Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Originally written in 2009. Don't expect today's technology.

Note: Although most of the stories by me follow each other in a story arc of sorts, this one and "Feline Persuasion" would only be taking place if "Remodel and Rebuild" had not happened. Alternate realities, if you wish.

Thank you very much, Sarai and iloveagoodstory for your reviews, Favorites and Follows.

A Single Flight of Stairs

Part 1

By EvergreenDreamweaver

BANG!

Jim Ellison flinched away from the concussive thunder of a door being slammed full-force. He half-expected to see the glass panes shatter under the impact, but the French door remained intact. He could hear Blair fling himself onto his bed, muttering curses in several different languages. The furious tirade subsided as Sandburg succumbed to exhaustion, however, and eventually there was no sound coming from his room save that of deep breathing.

Feeling numb, Ellison sat on the couch and rested his head in his hands, trying to figure out how and where and when things between himself and his partner had deteriorated so quickly.

###

It was one of those months – cases coming so thick and fast they could barely keep up with them with the whole division running flat out. To make matters worse, Henri Brown was on leave, recuperating from an on-the-job injury…and then their captain, Simon Banks himself had the temerity to come down with a bronchial infection. Joel Taggart was a capable stand-in, but with him doing Banks' work, the rest of the division was left even more short-handed. All the detectives were working long hours; Ellison and Sandburg, blessed with an extraordinary solve rate and cursed with an inability to say 'no' to additional cases, ended up with more and more work piled on their capable – but tiring – shoulders.

Sandburg had tried his best to keep things upbeat, at least when they were on duty, and to find ways to relieve stress when off, but it became more and more difficult the longer the situation continued. Eventually it affected both their work situation and their home life.

Ellison, as was his long-standing habit, dealt with things by retreating into his 'military' mode: lock down all the inessentials and cope with the essentials in the most grim, stoic and super-efficient manner he could effect. Partnering with Sandburg had softened his edges, but in times of crisis he tended to regress. Unfortunately, he didn't leave the attitude at work; it went home with him and found a convenient target in his roommate's transgressions.

At best, Jim's attitude was snarky; at worst his cold sarcasm and faultfinding were a bitter, continuous running monologue. It had been literally years since they'd bothered using color-coded Tupperware, but now Ellison insisted on renewing the practice, demanding that Blair use what had been deemed 'his' containers for his leftovers. When Blair protested, Jim curtly cut him short, declaring the subject closed. The next issues to be raised were predictable: hair in the shower drain, the bathroom sink dotted with shaving cream and beard stubble, books and magazines and miscellaneous clutter scattered about the living room rather than being neatly put away according to the Law of Ellison. The final straw had been this evening when they arrived home from work to discover that neither of them had remembered – or more accurately, had time – to buy any groceries, and the fridge was pretty well bare; not even leftovers to be had. Jim had exploded, accusing Blair of carelessly neglecting his responsibilities; Blair had countered with the sharp retort that it wasn't his sole responsibility, and Jim was equally to blame. The argument had escalated until Blair had cussed him out roundly, stormed into his room and slammed the door behind him.

###

Jim sighed and knuckled his eyes wearily. If he'd only stopped after the Tupperware demands, days ago, things might not have gone this far. If only he hadn't started ridiculing and taunting his partner in the bullpen, where not only Blair's feelings were hurt, but also his professional pride. If only he'd managed more than four hours of sleep over the past few nights. If only their cases would break open… He was in the wrong tonight and he knew it. It was equally his fault that there was nothing for dinner, and if the truth were known, it wasn't all that big a deal – it wouldn't have been that much a problem to either go out for dinner or to call for pizza or Chinese or some other form of take-out; they'd done it often enough. They were tired, true, but they could have managed. But instead, they had both lashed out.

I'm sorry, Chief…I had no right to go off at you like that…

He was too deep in remorseful reminiscence to notice that Sandburg's breathing had changed or to hear the soft sounds of clothing and blankets rustling as a wakeful Blair moved restlessly on his bed. And – not being psychic, merely sense-intensive – Jim had no idea that his unhappy thoughts were being paralleled by his roommate's.

###

Blair turned onto his back and tried to settle himself more comfortably, staring up at the barely-visible ceiling of his darkened room. He hadn't turned on any lights when he entered, and was in no mood to do it now. He was still angry and upset, but his current overwhelming emotion was sadness. Things were so bad between himself and Jim right now, and instead of blowing over and getting better as time went on, they seemed to be becoming worse. I've tried…I really have…

He'd yielded about the Tupperware, albeit reluctantly, hoping that this would pacify his contentious Sentinel. He'd made a conscientious attempt to be tidier in the bathroom, after Jim had complained and snarked and bitched. He'd made an effort to fix things Jim liked, on the rare occasions they had dinner at home, and after another barrage of complaints he'd endeavored to find the time to corral some of his scattered belongings. After all, he'd told himself, the job stress was no doubt playing havoc with Jim's heightened senses; as his Guide, Blair needed to be more understanding. But the constant sniping was wearing him down. After all, he was under the same stresses as Jim. They shared their job, they shared their home, they shared their off-times. Blair found himself guiltily wishing, in his innermost, secret heart-of-hearts, for a tiny vacation…a vacation away from the precinct and its denizens – and even away from Jim!

It wasn't that he didn't like being a cop, or didn't want to partner Jim anymore, or didn't want to be his roommate, or was tired of being Guide to a Sentinel. He loved Jim dearly; they were best friends, and he knew the affection was returned 100 percent; he enjoyed his job – dead bodies notwithstanding – and felt that he was doing something really important with his life. As for the Sentinel aspect, he was still, after over five years, awed and enthralled with what Jim could do using his heightened senses, and his own ability to help; he knew he'd never tire of that. And if he was totally, unequivocally honest, he had to admit that all the blame for this latest blowup shouldn't rest on Jim. He was at fault as well. After all this time together, he knew all of Jim's buttons, and how to push each one if he felt like being annoying. And perversely, he had felt like being annoying – as annoying as he could. Jim had hurt his feelings by his actions and words at work, even more than his behavior at home, and Blair had taken the opportunity to get a little of his own back tonight. Payback's a bitch, isn't it, Jim..? He wasn't being either kind or fair – but then, neither was Jim.

We're together 24/7 – week in and week out. It's just too much! Married couples aren't together this much! And why am I the one who has to make all the concessions, anyway?

Blair sighed again, drearily. He didn't know the answer to the question, and he didn't know the solution to the problem. He just knew that right now he was furious with Jim, and he suspected the feeling was mutual!

He raised his head from the pillow and listened intently, but could hear nothing from the living room. Jim hadn't turned on the television – a favorite form of escape from an uncomfortable situation – and Blair hadn't heard the front door open or close, so he didn't think that Jim had gone out. He briefly considered getting up to check, just in case Jim had zoned…and then shook his head, laid back down and closed his eyes. It was highly unlikely that the Sentinel had zoned; his control was excellent now, at least most of the time. Best to leave things alone tonight; tempers were still too high for conversation. Not that there was any guarantee that things would be better in the morning…

Blair fell asleep considering unlikely options for a vacation alone.

###

Jim had brooded a long time, but finally roused himself enough to listen for Blair's breathing and heartbeat – which indicated that the younger man was sound asleep; then he checked the locks, turned out the lights and went upstairs. Sleep, however, was a long time coming. Instead of dropping off, he lay in bed and stared at the skylight, still trying to figure out some way to smooth things over with Blair – and looking for a long-term solution as well.

They were too much in each others' hair right now, that was certain. When Blair had been at Rainier, his schedule there versus Jim's police work schedule made for frequent breaks. Back then, the problem had been managing enough time together, not too much. Now that they were partnered detectives, there was ordinarily enough 'give' in the work schedule that it wasn't a problem; they had plenty of leisure time to do things on their own, as well as doing things together, and occasionally their work had them acting separately…but lately that hadn't been feasible.

Maybe, once work permitted, he should take off for a few days, give Blair some space, give himself some space and time alone…? Uh, no. No, no, no. The last time he'd tried 'taking off' for some alone time, a suspicious, fish-envious Simon and a worried, hurt Blair had followed him. The resultant disastrous events in Clayton Falls had taught them all some hard lessons. He could still remember his absolute terror when he thought that Blair was dying of a mutant strain of Ebola virus, along with the knowledge that it was all his fault for causing his Guide to be in Clayton Falls in the first place.

So…that idea was out, but was there a way Sandburg could get away for a little while? After the last week or so and their borderline-vicious brouhaha tonight, it had to be on his mind. In fact, Jim wouldn't be surprised to see his roommate reading the 'Apartment for Rent' ads in tomorrow morning's Cascade Times. Devastated, but not surprised.

He fell asleep at last, but without coming to any satisfactory conclusions.

###

Blair woke the next morning to the sound of the shower running, and the fragrance of freshly-brewing coffee. He sat up and surveyed himself with distaste; nothing like having slept in your clothes, without washing or brushing your teeth, to feel utterly grungy. He rubbed his face tiredly. It felt sticky and crusted in spots…as if he'd cried in his sleep and left tear-tracks. Well, maybe he had. He'd certainly come close to it while awake.

The shower shut off and after a few minutes he heard Jim walk down the hallway and ascend the stairs. Knowing the Sentinel would be busy getting dressed for a bit, Blair quietly opened his door and slipped into the bathroom to take a quick shower.

Mindful of keeping the relative peace, Sandburg was meticulous about tidying up the bathroom, being careful to use the spray bottle of Shower Fresh, and wiping out the sink after he'd shaved and brushed his teeth, depositing the hand towel in the laundry hamper and hanging up a clean one. At last he concluded that he was purposely dawdling to avoid Jim. He squared his shoulders, opened the door and went to his bedroom to dress.

When he finally emerged, he was immediately struck by the empty feel of the apartment. There was no sign of Jim downstairs, and he heard nothing from the loft bedroom. Ellison's jacket and holster were gone from their usual places. All evidence pointed to Jim having departed without him.

"Why, that dirty rat! How dare he just go off and leave?" For a moment, Blair was enraged – and then he noticed the note propped up against the coffee maker. Still incensed, he snatched it up and began to read.

Sorry, Chief – Meant to have breakfast with you, but duty – or rather, Joel – called while you were in the shower. We've got another DB – sounds like a gangland execution, from what he said.

Here's the address: 1085 Puget Sound Lp.

Maybe we can go out to breakfast after – my treat. Promise we'll work on…things.

J.

Blair read the brief missive through once, then again. Long versed in Jim-speak, he could read between the lines and get a wealth of information from what the Sentinel had written and where the message had been placed.

Sorry, Chief . Meant to have breakfast with you, but duty – or rather, Joel – called while you were in the shower.

Translation: Addressing him as 'Chief' said We're still friends, right? The rest? I know we need to connect. I didn't want to spoil your morning by interrupting your shower.

We've got another DB – sounds like a gangland execution, from what Joel said. Here's the address: 1085 Puget Sound Lp.

Translation: I want you to come; this sounds nasty and I need you. ASAP, please.

Maybe we can go out to breakfast after – my treat. Promise we'll work on…things.

Translation: I'm sorry for running out on you – let me make up for it. I'm sorry about last night – hope we can straighten things out.

Although the idea of having a nice hearty breakfast after working a murder scene made Sandburg's stomach do lazy flips, he appreciated the thought and the gesture all the same.

The location of the note indicated that he should grab a cup of coffee before he left. Blair noticed that the pot was untouched; Jim hadn't taken any with him. It probably hadn't finished brewing before he had to go – and Ellison rarely stopped and bought coffee, especially on his way to a crime scene, so he'd be working without benefit of caffeine. Blair fixed two travel mugs, one for himself and one for his partner, then shut off the pot. He strapped on his shoulder holster and got his revolver from the locked gun case, pocketed his keys, notebook and pen, and donned his jacket, and was out the door, balancing the two mugs with care as he headed for the elevator.

#####

Blair worked his way through the organized chaos of a crime scene investigation, inquiring once or twice where he might find Ellison. Finally he spotted his partner crouched next to a zipped body bag, scanning the ground intently. Thanking his lucky stars that the victim was already 'bagged,' and therefore not visible, Blair circled around so that he approached Jim from the front, and spoke quietly. He knew better than to startle the ex-Ranger by creeping up on him from behind. Jim had probably sensed him coming, but there was no reason to take unnecessary chances.

"Hey, Jim." He held out one of the travel mugs. "Brought you some coffee."

Ellison raised his head, gazing abstractedly at his advancing partner. His frown of concentration faded, and he offered a tentative smile. "Bless you, Chief – and thanks for coming." He took the mug from Blair and practically inhaled the contents. "God, that's good! I owe you, buddy." He took another gulp, then cast one hand out in an encompassing gesture. "Not sure there's anything here to pick up, but…"

"But we can try." Blair sank to his heels beside Jim and laid a hand lightly against his back. "I know you probably already went over everything." He had deduced from Jim's demeanor that they were in professional mode right now, last night's confrontation put on the back burner, but the wary smile and the 'thanks for coming' revealed the Sentinel's doubt about Blair's turning up at all, or at least uncertainty about his mood. Evidently Jim had been worried too – and he looked as if he'd had about as much sleep as Blair had – in other words, not much.

"Tried, didn't come up with anything," Ellison said tersely. "He wasn't killed here, he was dumped, that much I know. Not enough blood." He leaned slightly into Blair's supporting hand and resumed his careful contemplation of the area. To a casual observer he would have seemed to be merely gazing around at the crime scene again, but Blair knew he was taking minute inventory of everything around him, down to the smallest particles – something he was reluctant to do for any extended amount of time when Sandburg wasn't there to help him avoid zoning. But after a few minutes Jim drew in a deep breath and shook his head dismissively. "If there's anything here I can't spot it. Whoever did this was very careful not to leave any traces."

"Cause of death?" Blair pulled out his notebook and pen.

"Single bullet to the forehead is the obvious cause, but Dan may find something else, something additional." Jim reached for the body bag. "You want to see him? I didn't recognize him, but there's always a chance you might."

Blair grimaced but nodded. "Yeah, guess I'd better." He tensed instinctively as Ellison unzipped the bag, and was only slightly surprised to feel Jim's hand settle reassuringly on his shoulder. He gulped a little and forced himself to observe the victim dispassionately. Thankfully, there was just the single hole punched in the middle of his forehead, and equally to be praised, Blair had never seen him before. He shook his head, indicating no knowledge of the identity. "Very…tidy," he managed, as Ellison closed the bag again.

"Professional," Jim decreed. He sighed a little and pushed himself to his feet, then extended a hand to Blair. "Think we've seen all we can see here. How about some breakfast before we go to the station?"

"I…guess." Blair felt his insides tighten apprehensively.

Jim gave him a sharp glance and seemed to understand. "Something light," he qualified, and Blair nodded heartfelt agreement.

###

They were quiet over their belated breakfast. Neither one wanted to break this temporary truce by bringing up the ugly scenes from the night before. Surprisingly, Jim made the first overture.

"Chief…about last night…um…I'm sorry, really sorry for the way I've been acting lately. I don't mean to be so…so…critical." Cringing inside, he waited for his roommate's expected acid comeback where he really clarified what Jim's behavior had been. 'Critical' indeed – he could just imagine what Blair, the articulate wordsmith, would call it!

Blair, however, didn't respond as anticipated. He simply looked up from his plate of assorted melon slices and sighed a little. His eyes were heavy, dark-shadowed with weariness. "I know. It isn't just you, Jim. I was out of line last night," he admitted quietly, "and I'm sorry too."

Jim was about to say something more when his cell phone chirped. With rolling eyes and a long-suffering sigh, he pulled it from his pocket and answered it. Concluding the conversation, he signaled to Blair that they needed to go. "Sorry, Chief. Dan wants us around when he does the autopsy on our mystery man. Guess we'll have to put this conversation on hold again."

When they finally made it to the precinct the partners were swept into the workday – already full, and now there was the addition of their new case as well. They kept strictly to business; they had little time to do anything else – but Ellison paid close attention to his actions and reactions all morning, determined not to let anything spoil the tentative rapprochement between himself and Blair.

#####

Joel Taggart, acting division head, was no dummy. He had observed the increasing tension between Sandburg and Ellison and it worried him. Familiar with both men and their personalities, Taggart suspected that this was probably a case of too much togetherness, exacerbated by the current work overload, but there hadn't been any chance to give them – or the rest of the detectives in Major Crimes – a respite. They both looked bad today, he noted, and searched for some pretext to separate them temporarily. A recently-received memo caused the captain's eyes to light up and prompted a satisfied smile. He waited until he saw Ellison leave his desk and head to the elevator, then popped his head around his office door.

"Blair, can I see you a minute, please?"

Sandburg glanced up. It was always a shock to hear Joel's politely-phrased requests rather than Simon Banks' bellowed demands. "Sure, be right there." He minimized the computer program he was in and closed the file folder on his desk, then rose to his feet and went to the captain's office. Joel gestured to a chair, but Blair shook his head. "I'll stand, thanks. What's up?"

"Blair, I need you to do something for me," Taggart began. He didn't meet the younger man's eyes, instead concentrating on shuffling papers on the desk. "There's a station-wide request out for an emergency temporary person to handle Media Relations, and I would like to send you downstairs for a few days to fill it."

"Wha-a-a-a-t?" Caught completely by surprise, Blair sat down in the visitor's chair with a thump. "Media Relations! Joel, you gotta be kidding; you know I can't be a media spokesperson for the force! I do my best to keep completely under the radar as it is! The press got to know me way too well, back when!"

Now Taggart looked up. He noticed that Sandburg's eyes were wide – and wild – and he was nervously running a hand through his hair, snarling and disheveling it. Blair was obviously upset at the prospect of tangling with the media again, in any capacity.

"I already thought of that. You don't have to deal with the press directly. We can work around that. Someone else can liaison directly with them, but M-R's lost their press-release writer for a week or so – something about somebody having a baby prematurely." He waved the memo at his thunderstruck detective. "I think you'd be ideal to write press releases – short-term, of course," Joel added reassuringly. "You can BS—"

"Obfuscate," Blair corrected automatically.

"Exactly." Taggart's eyes twinkled. "You can do that better than anyone else I know. If any release needs any sort of spin, you can spin it favorably for the PD. And your writing skills are well known. You could do this with one hand tied behind your back, Blair."

Blair's head was whirling. It was unthinkable – Ellison would have conniption fits, and rightly so…and yet, here was a chance to let Jim have some breathing space, and to give himself some as well. "What about Jim?" he asked. "We're already shorthanded—"

"Brown's going to be back on desk duty tomorrow," Joel replied. "And Jim spent years working solo; a few days of it now aren't going to hurt him. You've spoiled him, Blair; he seems to think you're not only a partner, you're his indentured servant and private secretary, and personal punching bag – I mean that figuratively! – or something. The man can type his own reports for a bit. Besides, you'll be right here in the building if anything comes up. It's not like we're sending you to Outer Mongolia."

"I…guess, but…."

"Good." Taggart slapped his palms on the desk blotter. "Done deal. Grab your stuff and get down there. Second floor. Report to Captain Fitzgerald."

"But Jim…I need to tell him…"

"I'll inform Jim." Something steely in the other man's voice and gaze reminded Blair that this was a police captain he was talking to. Joel might look and act easygoing most of the time, but if you were smart you didn't push him beyond the limits. "Now go. Dismissed, Detective."

"Right; on my way." Blair exited the office and quickly shut down the program he'd been working on. He picked up his jacket, patting the pocket to make sure his cell phone was there, then scanned the double desks hastily, deciding that there was nothing else he needed, and headed for the precinct's second floor. He wished he'd left a note for Jim, but after what Joel said…he wondered just how Captain Taggart was going to 'inform' Ellison that his partner had been summarily taken away!

###

When Jim returned to the bullpen from evidence lockup, he noticed immediately that Sandburg was no longer at his desk, but assumed he was in the break room or somewhere else nearby. He sat down and resumed working, but after a few minutes looked up again, scanning the big room for any sight, sound or scent of his partner. With a start he realized that Blair's coat was missing from the rack.

"Rafe, do you know where Sandburg is?"

The other detective looked up absently from his paperwork. "Huh? Blair? No. I think he was talking to Taggart a while ago, though. Maybe he's still in there."

"Hmmm." No, he wasn't in Simon's office; a quick check with heightened senses told Jim that there was only one occupant – and that occupant wasn't his partner. Expanding his area of coverage told him Blair wasn't currently anywhere near Major Crimes. Frowning, he thoroughly searched their desks for a note that Blair might have left. He checked his cell phone for messages. Nothing. Where in the world could Sandburg have gone? Slightly miffed but not really worried, assuming that wherever Blair was he would show up in his own good time, he returned to the tasks which seemed to multiply every time he turned around.

###

As the minutes ticked by with no sign of Sandburg, Jim became more and more irked, confused and worried. He was fairly sure that Blair hadn't simply left in some sort of snit at him…their interaction this morning had been relatively cordial. If he'd gone out on some sort of casework, or to meet with a snitch, he would have left a message. Jim picked up the phone three times to dial Blair's cell, and replaced it three times without completing the call. He didn't want to be seen as checking up on Sandburg, implying that the younger man had no independent rights…but damn it, where was Blair, and why didn't he call in to let people know what was going on, so they didn't have to worry…? Finally Jim decided to check with their acting captain.

"Joel – can I have a minute?"

Taggart leaned back in his chair. "Come in, Jim. I figured you'd be dropping in sooner or later. Sit down."

Ellison sank uneasily into the indicated chair. "Did you send Sandburg out on something? He seems to have…disappeared."

Taggart's lips twitched slightly. "As a matter of fact, I did. I loaned him out to another division – temporarily, Jim, calm down!"

The caution to calm down wasn't heeded; Ellison leaped to his feet and loomed over the seated captain, his fists braced against the desk top. "You loaned him out!? When we're already short—"

"Jim…"

"Where'd you send him?"

"Jim…"

"I need him back, Joel!"

"Jim!" More softly: "Shut up and sit down, Detective, and give me a chance to explain, all right?"

Ellison blinked and complied, sinking into the chair once more. "When'd you start channeling Simon?"

Joel snorted. "You don't think I've watched him work? Now, listen up. Blair's just down on the second floor. Media Relations – Jim, SIT DOWN!"

"Media…you can't; they'll eat him alive, Joel! You think those reporters don't have memories like elephants?"

Taggart stared up at the ceiling. "Give me strength," he pleaded, just above a whisper. Then, louder, "Jim, for Pete's sake would you mind letting me talk for more than a few words at a time?"

"Sorry." Ellison sat down again, looking somewhat sheepish. "But…Media Relations?"

"Blair's not going to be up against the beat reporters, he's going to be writing press releases, and someone else will deliver them," Joel explained carefully. He picked up the memo and handed it across the desk. "Read that. You'll see where he's at and what he'll be doing – and yes, I know they requested someone to liaison with the press, but that's already been worked out."

Jim rapidly scanned the missive and then handed it back, looking rueful but resigned. "But…why Blair? He's my partner, and you just sent him off without even asking me?" He paused, scowling. "And why didn't he leave me a note or something? That underhanded, sneaky—"

"Don't get the idea he wanted to leave without telling you, because he did want to," Taggart forestalled the rising diatribe. "I told him I'd take care of it, that I'd tell you." Joel leaned back in his chair and surveyed his colleague somberly. "And as for why I sent him…I sent him because I thought he needed to get away from here for a little bit, and it was a heaven-sent viable reason. Was I wrong, Jim?"

Long seconds passed before Jim replied, his voice very subdued. "No…no, you weren't wrong."

#####

Down on the second floor, where he'd been greeted with almost tearful delight by Captain Fitzgerald and the rest of the people working Media Relations, Blair took a break from his new job, pulled out his cell phone and checked it – again – to make sure it was turned on, the battery was fully charged, and that he hadn't received any calls that – for whatever reason – he'd missed picking up. Nothing showed. No received calls, no messages left, no nothing.

Evidently Jim didn't give a rat's ass whether he was around or not, so much so that he either didn't notice Blair had disappeared from Major Crimes, he didn't care that Blair had disappeared from Major Crimes…or he was happy to have him gone and perhaps had gone out to lunch to celebrate.

Feeling bitter, Blair savagely stuffed the little phone back into his pocket and returned to his task of writing press releases and the short routine reports that went in the daily newspapers. It was interesting, if somewhat tedious; he'd never had a chance to really think about the minutiae of the day-to-day activities of the uniformed officers, or much about how information was funneled to the newspapers and radio and television. He'd been far too busy with Major Crimes.

Why hadn't Jim called?

A sudden thought made him halt his activities and lean back in the chair, eyes raised to the ceiling, as if he could see through several floors up to Major Crimes. Maybe Jim had expected him to call? Joel had said that he'd take care of telling Jim about the temporary transfer, but maybe…just maybe…Jim had been waiting to hear it from Blair as well. Or had Joel, for whatever reasons known only to himself, forbidden Jim to contact him?

His head sagged forward. "Sandburg, you're a first-class moron," he muttered, and pulled out the cell phone again. He punched the appropriate buttons and waited while the call went through.

"Ellison." Jim sounded normal, unflurried, but…was there a note of relief in the even tones? He'd know who was calling, of course; their cells had Caller ID.

"Hey, it's me. Joel tell you where he sent me?"

"Yeah, he did. How's it in Media Relations?"

"They were so desperate for help down here they practically held a ticker-tape parade when I arrived, man!" Blair chuckled, and was heartened to hear answering low laughter from Jim. "It's…different. It's a lot less high-pressure than Major Crimes."

"Try not to get spoiled. But…I think maybe you needed the break." Jim had stopped laughing, but he didn't sound upset, merely thoughtful.

Blair sighed. "I think maybe you might be right. But I don't want to stay here," he added hastily. "This is strictly short-time."

"I know, Chief."

"Everything okay up there?"

Jim laughed again. "You've been gone what, two hours? What all did you think might have changed in that time?"

"Nothing, I don't know, I just meant…"

"Everything's fine, Chief. No problems."

"Oh. Well…that's good." Blair suddenly felt stupid for calling and bothering Jim, who was obviously suffering no difficulties without his partner and Guide. "Um…right. Anyway. Guess I'd better let you go; I'm sure you have things to do."

"Hey, wait a minute…they give you lunch breaks down there in Media Relations? It's already past one."

"I suppose so, yeah."

"Hungry yet? You didn't have much breakfast." Ellison sounded solicitous, in a 'you never take any kind of care of yourself' sort of way.

"I could eat."

"Meet me in the lobby in 15 minutes?"

A feeling of relief swept through Sandburg at the question. It reassured him a lot. Even though he knew he drove Jim crazy at times and vice versa, apparently the Sentinel still wanted him around. But he looked at the piles of paper on his desk and frowned. "Make it half an hour and I think I can do it."

"Half an hour. See you then, Chief." Sudden 'dead air' told Sandburg Jim had ended the call.

###

Blair skidded down the stairs and burst into the lobby, looking hastily around for Jim and hoping against hope Ellison had been held up by something or other. Ten minutes late – hell, he probably went without me! Jim hated Blair's chronic tardiness, and never overlooked an excuse to rag on him about it. But luck was with Blair, for a few moments later an elevator dinged and opened to discharge an irritated-looking Sentinel.

"Sorry – got a phone call just as I was leaving."

"That's okay, man." Guilt and honesty made him add, "I just got here myself."

Ellison's expression lightened. "In that case, let's go."

Lunch was as amicable as their belated breakfast had been, and laced with humorous commentary on Blair's new temporary workplace and tasks. Jim caught him up to date on how their cases were progressing – which didn't take a lot of conversation, as nothing had changed in any of them. Ellison also expressed – emphatically – his feelings regarding Joel Taggart's high-handed reassignment of Blair. Sandburg, both touched and amused, agreed in theory, but didn't join in the litany of complaints. When they finished eating and settled back for a last few minutes with refilled coffee cups Blair leaned across the table with a pleading expression in his eyes.

"Ya know, Jim, this temporary transfer is a good thing, in a way – I know, I know, it was a shock and a surprise, and Joel was kinda abrupt about it…but he was right. We've been attached at the hip without any relief for too long." Seeing Jim's expression go stony and his eyes cold, Blair hastily continued. "Listen up, man, I am NOT saying I want it to be anything more than a couple days long. I don't. Don't try to read things into this that I'm not saying or don't mean, and don't twist it so that you feel justified in severing the partnership or kicking me out of the loft…" He paused, not seeing any softening in Ellison's features. "Or maybe you do want that…"

"God NO!" Jim's hand moved like a striking snake to clutch Blair's wrist. "Never, Chief!"

Blair stared deep into the ice-blue eyes across the table. "You sure about that?"

"Very sure. Don't want you moving out. Don't want you transferring elsewhere in the department. Don't want to lose you in any way, shape or form." The strong fingers tightened to a painful intensity. "Already came way too close to that."

Blair shut his eyes, both in a quick prayer of relief and thanks, and also to hide the discomfort he was afraid would show; Jim sometimes forgot his own strength. A half-second later he felt the iron grip around his wrist bones ease to a more tolerable level.

"Sorry." Jim sounded both embarrassed and contrite. "Didn't mean to do that." He massaged Blair's throbbing wrist gently. "But no, I don't want you to leave. At all."

"And I don't want to leave. At all." Blair smiled, relieved when Ellison did the same. "But I still think it's fortunate about the reassignment because I was driving you nuts—"

"And I've been driving you nuts. I remember last night very clearly, Chief. We're both at fault here."

"Granted...but—" Blair started to continue, then caught a glimpse of Jim's wristwatch. "Oh crap, I've gotta get back!" He started to rise but was immobilized by Ellison's unrelenting hold. "Jim…"

"I know, Chief. Listen up: you're right and I admit it – as long as we agree it's strictly temporary, and we'll figure out later what to do for a permanent solution."

Blair turned his wrist and clasped Jim's arm tightly…reassuringly. "You got it. And now let's go, before Media Relations sends me back to Major Crimes for being unreliable!"

#####

After lunch Ellison left the bullpen to interview witnesses. With so many cases hanging fire, it was fairly simple to find people to talk to. The hard part was remembering which case he was working on at any specific time! He had just finished up one such cozy little chat when his cell phone rang. He yanked it from his pocket.

"Ellison."

"Hey, it's me."

Jim suppressed a sigh. "Don't tell me, let me guess: you have to work late, right?"

"I'm really sorry. It's taking me a little longer to get the hang of this than I anticipated. I mean…I can do it, it just takes longer than I think it will."

"Lucky we drove separate vehicles."

"I'm sorry," Blair repeated miserably. "I'll be done as soon as I can."

Predictably, Jim's heart melted in the face of his partner's remorse. "Don't worry about it, Chief. Let's just figure on going out for dinner after you get done. Maybe I'll swing by the grocery store and pick up a few things on my way home, and then we'll at least have some options for a few days."

"Okay." Blair sounded a bit happier now. "I should make it by…seven…or so."

"Take all the time you need. It's all right." Jim did his best to sound reassuring. "See you when I see you."

"Right – bye."

Jim called Rhonda after his conversation with Blair ended and asked her to log him out for the day. He made a stop to buy a cartful of groceries and a 12-pack of their favorite brand of beer, then headed for the loft. It took him three trips to get everything up to their third floor apartment. He took the elevator the first two times, then virtuously chose the stairs for the final trip. After putting things away he went out onto the balcony to enjoy the view of the Sound for a few minutes.

How were they to solve this problem? It might blow over again and again, and pretty much disappear when things were going well…but when they weren't, when situations either at work or in their personal lives caused too much tension and they couldn't get any time to themselves…

At least Sandburg had stated emphatically that he didn't want any sort of separation, either professionally or personally, and Jim knew without a doubt that Blair wasn't lying, wasn't obfuscating, wasn't shading the truth. He also knew without a doubt that he, himself, was in complete agreement with Blair. There had to be a solution of sorts; they just hadn't thought of it yet.

Pensively, Jim gazed downward toward the street, his eyes idly scanning the balcony just below their own – the one attached to Apartment #207. The place had been vacant for a long time now – since right after the debacle with Warren Chapel, when #307 had been shot up. The woman who had occupied the place had stuck it out through Larry the Barbary ape's double trashing of Jim's apartment, and had even put up with the incidents of David Lash and Colonel Oliver, and Incacha's death. But Warren Chapel had been the last straw, and she had moved out. The owner of the building had been unable to even interest anyone since – at least so far as Jim knew.

Hmmm…wonder what that place rents or sells for? It's smaller than this one. Blair might be able to manage a lease, or payments. It would be close, but still a separate place of his own.

Ellison considered the pros and cons of having Blair live a floor below in his own apartment. He thought about plenty of hot water for showers, about not having things scattered over every square inch of the apartment, of putting up with the odor of algae shakes and another person's bathroom smells. He thought about being able to watch whatever he wanted to watch on television when he wanted to watch it, not having to negotiate for 'real' sports or action movies versus a rugby match or The Discovery Channel, or some avant-garde foreign flick with subtitles.

And then he thought about nightmares, and injuries, and sensory spikes and zones…and not having anyone around to soothe him, or pull him out. He thought of Blair's nightmares and injuries, and not being right there to comfort him, or ease his hurts, both physical and emotional. He thought of shared breakfasts and companionable dinners and evenings sprawled at either end of the long couch, munching popcorn and mixed nuts and yelling for and cursing out the Jags or the Mariners or the Seahawks. He thought of Blair flinging peanuts at the television set, enraged over what he considered a bad call by a referee. And he felt his heart contract painfully when he tried out the thought 'never again?'

But maybe that's what Blair needed and wanted?

He stared down at the second-floor balcony again and then resolutely squared his shoulders. There was no time like the present, and nothing would be gained by putting this off. He went inside and looked up the telephone number of the building manager.

Don Tapscott lived on the second floor and was home when Jim called. He was quite willing to show Detective Ellison the apartment directly below his own. No one had evinced any interest in 207 for months, and although Tapscott couldn't imagine why Ellison was requesting a tour, any sign of curiosity about it was enthusiastically welcomed.

Tapscott unlocked the front door and ushered Ellison inside. "Take all the time you want, Detective. If you have questions, I'll try to answer them."

Jim stood near the door and gazed speculatively around the place, then slowly began to move about, looking at everything with Sentinel meticulousness. Being below his and Blair's abode, the basic layout was similar, to accommodate structural and plumbing concerns, but there were some significant differences as well. The kitchen and bath were in the same places, and there were the glass doors opening onto a balcony – but there were no skylights, for of course this apartment wasn't on the top floor of the building. There was an elevated loft bedroom that resembled Jim's, but was somewhat smaller, and with a much lower ceiling. The room which corresponded to Blair's had the same fire-escape door and outside windows , but none that looked into the main apartment. Floor-length strings of sparkly glass beads formed a fluid barrier to the small room. Jim fingered them gently, listening to their soft rattle.

The bathroom differed in that there were glass doors on the shower/tub enclosure, rather than a plastic curtain, and the fixtures were newer. The living room was carpeted, as was the loft bedroom, rather than having hardwood flooring, and like the residence above, had a freestanding gas fireplace. The whole place had evidently been cleaned and freshly painted after the last tenant's departure. The Sentinel appreciated that. It smelled dusty, but there was no mildew odor or food-in-carpet redolence.

"What's the asking price?" Jim inquired, and nodded thoughtfully when Tapscott quoted him a number. It was substantially less than what he'd paid for his condo when he'd received his back pay from the military, even accounting for inflation. It was probably too rich for Blair's pocketbook…but then, Jim had a hidden ace up his sleeve in that regard. "Is that subject to negotiation?" Tapscott reluctantly conceded that negotiation was a possibility. "Would the owner take a downpayment and the rest in monthly payments, you think?"

"Well, I'd think so. There are several units that haven't been bought outright, people make monthly payments…and one's merely being rented. This one was rented before. But I can't really answer that with any certainty, since I'm not the owner."

"It's been vacant a long time," Ellison murmured. "How much money do you suppose has been lost over the last couple of years?" He ignored the little inner voice that reminded him it probably had been vacant because of the escapades of the neighbors living directly above – and their various and sundry visitors.

Tapscott looked pained…and shrugged noncommittally. It wasn't really his problem.

Jim moved into the living room again and stared thoughtfully at the bare corner just to the right of the glass balcony doors. He looked up at the ceiling, apparently estimating size measurements. "Thanks for the tour," he said at last. "I want to think about a few things, but I'll get back to you." Smiling slightly, he strolled to the front door and exited. Behind him, Tapscott heaved an impatient sigh, wondering just what that had all been about, and if he'd just wasted 45 minutes of his time.

###

Once back in his own home, Ellison called in a 7:15 dinner reservation at a nearby restaurant that he and Blair both liked. It probably wasn't totally necessary to make reservations on a weeknight, but he suspected Sandburg would be both tired and ravenous by the time he got home. No sense in making him wait any longer than necessary. Feeling a few hunger pangs himself, Jim grabbed some crackers and cheese, and then sat down at the kitchen table with a tablet, ruler and pencil. He stared thoughtfully at the living room, conceded the gas fireplace wasn't movable and switched his concentration to the other side of the room. He mentally removed the shelves with the stereo system and the speakers, and scooted Blair's large potted plant elsewhere, sketching rough diagrams on the tablet. Once he stood and paced off the distance from the outside wall to the stairs, then sat down and sketched again.

By the time Blair got home Jim had a couple of sheets of paper folded in his shirt pocket and a speculative gleam in his ice-blue eyes. True to his prediction, Sandburg arrived at 7:05, looking tired, but wearing a definite air of satisfaction and achievement. "Yo, Jim!"

"We've got 7:15 reservations at the Harborside," Jim announced without bothering to return the salutation. "So no time for a shower, Chief."

Blair's eyebrows elevated. "The Harborside? N-i-i-ice! No wonder you're not wearing jeans and flannel. Well, just give me a chance to change and use the bathroom, at least!" He tossed his jacket at its customary hook – and surprisingly, it stayed there – and disappeared down the hallway. Exiting in a few minutes, he ducked into his room for a short time and emerged clad in casual dress slacks, instead of the khakis he'd worn to work, and a soft deep-green pullover sweater.

Jim surveyed him, lips quirking with amusement. "You clean up pretty good, partner."

Blair gave a haughty sniff and stuck his nose in the air. "One must endeavor to live up to the Harborside, my good man." Then, in his usual tone: "How'd you happen to pick there? I mean, this is just dinner…isn't it?"

Jim's expression softened. "It's an apology dinner and you know it. Now let's go." He put on his own coat, then offered Blair his black leather jacket, rather than the lighter-weight cotton one the younger man had recently removed. Blair nodded thanks and followed Jim from the apartment.

Upon arrival they were shown immediately to their table. They ordered appetizers and wine, then settled down to peruse the menu. To Jim's surprise, Blair simply read through his, nodded decisively and set it down, rather than going through his usual 'discuss every menu item, pros and cons, and take ten minutes choosing – and then ask for substitutions when the waiter comes to take the orders' routine. "I'll have the grilled salmon."

"You decided already?"

"Yeah – I know it makes you nuts when I dither."

Jim's lips tightened fractionally. Uh-oh, someone's feeling a tad bit insecure again. "I don't mind you taking your time choosing what to have for dinner, Chief," he said carefully.

"Yes, you do." Blair eyed him soberly. "That muscle in your jaw twitches when I start comparing entrees and stuff. So…no comparisons and no dithering. Okay?"

"Sure." Jim forced a smile and retreated behind his menu. He'd thought things had smoothed out with his partner during the day, but Blair's edginess of this morning seemed to have returned. He wondered why. Hadn't he been perfectly pleasant when Blair came home? "Think I'll have the same." He caught their waiter's eye and signaled him over. When the man had departed with their orders Jim picked up his wineglass and leaned back in his chair.

"Chief, what's the matter? And don't obfuscate."

Somewhat to his surprise, Blair didn't try to evade the question. "I just…I feel like this is the 'letting me down easy' scene, you know? Where you take me out to a nice place for dinner and then over dessert explain how I'll need to find a new place to live and a new place of employment—"

"BLAIR!" Hastily, Ellison lowered his voice to a conversational level. "Dammit! We already went through this, didn't we? I thought we'd settled the fact that I don't want you to move out or change jobs or whatever else you might be thinking…." He stopped, dread making him suddenly feel chilled. "Or did you change your mind?"

Sandburg shook his head. "No. No, of course I didn't."

Jim sighed. "Look, I've had a couple of ideas that might help—" Blair's head came up sharply. "but I didn't want to spring them on you before dinner."

"But—"

"Chief, can't you trust me for even a little while? We'll both feel better with some food in our stomachs, more like talking things out."

Blair flushed. "I always trust you, you know that. I'm sorry. I'm just…" He fiddled with his silverware.

"Worried, yeah, I get that. So let's just relax and have dinner and then we'll talk about it – okay?"

A sheepish smile tilted Sandburg's lips. "Who are you and what did you do with my partner? That did not sound like the Jim Ellison I know and love."

"Doofus."

#####

An hour and a half later they were lingering over dessert, both somewhat mellow from their dinner wine and after-dinner liqueurs.

"Okay, I've waited long enough. Spill," Blair directed with a 'get on with it' circular gesture.

Jim nodded and took a few seconds to organize his thoughts. "I went home a little early today," he began. "And I got to thinking about the apartment right below us – #207."

"It's empty. Has been for a long time," Blair contributed.

"I asked the building manager if I could take a look at it. And he was glad to show it to me."

Blair sat up straight, his face pale. "I thought you said – you didn't want…Jim, I can't afford to buy a condo in your building!"

"Wait, just wait. You haven't let me get to my idea yet." Pausing until Blair settled back in his seat again, Jim continued. "I admit, at first I was considering suggesting you think about moving there. It's nice, Chief, and you'd like it, I'm sure. It's like ours, only smaller, and some newer things in it. But I didn't really like the idea of not being able to…this is going to sound funny." An embarrassed flush colored his cheekbones. "I didn't like the thought of not having you…right there. You'd just be one floor down, but we still couldn't…"

"I get it," Blair said softly. "I get it. If you were spiking or something, and I didn't know because I was a floor away."

"And the opposite." Jim fixed him with an intense stare, his face returning to its normal hue. "If something happened – you were sick or hurt…well… And then I had another idea." Blair waited, striving to look encouraging. "I wondered if there was some way we could do some remodeling and merge the two apartments."

"MERGE them? How?"

Ellison grinned mischievously. "Cut a hole in the floor of our living room and put in a staircase – maybe circular, so it wouldn't take up too much room." He pulled out the folded sheets of paper. "Look at these. I'm no architect, and these are pretty rough, but you'll get the idea."

Blair took the drawings and stared down at them, brow furrowed in concentration. After a few moments he met Jim's hopeful gaze, his own eyes reflecting both uncertainty and desire. "We'd each have our own place, except that they'd be connected, and we could still do things together when we wanted to. But…but…the owner would never go for something like this! It wouldn't be cost-effective—"

"Chief, that apartment's been vacant for a long time. It isn't cost-effective now!"

"But you'd…you'd CUT A HOLE in the living room floor?" Sandburg's voice rose to a squeak, and Ellison made a shushing motion, glancing around the restaurant. They were receiving more than one curious stare. Blair gulped and subsided, but still kept sputtering…quietly.

"Jim…this all sounds amazing – and kinda insane – but man, I cannot afford to buy a condo. Unlike some people, I don't have $50,000 in back military pay just hangin' around, remember?"

If Jim had been a less forthright-appearing man, some might have said he actually looked…shifty. "Well, about that…"

"What?" Blair's eyes narrowed. "I don't have that kind of money and you don't either, and if you're thinking of asking your dad…"

Jim grinned. "I hadn't, but it's not a bad idea, Junior. I'll keep it in mind." Blair groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Anyway, nobody said you had to buy it outright. Some of the apartments are rented. Come on, work with me here. Just for a minute, pretend you have the money and just think about it. If you could buy the apartment below ours, or rent it for a reasonable amount, and if we were allowed to create a double residence out of it…how would you feel about it?"

Blair took his face from his hands and stared hard at his partner and best friend. His eyes were luminous. "I think I'd love it," he said fervently.

Jim smile seemed to illuminate the whole corner where they were sitting. "Good. Let's go find a way to make it happen, then." He got to his feet and urged Blair up too. They had already paid the bill; there was nothing to hinder their departure. "Come on, Chief, I'll bet I can get Tapscott to open up 207 for us."

###

Jim was correct; Tapscott might have rolled his eyes but he obliged. Instead of going along with them, he merely handed Jim the key and requested that they make sure things were locked up when they left. "Return the key tonight. You can drop it in that lockbox," he said, indicating a small receptacle fastened to the wall near his front door, and went back into his own apartment, thus ending the conversation.

"Let's go." Jim placed his hand on the small of Blair's back, firmly pushing him along. Blair complied, but with some reluctance. Reality was making a comeback.

"But Jim…this is all just a pipe dream, remember? I can't afford—"

Jim was busy unlocking the door to #207 and didn't reply. He opened it and flipped a light switch. "Just look at it, Sandburg, okay?"

Blair looked…sighed…looked again. Sighed again, this time longingly. "Okay, I'm hooked." He began to walk around, eyes enormous with poorly-suppressed excitement, murmuring soft commentary. Jim leaned against the kitchen island and crossed his arms, watching with fond amusement.

When Blair had spent perhaps ten minutes investigating the place he returned to the kitchen area and his patiently waiting partner. "You shouldn't do this to me, man…my heart's gonna break when I wake up and realize that it's all an impossibility, you know."

"Want to talk about it here or upstairs?"

*Deep sigh* "Upstairs."

They returned the key and ascended the stairs in silence. Jim was still smiling that enigmatic I know something you don't know smile, but Blair didn't notice. His head was down as he concentrated on watching where he placed his feet. Once in their apartment the two men, by unspoken agreement, separated to change into comfortable casual clothes. They met in the living room and settled onto the couch, one at either end, with steaming cups of tea.

"Now, what's this big mystery you keep edging around, about money?" Blair demanded. "I mean it that you aren't going to pay for this—"

Jim lifted one hand. "I'll gag you if I have to," he warned. "I'll explain, but I want to do it without interruptions."

Blair pursed his lips and made a zipping motion across them. He remained silent, but his eyes implored Jim to continue.

"You've been paying me rent for how long now…over five years, right?" Jim began. Blair nodded, but resolutely kept his lips clamped shut. "Did you ever wonder what I was doing with the rent money, if you thought about it? I didn't need it to pay my rent – I own this place, free and clear. I do have to pay taxes, granted, and utilities and all that," he added, as Blair opened his mouth to comment. "And yes, I know you missed the rent occasionally. But not all that often. So – I figure you've maybe paid me…what – around $3,000 a year for five years. That sound about right to you?"

Blair nodded again.

"Well, back when you started contributing rent, I opened up an interest-bearing savings account, and the rates weren't bad back then, and they were locked in. Four percent, compounded quarterly. I've been putting your rent money in there ever since, and the balance is well over $19,000. If we agree that we'd like to do this with the two condos, and it can be worked out, that money is there to use – whether for payments on the second-floor apartment or for remodeling, or a combination. And don't say that you can't take it, or something dumb like that – this is what I want to do with it."

Gazing meditatively down at the floor between his feet, he waited for Blair to respond. He waited…and waited some more. "Sandburg, you're allowed to talk now," he said at last, raising his head – and froze when he saw Blair sitting stiffly, eyes squeezed tightly shut, teeth clamped on his lower lip. The scent of saline wafted through the air. "Aw, Chief," he sighed. "Don't. It's okay, don't do that." He moved over to the other end of the couch and slid an arm about the rigid figure, then pulled Blair's head against his shoulder, feeling dampness soak through his sweatshirt. "Shh, it's okay." He let his cheek rest against his partner's curly hair.

"I…had…no idea," Blair choked out.

"I know."

"You shouldn't – you can't—"

"Hey, none of that," Ellison said, in mock severity. "You paid it to me; it's my money, I can spend it on anything I want to. I want to spend it on this." He patted Blair's back soothingly.

"I thought…I'd have…to leave…"

"Never."

Blair's hand was clenched tightly in the front of Ellison's sweatshirt; his face still buried against Jim's shoulder. "You're…crazy!" came the muffled words.

"Yeah, probably," Jim conceded, "but I'm happy in my lunacy. Come on." He joggled Blair gently. "Sit up, blow your nose, and let's talk about remodeling issues and how we're going to persuade the building owner to let us do this."

###

They stayed up until after midnight discussing various aspects of the idea. Once Blair was convinced that Jim really was willing to cut a hole in the living room floor, and had every intention of using the 'rental account' money down to the last dime, if necessary, he stopped his feeble protests against the idea. The problem was, it was an incredible concept, and it sounded much too good to be true – and there still were a lot of issues to consider.

"Jim, the whole reason for this is to let both of us have a little more privacy if we want it – if we just put in an open staircase the same problem exists. You'll be able to hear every single thing I do, same as now! You'd hear my television programs and my music and my dishwasher and…everything."

"And vice versa, to a lesser degree, although I could keep the volumes lower for the stereo and television, at least. Chief, face it; I'll be able to hear you even if there wasn't an open staircase, if I want to. But I think there must be a way to create some sort of door, that opens from either side. An architect could figure one out."

"Well, maybe," Sandburg said doubtfully. "I've never seen anything like that, though. I mean, we don't want a trapdoor or something like that!"

"That's why architects make the money they do. We don't have to design it, Chief, we just have to find someone who can."

"If we're allowed to do it in the first place," Blair warned.

"We can talk to the building manager tomorrow, go from there—" Jim was caught by a sudden, unexpected yawn.

Blair laughed, but found himself wanting to do the same. "Man, we have got to get some sleep!" He stood up, stretching, his mind going back to a very different scene last night. Wow, what a difference 24 hours can make…

"At least tonight we might actually get some sleep." Jim's comment made it evident their thoughts were running in tandem again.

"Furniture." Blair was gazing around at their apartment's fixtures and decorations. "I'd have to buy furniture. And kitchen stuff, and bedding, and…"

"You don't have to buy it tonight," Jim reminded him. He got to his feet. "There's plenty of time to buy furniture and everything else. Although…I hoped you might leave some things here. I mean, maybe not take everything…" He suddenly no longer sounded quite so pleased with himself or self-assured, as he envisioned a return to sterile, bare walls and shelves with no more whimsical artifacts or photographs.

Blair turned to face him, his eyes very large and solemn. "I will, I promise," he vowed. "I have boxes of stuff packed away that were in my office at Rainier. I could leave everything here that's already out, and still fill up shelves and shelves in the new place." Suddenly the solemnity morphed into mirth, the big eyes lighting with laughter. "Hey, I just realized, I'd get a whole storage-space unit down in the basement too, wouldn't I? And – oh man, now there'd be a place for Naomi to stay when she comes to visit! If she didn't want to go the couch or small-spare-room route in my place, I could come up here to sleep and she could have my bedroom!"

Jim, who had definitely considered this important fact when he first conceived the idea, nodded. "She can rearrange your furniture instead of mine."

"Assuming it becomes my place – and that I can afford any furniture!"

"It will. Trust me. Ah-ah, don't say it." Ellison lightly cuffed the back of his partner's head, then gave him a gentle shove in the direction of his bedroom. "Let's get to bed; I'll check the locks. Sleep well, Chief."

"Goodnight." Blair stopped and turned back. "Jim? You're…you're something else, you know that? There's absolutely nobody like you."

Ellison grinned. "So I've been told. And I might say the same for you. 'Night."