker.

"Oh, my Lord." Simon whirled in the direction of the shelter just as the gunfire began.

***

Jim smelled the gun approximately one second before it started firing; it took precisely that long to yell "incoming," shove Blair behind the sofa, and dive down beside him. The two paramedics, who had been a few steps behind them, dropped their gurney and hunkered down out in the hall as a rapid succession of shots rang out, shattering bric-a-brac and windows but missing their targets. Jim heard a woman screaming and a child crying from the vicinity of the gunman, whose scent was unmistakable.

"This was supposed to be a truce, Charlie," he called, groping for the pistol he had strapped to his ankle.

Another round of gunfire was the only response.

"Shit," hissed Blair. "Anna's lying out there. He almost hit her again. Man, we've got to--"

Jim nodded to Blair and tapped his headset. "Yeah, Joel, no damage."

Jim peered around the right end of the sofa, focusing his vision through the archway into what, when the house was originally built, Jim supposed would have been called the back parlor; Anna had turned it into the children's playroom. He could see Charlie staring back at him from the far end of the room, near the door that led to the kitchen. Charlie had dragged a bookcase away from the wall and was using it for cover. "He's in the back room of the ground floor with his hostages and a clear view of the front room. He's got us pinned down at the moment. Hold on."

"They're okay," came in a muffled tone over the headset, and Jim smiled faintly, knowing full well who was asking.

"Tell Simon to go change the kitty litter."

"Ah... okay. Something about... kitty litter, sir." Simon's response was unintelligible.

Jim flipped the safety off his weapon and glanced aside to check on his partner.

The partner who wasn't there.

A shout from Charlie and a new volley of gunfire told Jim exactly where Blair was. Whipping around the right side of the sofa, Jim leveled his weapon and returned fire in Charlie's general direction, covering Blair as he dragged Anna Calkins' unmoving form from the middle of the living room floor toward the relative safety of their hiding place. The unmistakable and sickening sound and smell of a bullet singeing human flesh affronted Jim's senses just as Blair rounded the end of the sofa with his burden. Blair gasped in pain, pulled Anna completely under cover, then sank to his knees, clutching his upper arm with his head bowed. The firing stopped; Jim heard Charlie swearing and reloading his weapon.

Jim bolted to Blair's side. "Chief--"

"It just grazed me," said Blair quickly, looking up with a drawn expression. "But man, it hurts."

"Let me see," commanded Jim brusquely, pushing up the sleeve already stained with blood. He drew a quick breath of relief when he saw that Blair was right. It was superficial.

"Yeah, Taggert, but he's okay." Jim tried to quiet his pounding heart and breathe normally. "Remind me to kick your ass later," he growled to Blair angrily.

"So noted," murmured Blair absently, bending over Anna.

Jim grimaced as he watched the woman's shallow, labored breathing. The t-shirt she was wearing was soaked with blood. She was ashen. It looked like she'd taken a shot to the abdomen. Not good. Jim retrieved his weapon and checked on Charlie. He could hear him behind the bookcase, telling Kate to shut up, he was trying to think. Obviously things were not going as planned.

One of the paramedics peeked cautiously from his cover. Jim silently gestured toward Anna and did a brief pantomime of moving her into the foyer. The man nodded.

"Can you get her to the hall?" whispered Jim to Blair.

Blair nodded and took Anna under the arms again.

"I'll cover you," whispered Jim. "On three. One."

Blair got up on his haunches.

"Two." Jim lifted his gun.

"Three."

Blair shot out from behind the sofa, dragging the unconscious Anna behind him as Jim rolled out in front of him, came up on one knee and aimed his weapon. By the time Jim realized that Charlie wasn't firing, Blair had already reached the safety of the foyer. Jim froze in confusion. Charlie wasn't firing. He threw open his hearing. Charlie wasn't firing because Charlie was running  --  running for the back of the house and forcing his wife and daughter to run with him.

Shit. Now what? "Taggert?"

"He's moving to the back of the building." Jim glanced through the archway into the foyer; Blair was helping the paramedics lift Anna onto the gurney. One of the paramedics gave Jim a thumbs-up. "The paramedics have Ms. Calkins and they'll be bringing her out immediately."

"I'm going after him."

Jim sprang to his feet and followed them cautiously, quietly, listening carefully to every rasping breath from Charlie, every plea from Kate, every whimper from Amy. They were in the kitchen now. He heard Charlie open a door; a musty, damp smell reached Jim's nose. The cellar? Why the hell would he want to seal himself in a hole with no exit?

Jim stiffened involuntarily. There's always one exit for a man denied all others.

"Give her to me," snarled Charlie.

"Why? What are you going to do?" Kate's voice was shaking so badly that it was barely audible.

A terrified little scream from Amy, the sound of a blow and the crash of breaking glass sent Jim through the kitchen door before he'd realized that he'd moved. He was just in time to see Charlie disappearing through the cellar door with a screaming, squirming Amy in his arms. Jim made a mad dash to reach them, but the man slammed the door in Jim's face; Jim heard a key turning in the old-fashioned lock and Charlie fumbling down the cellar steps.

Kate struggled up from the floor and staggered back against the table that she'd obviously been thrown up against; broken drinking glasses were everywhere. Bits of glass littered the table surface, the floor and her hair. "Charlie!" Pushing Jim aside, she flung herself against the door and pounded on it wildly. "Don't hurt her, she's only a baby!"

"Jim, what's going on?" Taggert's voice rose in alarm.

"Charlie's locked himself in the cellar with his daughter," snapped Jim furiously, moving Kate aside as gently as he could. He ran his hands over the door as he examined it. Solid oak. You'd need a battering ram to break this down. He strained to hear any sound from below, but heard only the collisions and curses of a man trying to find his way around in the dark.

"Yes."

"Tell him to get Tucker in here. He's probably the only one who can persuade this guy to open the door."

"Let me try," came a soft, determined voice behind him. Jim nearly jumped out of his skin; he had been so focused on trying to hear what was going on in the cellar that his partner's sudden appearance caught him off guard. Blair stood beside Kate with a comforting arm around the sobbing woman's shoulders.

"Unless you've got a battering ram or a locksmith in your pocket there's not much you can do," growled Jim, nevertheless moving aside.

"Neither." Blair pulled his Swiss army knife from his pocket and knelt in front of the door. He slipped the blade between the door and jam and began working gingerly at the bolt.

"Chief, that is not going to--"

The bolt slipped back and the door swung slightly ajar.

"  --  work," finished Jim weakly.

Blair flashed a brief smile. "Naomi and I lived in an old place like this while I was in high school. Used to lock myself out all the time." He drew his weapon from his ankle holster and stuffed the knife into his pocket.

Jim did his best not to do a double-take at the sight of a gun in Blair's hand. He'd had a lot of trouble getting used to that. They both had. Fortunately, Blair had not yet been forced to use his weapon. Blair and lethal force were still strangers to each other, and Jim prayed it would stay that way. He turned as a couple uniforms, led by Henri Brown, entered the kitchen.

"Anna's on the way to the hospital," said Henri softly. "Medics said she had a fifty-fifty chance. Ma'am, you'd better let one of these officers take you outside."

"My daughter's down there," protested Kate shakily. "I can't leave--"

"It's too dangerous here, Kate," put in Blair gently. "Go on outside. We'll bring Amy out to you. It'll be okay."

"Evans, take care of Mrs. Tucker." Henri nodded at the young officer and moved to stand with Jim and Blair at the cellar door.

"It's okay, Joel, Sandburg got the door open."

Kate was escorted gently but firmly out of the room, and Jim cocked an ear toward the half-open cellar door. Nothing.

"Nothing," said Jim to Henri. "I heard a lot of banging around down there a minute ago, but it's totally quiet now."

"Totally?" asked Blair sharply.

Jim glanced at him in sudden alarm and let his hearing range to its most sensitive. The hum of the water heater, the rumble of the furnace, even the sounds of a pair of mice were clearly audible. Nothing else. No human breathing, no human heartbeats. As if there were no one down there at all. But there had to be. There was no way out of a cellar. Not unless....

"Shit!" exploded Jim. He yanked open the door and snapped on the lights, prompting a gasp from both Henri and Blair. "He's gone," he snapped in explanation and clattered down the wooden steps into the old-fashioned cellar, Blair and Henri on his heels.

The large, empty cellar's masonry walls and cracked cement floor offered confirmation, but no explanation. The furnace and water-heater were at the far end of the room. Metal shelving lined one wall, on which was piled household supplies of every description. A freezer hummed in one corner. The floor was littered with moving boxes. But nowhere was there a trace of the two people who had been here not ten minutes before.

"This is... this is impossible." Henri looked around with a bewildered expression.

"No, it isn't," muttered Jim, peering into every corner and crevice of the irregularly shaped room. "He did it. He got out."

"But there's no way out of here. No other door, no windows."

"There is another door," said Jim determinedly. "We just need to find--"

"Found," said Blair quietly from behind the water heater.

Jim strode across the room and knelt beside his friend, staring at what he'd been afraid he'd see: a manhole cover.

Henri groaned. "Oh, great. Just great! Why the hell would there be a manhole in here?"

"Auxiliary access duct, probably," replied Jim with a grunt as he lifted the cover. "You'll find them in lots of these old buildings."

"Like the buildings that got torched?" asked Henri sharply.

Jim and Blair looked up at Henri in surprise.

Henri looked amused at their reaction. "Rafe told me all about you two brainstorming your 'Firefly as SewerGuy' theory. Makes sense to me, as long as you buy that Charlie's crazy, which he obviously is. I think you're right. Charlie Tucker's our torch."

Jim grimaced. "Rafe should keep his eyes to himself. Like the Captain says, we've got no proof."

"Charlie Tucker's got all the proof we need down there." Henri pointed to the dark hole at their feet.

"Charlie Tucker's also got a loaded gun and his four-year-old daughter down there," put in Blair grimly.

"And enough C-4 to level a square mile of Cascade." Jim paused. "Have you been reading all of this, Joel?"

"Yeah." Joel's voice was somber. "What do you want me to tell the Captain?"

Jim met Blair's unwavering gaze. "Tell him that I'm going in after Charlie. Sandburg will--"

"Wring your poster-boy neck if you finish that sentence the way I think you're going to finish it," snarled Blair, blue eyes flashing furiously even in the dim light of the cellar.

Jim stared at his partner for a heartbeat, briefly wondering if any principle were worth constantly risking the life of such a man, and contemplating  --  for the hundredth time in the past four years  --  the dynamics of the eternal struggle between irresistible force and immovable object.

"Jim, he's right," said Henri seriously. "Listen to me, now. Charlie didn't just wig out on you. Rafe caught Avena on the phone with him, making a deal to take the two of you out."

Blair's eyes widened. "What?"

"Son of a bitch," said Jim softly, shocked but not surprised.

"And now we can't find either Avena or Bob Tucker. Rafe's gone missing too. This is no time to be flying solo, man." Henri paused for a moment, letting the news sink in. "Listen to your partner. I know what I'm talking about. How the hell do you think Rafe's lived as long as he has?"

"If you listen to him, it's his charm and his pretty face," growled Jim. "And it's him that's keeping you alive."

Henri snorted derisively. "Come on, Hairboy. Speak up."

"There's nothing more to say," returned Blair evenly, pure unadulterated Sandburg obstinacy lining every feature of his face. "By either of us. I'm going, and there's nothing he can do to stop me."

Jim drew a deep breath. Irresistible Force, 100. Immovable Object, 0.

"Jim?" Taggert sounded impatient. "What should I tell him?"

"Tell Simon that my partner and I are going in," said Jim softly.

***

"Anything?"

"No, sir. The patrols are working their way outward from this location. But they haven't spotted anything." Taggert paused. "I'm worried about Ellison and Sandburg, Captain."

"Don't worry about those two," replied Simon sourly. "The universe will take care of them. They're in cahoots."

Taggert cleared his throat. "The headset won't work down there, Captain. Too much interference. They're on their own."

"Tell me something I don't know," growled Simon. "Tell me where McNeil and those two snakes of his are." Simon sighed. "Have all the residents here been accounted for?"

"Yes, sir. And Mrs. Tucker's gone inside, finally. I told her I'd let her know the minute we heard something."

"Now there is a person who's had a rougher day than I have," muttered Simon. With another heavy sigh, Simon climbed out after him and scanned the area for the thirtieth time in as many minutes. Most of the personnel had been dispersed to patrol the area in the forlorn hope that Charlie would surface at some other manhole. Not a soul above ground but Simon Banks knew that a crisis of far greater proportions than a kidnapping threatened the city of Cascade. But what could he do? Without proof or anything else more tangible than Jim Ellison's hunch, absolutely nothing. He couldn't order an evacuation of several city blocks because one of his detectives smelled C-4 on a man. And the only men who could corroborate Jim's theory were the two men least motivated to do so... two men who had completely disappeared.

Damn! He should never have let Avena and Tucker out of his sight. He should never have trusted McNeil. "I'll deal with this, Banks, they're two of mine," McNeil had said. Simon gritted his teeth. The man had caught two of 'his' red-handed while conspiring with a perp to murder a fellow police officer. Just how exactly did he intend to 'handle' it?

If McNeil thought that he could sweep this under the rug, he was dead wrong. Brock was going to hear about this. And if Brock didn't do something about it, then the commissioner would hear about it. And if the commissioner didn't do something about it, then the damn mayor would hear about it. Simon sighed again. Oh, hell, the whole city was going to hear about this, no matter what Simon did. The entire scene had been taped by the news crews: the fight, the accusation, the debate that had ensued despite Simon's efforts to drag all parties concerned away from the cameras.

After McNeil had left, his two detectives in tow, Simon had sent Rafe about his business without delaying him, knowing that his business was more vital than ever. Jim and Blair were more of a target now than they'd ever been. They had, as usual, stumbled into something even nastier than their original mess. Was Charlie Tucker the Firefly? Simon believed he was, although not a shred of prosecution-worthy evidence had as yet been produced. Had Bob Tucker been aware of his brother's activities? Had Avena? Well, your answer to those questions depended on whether or not you believed in the mind-boggling coincidence of those two wastes of good skin attempting to murder Jim and Blair not one hour after they'd questioned said wastes' conduct of the Firefly investigation.

It had been a risky business. Any one of a hundred things could have gone wrong, and several of them had. Simon knew full well that there were much easier and safer ways for a cop to eliminate a man than to conspire with an unstable perpetrator at a crime scene. To have even attempted it was an act of desperation. Why had they been so desperate?

If Simon were a betting man--which he was--he'd put his money on their sudden realization that the combination of Charlie's sudden meltdown and the assignment of Jim and Blair to the case had made their exposure inevitable. Simon still wasn't sure of the extent or nature of Avena and Tucker's connection with Charlie's extracurricular activities, but this much he knew: they were prepared to do anything to cover their asses.

"Banks!"

Simon snapped his dismal chain of thought and turned to see McNeil striding purposefully toward him. He brought the man to a surprised halt by storming across the asphalt to meet him halfway.

"Where are Avena and Tucker?"

"Now, just hold on a minute, Banks--"

"Are they under arrest?"

"No, they're not!"

"I want them under arrest immediately. You said you'd handle it, McNeil."

"I am handling it. I'm not going to allow my men to be framed by a couple of cops with axes to grind." McNeil crossed his arms over his chest and took his most belligerent stance, jutting his chin out defiantly.

Simon took a deep breath. "I see. It's a conspiracy, is it?"

"Call it whatever you want. You and Rafe have had it in for Avena ever since--"

"Is that what he told you? Where is he?"

"I sent both of them home."

"Excuse me, sir." Henri appeared at Simon's elbow.

"Home? You sent them home?"

"About twenty minutes ago. They expressed concerns about their safety--"

"I have a message for you, sir," persisted Henri softly.

"I share their concerns," snarled Simon furiously. "Anyone attempting to murder two of my detectives--"

"They did not  --  "

"Sir, this really is urgent--"

"  --  should have concerns about their safety! A cell is a very safe place, McNeil. I don't generally frequent cells."

"Sir, it's from Rafe."

Simon straightened and snatched the piece of paper from Henri's hand. "You've seen him?"

"No, I found this on the windshield of our car."

Simon scanned the few lines as his stomach did a slow roll, then read it aloud. "H  --  tell Banks I saw Tucker and Avena climbing down a manhole behind the shelter. I'm following. Later  --  Rafe."

"What the hell would they be doing down manholes?" stammered McNeil, clearly taken aback.

"Finishing the job?" suggested Henri with more belligerence than was politically correct.

"Watch your mouth, Brown," snapped McNeil.

"If they knew that Jim and Blair went down after Charlie--" began Henri urgently.

"They knew," muttered Simon. "The whole damn world knows." Simon leveled his gaze on his fellow police captain, and had the small satisfaction of seeing the man take a step back. "McNeil, if anything happens to my men--"

"You're jumping to--"

"  --  I will see you drummed off the force and prosecuted. Henri, tell Taggert to get Chief Brock on the phone. Tell him it's urgent."

***

"Cold and wet is my world," muttered Blair, trying to ignore the foul-smelling water in his shoes. "Again. This seriously sucks, man." He strove to maintain his footing on the narrow ledge beside the slowly moving water.

"You wanted to come," Jim reminded him  --  somewhat uncharitably, Blair thought, as he shone the light of his flashlight on a rat large enough to put a saddle on.

"Yeah, well, people were shooting at me up there," replied Blair reasonably. "I thought it might be safer down here with the rats and the nitrated compounds."

"I thought you must have some logical reason." Jim's voice sounded almost amused. Almost. He paused and stooped to pick something up. "Here's another one." He handed it to Blair.

Blair aimed his flashlight at the small object in his hand. A child's barrette. They had found one of these only a few feet from the juncture of the access duct and the main sewer line, and a damn good thing, too. The smells in here were so extreme that Jim had been forced to dial his olfactory sense back to almost nothing. And these were only the storm sewers. Blair didn't want to think about what the sanitation sewers must be like. If they hadn't found the barrette they would have had no idea which way Charlie had headed. "Well, at least we know we're going in the right direction."

"He can't be that far ahead of us," said Jim softly. "He only had a five-minute head start."

"But he knows this place. He can move fast. Do you think he's stored his stuff near here?"

Jim shrugged. "Maybe. But I don't think that's where he's headed."

"Where's he headed?"

"Out. The nearest exit. This is just an escape hatch now."

"I wish to God he could have done the great escape act without Amy," said Blair with feeling. The thought of a frightened child being trapped in this hellhole was painful.

"Me too," said Jim darkly.

"You don't think he'll hurt her, do you?"

"He has before." Jim's voice was harsh, and Blair could feel the anger coming off his friend like a hot wind.

"But--"

"Shhh." Jim grabbed his arm tightly, tilting his head.

Blair froze, recognizing his sentinel's listening pose.

"Turn off the flashlight," whispered Jim.

Blair fumbled to turn off the light, then listened as carefully as he could, trying to ignore the claustrophobic feeling the total darkness brought on. All he heard at first were the gurgle of the turbid water at their feet and the rustlings of a few nearby rats. Then he realized that the sound of water ahead of them was louder. There was a slight movement of air, too. A junction in the tunnel? Probably, but that couldn't be what Jim was reacting to. Blair waited, and after a minute other sounds came to his ears, human sounds: a child's quiet sobbing, and a man's deep-throated muttering. Peering ahead into the blackness, Blair spotted the tiny light of a flashlight focused on the narrow ledge that served as the only path through the storm sewers.

It had to be Charlie. He had turned around and was coming back this way. Why? Blair dismissed the thought. It didn't matter why. All that mattered was getting that little girl out of here.

"He's hurt," whispered Jim, and Blair wondered again what it must be like for the dark to not be dark. "I can see a bloodstain on his shirt, and he's walking all hunched over. He's still carrying Amy."

"Does she look okay?"

"Yeah."

Blair heard Jim reaching into his jacket pocket, and knew that he was drawing his weapon. "Jim--"

"I know," came back in a whisper. "Worst-case scenario, Chief."

Blair groaned inwardly. To have her father literally shot out from under her would certainly be a worst-case scenario for a traumatized four-year-old. There had to be a way to reach Charlie before that became necessary. But there certainly wasn't much room to maneuver down here, either literally or figuratively.

The light was now no more than twenty feet away; Blair could hear the man gasping and wheezing with every step.

"Charlie," said Jim in a firm tone. "Don't come any closer."

Charlie drew in a ragged breath and stopped. The flashlight swung upward, and Blair squinted against the bright light. "Ellison. Sandburg." His voice had an unpleasant gurgling quality to it.

"You're hurt." Jim spoke soothingly. "Come back with us and we'll get you to a hospital."

Charlie laughed. At least Blair supposed it to be a laugh. It was a sound not unlike the one made when someone finished off a soft drink with a straw. Fluid, Blair realized suddenly. The man had fluid in his lungs. "Never make it." Charlie stepped forward, and Blair felt Jim brace himself. "Take her. Get her out of here. Now!"

Blair felt his jaw drop. Take her?

Jim seemed equally taken aback. "You want  --  "

"Take her!"

The man was serious. Hell, the man was desperate. Blair squeezed past Jim, ignoring Jim's little intake of breath and grab for him, and approached Charlie as quickly as the narrow ledge permitted.

"Sandburg, get back here! There's a  --  "

The wall he'd been following suddenly disappeared, and Blair gasped and swayed. Jim swore and covered the distance between them in the time it takes a man to draw a breath, then grabbed Blair's shoulders and steadied him. Blair felt Jim's gun digging into his shoulder. "  --  junction," finished Jim drily in his ear.

"Thanks," gulped Blair.

"Watch it!" Charlie shone his light at their feet, and Blair realized that he and Jim were no longer on a ledge, but a balance beam suspended over the water rushing into the main sewer.

Blair took a steadying breath and crossed the makeshift bridge, his eyes fixed on Charlie and feeling Jim's hand on his shoulder every step of the way. Jim released him the moment they reached the far side; Blair could feel rather than see Jim aiming his gun. Extending his arms for the child, Blair approached Charlie, his heart pounding. Charlie's gun was sticking out of his pants pocket, and Blair tried to calculate how quickly he could either tackle the man or jump into the water if Charlie dropped Amy and his flashlight and went for his weapon.

"Okay, Charlie," Blair breathed. "We'll get her out of here. I promise."

Charlie nodded with a fierce expression and with a strange gentleness lifted the child into Blair's arms. Blair held her close, trying to soothe the exhausted sobs that wracked her small body. "Shh, honey, it's okay. We're going to take you to your mom."

Charlie slowly slid to sit on the ledge, one leg dangling in the water, as Jim came to stand behind Blair. His hands rested on Blair's shoulders for a moment; obviously he'd decided to put away his weapon.

"Charlie, what happened?"

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch shot me," muttered Charlie thickly.

Jim moved around Blair to kneel beside Charlie. "Who shot you?"

"Avena. Mike Avena. Known him since I was sixteen, and he shoots me, shoots me while I'm holding my kid, for crissake. Says he'll help me get away, then he shoots me." Charlie leaned back, obviously winded, and drew some painfully shallow, wheezing breaths.

"Where is he?"

Charlie gestured back the way he had come.

"We'll get him, Charlie."

Charlie seized Jim's arm. "No! No time for that. He's gonna blow the stuff. Get Amy out. Nearest ladder... up junction. This side. Bastard... chased me right past the first one."

Blair drew a sharp breath. Shit. Blow the stuff? That was Jim's doomsday scenario. If Avena triggered an explosion of that magnitude the loss of life would be horrific. The man must be insane.

"Where's the stuff?" demanded Jim in a level tone.

"Different places. Spread it out."

"Thank God for that," muttered Jim in obvious relief.

Charlie struggled to speak. "S'gonna blow some of it. Enough to kill us, me and Bobby... and you. Blame it on me. Blame everything on me. But wasn't just me. He helped. Helped me get stuff. Said he'd make sure I never did time. Had to do it. Sh'wouldn't listen. Wouldn't come back. Said I was sorry." Charlie's eyes drifted closed for a moment, then opened again. "Tell Kate. Tell her I'm sorry."

"We'll tell her," said Blair around a tight throat. God, what a sad end to a sad little man.

"Tell Bobby. 'Bout Mike."

"Is Bobby down here too?"

Blair's question went unanswered, and Jim leaned over to check the man's pulse. Blair hugged the now quiet child in his arms, thankful that she was too young to understand most of what was happening.

"He's passed out." Jim rose and laid a hand on Blair's shoulder. "You okay?"

"I will be," replied Blair in a strained voice. There was something profoundly disturbing about watching a man in the final stages of destroying himself. Maybe it was a touch of 'there but for the grace of God.' Whatever it was, it made him feel like he'd been standing two feet from a lightning strike. "We need to get them out of here now, Jim."

Jim nodded. "Let's move. We're only a few yards from the manhole. When we get to the street we can get someone to help us get Charlie out. Don't think I can carry a three-hundred-pound guy up a twenty-foot ladder by myself." He smiled wryly as he slipped past Blair and rounded the corner to head up the junction.

"And I thought you were Superman." Blair managed a smile too, and turned to follow Jim. "You can see the ladder?"

"Yeah. About ten yards in front of us."

***

"Captain Banks, have you been drinking on duty?" Chief Brock stared up at Simon from his comfortable chair.

Simon grimaced, thinking that he really wished he had been, and wondering if it were too late to start. "No, sir."

Taggert had finally located Brock at a sidewalk caf頡 few blocks from the crime scene, where he'd evidently been keeping tabs on the operation while staying out of the view of news cameras.

"You expect me to support charges of attempted murder against two officers with little more evidence than your word?"

"My word," returned Simon icily, "is good."

"And you also expect me to accept, on your word, the theory that these two officers are also involved in the Firefly case? That's stretching your word a little thin, isn't it?"

"No, sir, it isn't. When I give my word it's because I have good reasons to do so."

"Which you are not at liberty to divulge."

"Sir, I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't believe public safety to be at risk."

"From Arson's missing explosives."

"Yes."

"Which you believe are stored in the sewers under Oldtown."

"Yes."

"And which you believe may be in danger of being detonated."

"Yes!" Simon cleared his throat at Brock's glare. "Sir. It's a possibility."

"Simon, you really expect me to believe all this?"

"I expect you to act," returned Simon testily. "May I respectfully remind you that, whatever your opinion about my charges, we have an armed kidnapper and a four-year-old hostage in those sewers?"

"I haven't forgotten," growled Brock. "What is it you expect me to do?"

"Authorize a search of the Oldtown sewers."

"There are miles of sewers under Oldtown! Do you have any idea of the manpower required for such a search?"

"Yes, sir. The manpower that only the Chief of Police can authorize."

"This is ridiculous." Brock tossed his napkin onto his plate and stood up. "That child hasn't been missing more than an hour. Charlie Tucker is bound to come up for air at some nearby manhole, if Ellison and Sandburg don't find him first. To initiate a search on the scale you're suggesting is completely unwarranted. Either you're drunk or you're having some kind of breakdown. And I'm not buying into this vendetta you've got going with Arson--"

A loud, metallic scraping noise diverted both men's attention. Turning toward it, Simon watched in surprise as a manhole cover near the curb slid away to reveal a man with blue eyes and a face framed by long dark curls. A small head covered with blonde hair rested under the man's chin.

"Sandburg?" Simon sprinted to the manhole. "Are you all right? Where's Ellison?"

"Right behind me." Blair drew a deep breath. "Never thought I'd be glad to breathe city air again." Blair squinted up at Simon in surprise, as if suddenly recognizing him. "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"Coincidence, Sandburg," sighed Simon wearily. "Just coincidence. Here, let me  --  "

The long rolling tremor that knocked Simon off his feet was accompanied by an ominous, sustained rumble that seemed to emanate from the ground and echo down the street. Cars veered out of control and dodged each other wildly as pedestrians were flung to the ground. The blaring of car horns and the sounds of startled yells and screams were everywhere.

Simon forced himself to his hands and knees and caught sight of the sudden fear in Blair's face. The man seemed to be being pulled back into the manhole; it took Simon a moment to realize that the ladder his friend was standing on was collapsing.

"Blair!"

"Take Amy, take her!" cried Blair wildly, detaching the sleeping child and thrusting her upward.

Simon dove toward the manhole and caught the child in both hands just as Blair disappeared with a scream and a cloud of dust into the dark below.

***

Jim became dimly aware that something was wrong about the time he found half a cement wall lying across his legs  --  which was also about the time he started to hurt. Badly. He looked around confusedly, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The foul-smelling trickle of water running around and over him helped him to remember. The sewers. The explosion. Shit. Jim tried to move, but the stabbing agony in his right leg made him lie still, gasping. The smell was awful, but he was beginning to remember more. Blair always said that olfactory responses were the strongest memory triggers.

Blair.

Blair had been above him on the ladder when everything had gone to hell.

Oh, God.

Jim drew in a lungful of noisome, dust-filled air and shouted with all his strength. "Blair!"

There was no response. Jim tried to move again, with the same results. He turned his head back and forth, scanning the darkness with pupils fully dilated. His surroundings bore no resemblance to the tunnels they had been travelling in. Most of the cement walls had come down, leaving their steel supports naked and twisted. Water coursed around large slabs of concrete and smaller debris. Looking up, Jim could see no sign of the manhole that he and Blair had been trying to reach. It was as if that entire side of the tunnel had collapsed, taking the underpinnings for the street above with it. God only knew what the damage on the surface had been.

But at that moment Jim didn't give a damn if the entire city of Cascade had crumbled. "Blair!"

"Jim?"

Jim drew a normal breath again. It was Blair. He sounded weak and confused, but it was definitely Blair. "Here, Chief. Over here." He heard the noise of someone stirring to his right and behind him, just outside his field of vision.

"Where?" Blair stumbled and coughed. "I can't see anything. Can you get to me?"

"I can't move, Chief. Are you okay?"

"No! I'm not fucking okay," snapped Blair, sounding so much more like himself that Jim grinned broadly in relief, despite the pain. "I've been insulted and punched and shot and dumped in a sewer and blown up. Why the hell would I be all right?" He drew a breath. "What do you mean, you can't move?"

"There's this--" Jim toyed with the idea of minimizing the problem, but realized that Blair would find out the truth almost immediately.
"--um, concrete slab pinning me down."

There was a fraction of a second of stunned silence. "Oh, God--"

Jim heard Blair frantically making his way toward him, groping and stumbling blindly into and around every obstacle in his path. "Blair, be careful  --  "

"I'm sorry," came in a frantic, breathless voice. "How bad are you? Keep talking, I'll find you."

"Slow down! The last thing we need is for you to get hurt too."

"Dammit, Jim, how bad are you?"

"My leg hurts," confessed Jim quietly. It hurt like hell, actually, and it was getting worse. If he were any judge of injuries, it was a nasty break. Or two. Funny how these things always hurt worse when you knew how bad they were. There were definite disadvantages to Army medic training.

"Well, that tells me a whole hell of a lot." Blair tripped over something and went down hard; Jim flinched involuntarily at Blair's gasp of pain.

"Dammit, Sandburg, slow down! Are you  --  "

"I'm fine, I'm fine," breathed Blair, getting to his feet and moving, more slowly, into Jim's field of vision.

Jim caught his breath at the sight of him. Well, there might be no broken bones or internal injuries, God willing, but he looked like one mass of cuts and bruises. "Over here, Chief. To your left. And down," he added wryly.

"Cute," muttered Blair, groping to his left as he sank to his hands and knees. "You're a riot, Ellison."

Jim reached out and grabbed Blair's hand, suddenly realizing how much he hurt, how damn scared he was, and how much he wanted this man's touch. "Right here, babe."

Blair clutched the hand and let Jim pull him closer, then bent over him, his free hand touching Jim's cheek and stroking his hair back. Jim leaned into the caress, feeling his breathing steady and his heart rate slow to normal under his guide's soothing touch. "Just take it easy," said Blair unsteadily. "You'll be okay. Let me check you out."

"Anytime," replied Jim, going for a leer and failing miserably.

"Down, boy," growled Blair in a poor imitation of his usual teasing tone. He pulled himself free and ran anxious hands down Jim's body. Jim heard a soft curse as Blair reached the concrete. The edge lay just above his knees and sloped downward to pinion his lower legs. Blair very gently ran one hand under the slab as far as he could reach. It was a mistake.

Jim cried out wildly as every nerve from shin to solar plexus screamed in protest and his vision went red. His fucking leg was being ripped apart and it was too much to stand, too much....

"Dial it down, dial it down, baby, shhh," came Blair's trembling chant, his shaking fingers stroking Jim's face. "I'm sorry, buddy, I'm so damn sorry...."

Jim curled his fingers around Blair's hands as his vision cleared and the pain receded. "S'okay," he panted, cursing his lack of control at the sight of the naked, panicked remorse in Blair's face. "Kind of a mess down there, huh?"

"Kind of," said Blair in a strained voice. "You're bleeding, Jim. You may have a compound fracture. I need to get this thing off you."

"Too heavy," breathed Jim, horrified at the thought that Blair might actually try. "You'll wind up under it yourself."

"If we don't get this off you then I can't do anything about the bleeding. I have to get it off."

"You're a little under the weather yourself," remonstrated Jim quietly, one hand stroking Blair's hair away from a particularly nasty cut. "Punched, shot, dumped in a sewer, and blown up, remember?"

"You forgot insulted."

"You're in no shape to try this, Chief. You'll need help."

"From who? The rats? Hell, they've probably moved on to a better neighborhood by now."

Jim was far from a hundred percent at the moment, but he knew when his guide was being deliberately dense. He caressed Blair's shaking hands. "You have to go get help, partner."

"No," replied Blair flatly, clutching Jim's hands tightly. "I am not leaving you here  --  "

"There's no other option."

"Leaving you alone and hurt in a dark hole is not the kind of option I can live with." Blair's voice was sharp now. "You're just trying to get me out of here, aren't you? This is more BPS crap--"

"This is not BPS," growled Jim impatiently. "It's a plan."

"That's not a plan," retorted Blair fiercely, pulling off his jacket. "It's a character flaw." He folded it and slipped it under Jim's head with a gentleness that belied his fierce tone.

"What's your plan, then?" demanded Jim in frustration, forcing himself not to groan as another spike of pain radiated up his leg.

"I'm working on it." Blair rested his hands on Jim's chest, looking more at a loss than Jim had ever seen him. "Just concentrate on keeping that dial low."

Jim drew a deep breath, hating himself for what he'd have to say next. "Chief, there's nothing you can do here."

"Maybe I can pry it off with something."

"You can't even see it, let alone maneuver it."

"You can talk me through it."

"Hell, I can't see it either! Not all of it. And I'd prefer not to make my leg any more of a pat鼩> than it already is."

Blair visibly flinched, then stared wordlessly in the direction of Jim's chest, his hands caressing it absently.

"Or make a pat頯f you," added Jim more gently. "Come on, Chief. You know I'm right."

Blair drew a shaky breath. "If I ever catch the bastard who did this to you  --  "

"Now you're talking." Jim forced a laugh from unwilling lungs, restraining another groan as his leg protested the movement. "Leave something for me, though, huh?"

"No promises."

"I'm pretty sure you've got your back to the way we came in." Jim swallowed hard and extended his arm enough to snag a five-foot section of narrow steel pipe that lay near by. "Here. You can use this to test the ground in front of you."

"You shouldn't have," said Blair drily, but his voice cracked. He took the pipe, then without warning dropped it and started groping uncertainly and impatiently toward Jim's face. Jim took the cold hands and guided them where they wanted to go, trying with everything in him to keep his own hands steady, letting Blair cradle his face tenderly between his hands as he lowered his warm mouth to Jim's.

Jim leaned up into the kiss eagerly, exploring that warm, familiar mouth as eagerly as he had the first time, drawing strength from every touch of lips and tongue. Neither man let go until he was gasping.

"Go slow," breathed Jim, determined to get in the first word. "Be careful. We've got time to do this, Chief. I'm not on death's door or anything, got it?"

"Right," panted Blair. "Got it. And you lie still. Focus. Close your eyes and keep your concentration on that dial. I'll be back before you know it."

"Right," Jim managed, trying not to imagine himself in Blair's place, being forced to leave Blair alone and hurting in the dark. "Got it. I'll be okay." It wasn't too much of a lie.

Blair picked up the pipe and rose to his feet, and Jim couldn't help wondering if this were the last time he'd ever see the man who'd made getting up in the morning worthwhile. He should tell him about that. He should--

"Save it for when I get back," said Blair softly. "I want to hear it then."

Jim felt his jaw drop; Blair couldn't even see him. There were times these days when his guide knew things that he just shouldn't be able to know. "You're getting more and more spooky, you know that, Sandburg?"

Blair smiled faintly. "It's a shaman thing, man. Deal." He paused. "See you later."

"See you later," echoed Jim hollowly.

Blair nodded and turned away, swinging the pipe back and forth in front of him like a blind man swings his cane.

Jim closed his eyes against the sight of his best friend's vulnerability in all that dark. Reaching up behind him, he pulled Blair's jacket from beneath his head and spread it over his chest, bringing the hood up to his nose and inhaling deeply. It smelled like Blair, sweet and strong.

He wasn't going to think about Blair out there in the unknown all alone. He wasn't. He was going to do what his guide had told him to do. He was going to do whatever it took to be alive when Blair got back. Because Blair would be back. He would.

Jim hugged the jacket close, closed his eyes and summoned the mental image of that goddamn dial.

Okay, you bastard. It's just you and me now, and you are going down.

***

"Why did the chili pepper cross the road?"

"I don't know, Blair, why did the chili pepper cross the road?"

"It crossed the road so Blair Sandburg could shove it in the fucking cuisinart and mangle its pointy little ass, that's why!"

Blair found himself raising his voice above a mutter and hastily ended his rather one-sided conversation. Damn Jim and his metaphorical chili peppers. Before today, Blair had given the things no more than a random, fleeting thought. Now he was obsessed. Everything was a goddamn chili pepper. Avena and his brown shirts? Chili pepper. Getting assigned to Arson? Chili pepper. Being traded for Anna? Chili pepper. Sloshing around with sewer water in his shoes and rat shit under them? Chili pepper. Getting blown up? Wait for it ...honkin' big chili pepper.

Blair stumbled over a chunk of something hard and swore softly. Pay attention, Blair. Feel before you step. He swung the pipe out in front of him carefully and moved slowly ahead. At least he thought it was ahead. He might be headed in a big circle for all he knew. Amazing how easily a person could lose all sense of direction with no light to focus on. Blair found he had developed an even healthier respect than he'd already had for the blind people he'd seen navigating themselves about their daily lives.

God, he was tired. And he hurt like hell. Blair winced, shaking his head. No. It was Jim who was hurting like hell. Jim. Blair knew he'd never forget the horrible sensation as his fingers had touched that piece of bone sticking through Jim's pants-leg; the feel and smell of Jim's blood. Blair shuddered involuntarily. He'd seen Jim hurt before, but this? The man was lying in a sewer with who knew how many pounds of concrete on top of him. Blair didn't want to think about how much pain Jim was in. Or what the continued pressure of that weight might do to his friend. Or how long it would take him to bleed to death. Or if he didn't bleed to death, what kind of infection an ugly wound like that could develop if he weren't removed from this environment immediately. God, he could develop gangrene or something....

No. No. That wasn't going to happen, because Blair was going to find his way out of here and bring Jim help. Fast. Blair set his jaw and swung his pipe determinedly, taking another step forward. Leaving Jim back there went against his every instinct. It hurt. It hurt even more knowing just how often Jim had been abandoned in the past, by people who had claimed to love him. It hurt a hell of a lot more than that press conference that Jim was still so hung up on, that's for sure. Was that only four months ago? It seemed like a lifetime. A good lifetime, worth any number of chili peppers.

Nothing happens in this world without a reason. Blair believed that without reservation. And although his faith had been challenged many times in the past four years, it had emerged intact and perhaps even stronger for the trials it had passed through. There was a reason for all this. Jim and Blair might not see it in their lifetimes, but there was definitely a reason. Good things didn't just happen. They were built one coincidence, one life, and one struggle at a time, over years, decades, centuries... sometimes millennia. That was how the universe got good things done, and chili peppers didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of wrecking a good thing once the universe was on the job.

Blair nodded decidedly at the obnoxious vegetable in his mind's eye. So there. He sighed and finally allowed himself to look back the way he'd come, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to see Jim, or anything else for that matter. He just had to turn around and face his good thing, even if he couldn't see it.

Not that Jim was just his good thing. Jim was his best thing. Ever. Nobody had ever loved him like Jim. Nobody. Not friends, not lovers, not even family. Jim cared about him and for him in a way Blair had never experienced before. Jim looked out for him, worried about him, and yes, protected him. And for all the hell Blair gave Jim over his acute and acutely annoying case of BPS, Blair knew now that that was a big part of who Jim was, and how Jim loved. Blair might talk about a cure, but he'd never do a damn thing to find one. Because Jim Ellison would be less than the man he was if he weren't drawn to protect those in need, and those he loved.

Blair blinked away the tears blurring his vision in annoyance, wishing with all his soul that he could catch one last glimpse of Jim. Impossible, of course. He was too far away and it was too damn dark. Not even Jim could see that far.

But he did see something.

Blair blinked and stared. A light. There was a light back there, and it was moving. A flashlight? He watched it bob and weave among the debris. Yes. Someone back there was moving with a flashlight. Maybe a rescue worker had made his way down there, or maybe it was just some sewer worker who was as trapped as they were. It didn't matter. Here was someone who could help get that damned slab off Jim, and they were practically on top of him. They'd find him before Blair could get back there.

Blair fairly vaulted ahead into the darkness, waving his pipe wildly in front of him as he retraced his steps as quickly as dodging masonry, concrete, pipework, and pits would permit.

***

The dial remained obstinately where it was, and the agony creeping past his knee mocked his efforts. Jim groaned softly. He was losing this battle, and he wanted to scream, scream in pain, in fear, and in anger  --  and scream for Blair to come back to him. Why had he sent him away? He should have seen immediately that it was hopeless. He'd endangered Blair's life for nothing.

God, he wanted him here. He wanted Blair to hold him. He wanted to hear that sweet voice just one more time. Nobody'd ever loved him like Blair. Loved him no matter what stupid thing he'd said or done. Stuck by him no matter how many times Jim had hurt him or let him down. He wanted to tell Blair what that meant to him. What he meant to him.

"Blair." It was no more than a pained whisper, but it brought an instant response.

A bright light shone in Jim's eyes. Jim gasped in pain and surprise and shielded his eyes.

"Not even close, fag." The voice sliced across Jim's sensitive hearing like a serrated blade. "Where's your girlfriend, huh?"

"Avena," grated Jim grimly, abruptly changing his mind about wanting Blair back here. Thank God he was out of this monster's way.

Avena chuckled and removed the light from Jim's face. He perched the flashlight on the slab and squatted down beside Jim. "Looks like Fag of the Year's had a little accident."

Jim tried desperately to remember which pocket he'd put his gun in. "This was no accident. Any more than Charlie Tucker was."

A brief flash of unease crossed Avena's face. "Charlie?"

"We had a little talk. He's going to make one hell of a witness."

"You're lying," snarled Avena, but Jim could see the fear in his eyes. "He's dead by now. And buried." He leaned closer to Jim. "You're not looking too good, Ellison. Leg hurts, huh?"

"You're not looking too good either," rasped Jim determinedly. "Who started rearranging your face? They should have finished the job."

"I'll be finishing the job," snapped Avena, jerking further away. "That son of a bitch Rafe is a dead man."

Jim actually managed to laugh. Oh, good for you, Rafe. I owe you one. "Sorry I missed it. You know, for a guy who talks so much about killing people, you don't seem to have much luck with it. I'm alive, Charlie's alive, Rafe's alive  --  "

"You're all dead!"

"And you're down here. Why's that, Mike? Forget to wind your watch this morning?"

"A dead man got in my way." Avena's tone was savage. "I'd have been at McCaffey's having a beer right now if Rafe hadn't decided to block my escape route."

"Oh, he followed you down here, huh? Probably wants to finish off your face, he's a real perfectionist that way."

"He's dead! If not now, then later."

Jim tried not to deal with the probability that Avena was all too right and ploughed ahead. "Is your partner dead too?"

Avena laughed contemptuously. "Bobby? Why kill Bobby? He thinks Charlie snapped, stole some stuff from evidence lockup and started torching buildings all on his little lonesome. He's probably still in some tunnel a half a mile away looking for little brother. Do you know he actually spent the last few months trying to talk Charlie into stopping? The man's an idiot. If Charlie could have torched just a few more buildings and got the town in a real panic, we could have convicted Leibowitz, and the Arson Squad would have been front page news."

"Don't worry," returned Jim through gritted teeth. "It will be. 'Dirty Cop Convicted of Arson and Attempted Murder.' You're going down, Avena. You're up for a nice long stretch in the federal pen. You'll find out more about 'fags' than you ever wanted to know."

"Shut up!" Avena leapt to his feet and in one fluid motion dealt the thigh of Jim's injured leg a savage kick.

Jim could no more stop the full-throated scream that was torn from him than he could stop breathing. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on fire, and he clawed wildly at the dial in his mind in a vain effort to reduce the torture.

"Hurts, huh? Good. Now before I put you out of your misery, you're going to tell me which way Jew-boy went."

"I don't know," gasped Jim, feeling his left jacket pocket for his gun. "He was gone when I came to."

"Don't give me that!" Avena snatched Blair's jacket off Jim; Jim managed to restrain himself from an attempt to grab it back. This man's hands touching anything of Blair's was a desecration. "This is his, I saw him wearing it this morning. He was here, playing nurse. And then you sent him for help. Right? Which way did he go?"

"I told you," breathed Jim, feeling his right pocket. "He was gone when I came to."

Avena's booted foot made violent contact with Jim's ribs this time, and Jim cried out again, feeling around him desperately for the missing gun.

"Looking for this?" Avena held something over his head tauntingly, dangling it between thumb and forefinger.

Through a haze of pain, Jim looked up and realized what it was.

"You were out for quite awhile. You should know better than to keep your weapon where a perp can get to it," sneered Avena. "Cascade's Cop of the Year. What a joke. Which way did he go?"

Jim met Avena's glittering eyes and felt that last of his hope die. "Fuck you," he said dully, then started screaming again as the brutal blows began to fall.

***

The scream echoed off every surface around him, and Blair drew in a gasping breath of shock, then started running, colliding with concrete and tripping over twisted metal, still clutching the pipe but making no use of it as a guide. He could see two figures in the small pool of light now. Someone was standing over Jim.

Someone was hurting Jim. Why? Who down here would -- Tucker? Avena?

Didn't matter. Didn't matter, didn't matter, whoever was hurting Jim was going to--

Another scream tore the air, and Blair groaned aloud and kept running--finding it a little easier to run now that the light was closer--eyes glued to that small area of light that grew agonizingly larger with every step. Whoever was hurting Jim was going to hurt, too, hurt worse than his friend had, and if Jim--If he was--

No. No, no, no....

This was all his fault; he should never have left Jim. Every instinct had told him that, every instinct as both guide and friend. Why had he let Jim convince him to leave? When had separation ever been good for either of them? He'd been stupid, stupid, stupid, and now Jim was paying the price.

"...used to be a real man, now look at you..."

He knew that voice....

"...little kike faggot worth all this..."

Oh, God. Oh god oh god oh god....

"Avena!" howled Blair at the top of his lungs. He saw Avena pause in the middle of a brutal kick to Jim's head and turn in confusion to peer into the dark; saw him raise a weapon, then heard a familiar voice raised in a hoarse shout.

"Chief, he's armed, get out of here, get out!" Jim was actually trying to rise, his mouth spitting out blood along with the words.

"That's all from you," snarled Avena, half-turning, and turned his gun on the man on the ground. Jim drew in a ragged breath but didn't flinch away.

Blair burst into the light and brought the pipe down on Avena's wrist, forcing the weapon from his hand. Avena screamed an obscenity and grabbed the pipe, yanking it from Blair's hands and swinging it around to catch Blair across the ribs. Blair cried out in pain and doubled over, struggling to catch his breath, but before Avena could raise the pipe to swing again Blair launched himself under the weapon and tackled the cop to the ground. The pipe struck the concrete and rolled away as Blair pounded with ferocious force at the man's chest and face with his fists, lost in a savage abandon he'd never felt before in his life.

This bastard had made his life and Jim's living hell for months. And now he'd tried to kill Jim -- his Jim -- his best thing, the only person in the whole damn world who really knew him, loved him, wanted him, needed him, protected him--

"Chief, he's down, he's down. Stop!"

He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He wanted this man to hurt, to hurt like Jim had been hurt, like he had been hurt--

"Blair, listen to me!"

Blair yanked his gun from his ankle holster and shoved it into Avena's stunned, bleeding face. "Maybe you need more of a taste, huh? Maybe I should personally do you--"

The wild urgency of that voice made Blair freeze for a moment, staring into the dull, uncomprehending features of the man beneath him.

"Blair." The voice was weak now, shaking. "Don't do it. That's not who you are."

Who am I? wondered Blair numbly as he stared down the barrel of his weapon into a human face.

"Please, Chief. For me." There was a strained little pause, as if Jim were having trouble gathering the strength to continue. "I'm... asking."

Blair hesitated for one more moment, then staggered off Avena and backed away, lowering his weapon. The beaten man lay staring up at Blair, motionless. "Don't move," said Blair dully. "Don't move at all or I swear to God I'll fire this damn thing."

Blair backed away slowly, but Avena seemed dazed, and made no attempt to rise. Blair sank to his knees beside Jim and lifted the head of the battered man very carefully into his lap, stroking his friend's hair and struggling for words that for once wouldn't come.

God, Jim was hurt everywhere now. The mud from Avena's boots was ground into the blood and bruising that covered Jim's chest, arms, and face; his right pants leg was soaked in blood. Jim took Blair's hand in a strong grip, his breathing labored and uneven and his face drawn in pain, and gave him a crooked little smile. "You came back," he croaked.

"I always come back," whispered Blair, bending low over his best friend.

"Yeah, I noticed." Jim reached up to touch Blair's cheek with a strange air of grave contentment. "Nice save, partner. Thanks."

"Wow," came suddenly from the dark. "Remind me to stay on your good side, Sandburg."

Jim stiffened in his arms and Blair, nerves frayed to the breaking point, whirled around and leveled his weapon as a familiar form limped into the light. The man looked filthy and exhausted, but he was grinning broadly as he slipped his gun back into its holster.

"Rafe?" Blair stared in shock. "Rafe?"

"Thank God," murmured Jim feebly. "What the hell... took you so long?"

"Ellison," said Rafe drily, circling Avena with a contemptuous look, "while you've been lying here entertaining the local Hitler Youth, I have been busting my butt to save your sorry sentinel ass." He bent to examine the slab pinning Jim.

Blair gaped. "His... his sorry--"

Rafe shot him an exasperated glance. "Get over here and give me a hand, Sandburg. And no offense, but the next time you two need a guardian angel, tell Simon to try the Yellow Pages."

***

"There's no point trying to keep him out of there, Doctor," said Simon wearily. "And I really don't see what the problem is. You're short on beds, right? Detective Ellison has graciously agreed to share his with Detective Sandburg. I for one applaud their selfless contribution to the community."

Dr. Morton glared at Simon, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the hospital waiting room, evidently deciding that further debate with such a lunatic was pointless. Rafe made a rude noise as he passed, and Henri grinned.

"Detective, try not to disgrace the entire Department," growled Simon. "Again."

Rafe gave him his best 'Who, me?' look. "Ellison and Sandburg are looking pretty good, don't you think?"

"Good enough for an indecency citation," returned Simon sourly, wondering just how much of the cuddle-mush those two dished out was designed to aggravate their long-suffering commanding officer.

"Good enough to rattle the brass around here, that's for sure," cackled Henri.

Rafe grinned broadly. "That's true love for you."

Simon gritted his teeth and started feeling for his Rolaids.

"Well, all's well that ends well, Captain," said Henri brightly.

"Detective Brown, what definition of 'well' includes the destruction of four three-block-long sections of city street surfaces and pavements, extensive damage to millions of dollars worth of both public and private property, dozens of injuries, and the public exposure of two major scandals within the Police Department?" Simon offered the question with little hope that it would be regarded for the unassailable rhetorical monolith it was, and he was not disappointed.

"Well, the last of the serious injuries came off the critical list," suggested Henri helpfully.

"No fatalities," added Rafe. "And the bomb squad's rounded up all the explosives from the sewers."

"Anna Calkins is doing great," put in Henri again.

"Amy Tucker's back with her mom."

"The shelter's back in business."

"With a security staff, thanks to the donations coming in after all the publicity."

"And the Department's setting up a Domestic Violence squad--"

"--thanks to all the phone calls coming in after all the publicity."

"Jim and Blair are going to be fine."

"Charlie's going to pull through."

"So's Avena."

"Well, no ending is perfect."

"Charlie and Bobby are turning state's evidence."

"And Avena's been indicted. Yes!" Rafe and Henri slapped a high-five.

Simon sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No more, gentlemen. Please."

"Captain McNeil's quote-retiring-unquote," continued Henri happily.

"Half the Arson squad's on suspension pending investigation."

"The news coverage of Avena's little plan to take out Jim and Blair got a lot of people riled up, so--"

"Brock had to issue a department policy statement requiring zero tolerance for harassment based on sexual orientation."

"It's bullshit, but it's a start."

"And best of all," continued Rafe triumphantly, "my little appearance on the evening news got me three -- count them, gentlemen  --  three offers from agents to represent me."

"Good God Almighty," said Simon in disgust.

"A star is born," said Henri drily. "Hold on, man, I'll get you a bedpan to sign."

"Enough," growled Simon.

Henri shook his head wonderingly. "Really, Captain, think about it. It's like we got a whole package of little miracles here. It's beautiful."

"You may call them miracles, Brown, but I call them coincidences," said Simon irritably. Despite all his orders to the contrary, Ellison and Sandburg had obviously been messing with the universe again. "Spectacular coincidences. Which only goes to prove that that package of yours has a return address of 852 Prospect."

***

"Think we overdid it?"

"Nah, it does him good to get his blood pressure up once in awhile."

"I really think the ear-nibbling bit was over the top, man."

"I like your ears," murmured Jim in a tone that actually made Blair blush. "Besides, it got him out of here. I'm getting sleepy again."

Blair smiled and hit the button to recline the bed a little. "Okay?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Blair curled himself around Jim as much as he was able to, given bandages, cast, and IV tubing. Jim had come out of surgery three days ago and was still on major doses of antibiotics and painkillers, which spaced him out more than the average patient. They hadn't talked much until today. But they'd touched a lot, and that had suited both of them just fine.

Blair settled his head gently on Jim's shoulder. "Sure that doesn't hurt?"

"Doesn't hurt," murmured Jim contentedly, putting his arm around Blair's shoulders. "Feels great."

"They haven't been by to chase me out in a while. Maybe they've given up."

"About damn time. They probably found out what a dangerous character they were dealing with."

Blair swallowed hard and tried to laugh, but no sound came out. His memories of the fight with Avena haunted his dreams; it was as if he'd been outside himself, watching some homicidal lunatic do those things--wearing his face. He'd never thought himself capable of that kind of violence. It made him sick.

"Sorry," murmured Jim, his free hand moving to caress Blair's hair. "Not funny."

"I didn't think I could do that," whispered Blair, something in Jim's manner finally giving him the courage to broach the subject. "I didn't think I had it in me."

"Everybody has it in them," whispered Jim back. "Everybody has something that will push that button, Chief."

"I wanted to kill him," said Blair in a very small voice, feeling like he'd murdered some small, innocent creature and buried it under the leaves. "I really did."

"I know. But you didn't do it."

"Because you stopped me."

"No, babe." Jim was emphatic. "I only asked you. You stopped yourself."

Blair considered that doubtfully. "Maybe."

"Don't hurt yourself over this."

Blair smiled faintly and tilted his head back enough to look at his friend. "Hey. I thought I was the shrink on this team."

"You are," said Jim gently, tracing Blair's jaw line with one finger. "I'm just a guy who's been there." He drew a deep breath and Blair waited, recognizing the signs; Jim had been building up the nerve to say something important all day. "I'm sorry, Chief."

Blair stared up at him, perplexed. "Sorry?"

"Yeah. Sorry that you have to go through this. Sorry that being with me is so... so damn tough."

"Tough for you to be with me too," croaked Blair, letting one hand touch, very, very gently, some of the bandages on Jim's chest, his arms.

"Worth it," said Jim huskily, eyes filling. He cleared his throat. "You're worth anything."

"You're worth it too." Blair drew a shaky breath and forged ahead desperately; if there was anything that could completely take him apart it was the sight of Jim's tears. "For God's sake, don't be sorry, man. I wouldn't trade one minute with you for... for...."

"A perfect salsa with no metaphorical chili peppers?" Jim's face broke into one of those brilliant, overwhelmingly beautiful Ellison smiles, the kind that always made Blair feel like he wouldn't need to eat, drink or breathe for a week.

"Perfection is vastly overrated," murmured Blair as he very gently hauled that beautiful smile toward him for a kiss. "Bring on the peppers."

End

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