Baby Steps

The beginning?

"Jim."

The voice came from the bedroom. Jim got up from the couch, keeping one eye on the rerun of the game that he had been waiting all day to watch. Blair had been sworn to secrecy over the result as he had not been able to watch it live. There were times when stake-outs took precedence over even Jags' play off games. He sidled over to the open door, determined not to miss a second of the extremely close match. The swiftest of glances allowed him to see his room-mate sitting on the bed, knees up, back against the wall with his lap top precariously balanced on his knees. Books and papers were scattered all around him. It was as if a tornado had touched down just on the bed and then flown off. Jim ignored the fact that his male room-mate was dressed only in a tank top and boxers and quickly made sure the Jags' game had all his attention.

"Can you get me a beer?" Blair asked in all innocence, his eyes never leaving the laptop screen and his fingers never faltering in their furious typing.

Jim was thrown enough by the comment to stare at Blair in disbelief. He switched back to the game, realized he still couldn't believe the request that had been made of him and looked back at Blair.

"What?" he spluttered.

"I'm right in the middle of this paper, Jim. It's really important that I get it done. I've already had one extension on the deadline and if they like it they're going to pay me big bucks, man. Well, big bucks to me. I can finally get the spare tire for the Volvo and maybe catch up on my student loan repayments."

Jim stared hard at Blair for a second and then turned away slightly ashamed. He had known that morning that Blair had an article that needed to be in the next day, but had still persuaded his partner to go with him to the station and spend the day helping him with his work. The moment they had got back to the loft, Blair had started typing and he was still there now as Jim returned from the stakeout, much later. The least Jim could do was get him a beer.

Jim's head switched between the TV and the scene in the spare room. He could have been at Flushing Meadow with the workout his neck muscles were getting. Blair, on the other hand, didn't move, his head bent over the lap top as his fingers danced over the keyboard, a staccato rhythm that played through Jim's head. The roar of the crowd at a basket scored faded into the background of the compelling beat. Jim groaned, almost silently, and walked quickly to the fridge, his eyes now glued to the TV, watching the slow motion rerun while he muttered imprecations about his lazy guide under his breath.

"Sandburg, this should be you getting the beer. You know I've been looking forward to this game all day and what did your last servant die of?" Jim complained, but still took the time to walk into the small room and hold out the bottle of cold beer to his room-mate.

"Just leave it there, Jim. Thanks, buddy." Blair gesticulated at the crowded desk by the side of his bed.

Finding a space among the chaos was nigh onto impossible, but Jim took the time to move the mess around and find a coaster so that the cold bottle could sit neatly within range of Blair's hand; the very hand that now held a pencil precariously between fore finger and index finger, twitching the pencil up and down wildly. As the pencil stilled, Jim watched Blair put the end in his mouth and chew delicately, biting down gently with his strong white teeth. Jim stepped back quickly and escaped from the room, strangely relieved to find the sanctuary of the couch and the protection of the game.

When he could breathe normally again he answered Blair's whispered thanks with, "You're welcome, Chief."

He never saw Blair's eyes light up and the smile that played across his face as he silently placed the lap top on the bed beside him, twisted off the top of the cold bottle and drank a large mouthful of beer. Jim might have taken solace from the fact that Blair had to stick the cold bottle on his groin to deal with his own emotions.

***

Next Day

The next morning Jim watched from the dining room table as Blair rushed from his room to the bathroom and back again trailing wafts of steam and drops of water on the return journey. Sounds of unstructured and desperate haste made their way out of the small room and, in less time than normal, Blair appeared dressed, combed and stressed.

"No time for breakfast, Jim," he muttered as he grabbed two pieces of toast from the plate Jim had put out for him and shoved one into his mouth and juggled with the other while he put on his jacket and backpack. "Man, I'm so late. Eli's gonna be mad. I asked him to talk to my Anthro 101 class this morning about his trip to Borneo and the alarm didn't go off and I said I would meet him before class for coffee and, shit! Jim, have you seen my keys?"

Blair, who had managed to eat one slice of toast and talk, now pushed the second piece in his mouth and started hunting in his backpack for the missing items. Jim stood and picked up the keys from the kitchen table and then placed them carefully in Blair's hand.

"Thanks, Jim," he muttered and was out of the door and down the stairs. Jim shook his head in silent amused exasperation and went back to finish his breakfast.

***

Later the same day.

The phone rang just before noon.

"Hey, Jim," Blair said.

"Sandburg," Jim replied, as he tried to hold the phone in place with his ear, while he slowly typed up a report on a bust that had gone down that morning.

"Jim?"

Blair paused and Jim waited for whatever it was that his friend was going to ask him. Sometimes he knew Blair Sandburg as well as he knew himself.

"The Volvo won't start and I know I'm supposed to be coming to the station this afternoon, so I was thinking, if you could come and get me and then I wouldn't have to get the bus and maybe we could grab lunch at the deli that does those Reubens you like, you know the place with the huge pickles. I mean it is lunchtime and I didn't really have breakfast. You can't really call one piece of toast breakfast …"

"Two," Jim interjected without thinking.

"Well, even two pieces of toast aren't really breakfast for a growing boy and we could grab lunch and then I'd be at the station all afternoon," Blair continued.

"Sandburg, you are not a growing boy. I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but you are all grown up now," Jim teased.

"You know there is no need to be heightest, Jim," Blair retorted.

"How did it go with Eli this morning?" Jim asked.

Jim heard Blair breathe in, preparing to continue his argument. Jim's change of subject threw Blair out of his stride and Jim smiled. He could almost hear Blair's mental change of gear.

"Fine. Great. I wasn't really that late and the kids really responded to what he had to say."

There was a moment of silent expectation between them. Jim stopped typing and took the phone in his hand. "I'll pick you up in twenty minutes, Chief. Will you be ready by then?" Jim asked, anxiously awaiting the reply for a reason he could not explain.

"I'll be waiting, Jim," Blair said softly and Jim was relieved.

"See you soon then," Jim replied and put the phone down. Smiling he stood, grabbed his jacket and left the bullpen suddenly looking forward to lunch.

***

A week later.

"Jim?" Blair asked.

"What, Sandburg?" Jim shouted down from his bedroom.

He was busy checking his gym bag and didn't have time to get embroiled in any of Sandburg's plans for the evening.

"Can I borrow that sweater?"

"Which one?"

"The blue one."

"The new one?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Why'd you want that one?"

"Well, I have this date with Lizzie and, you know, it looks good."

"It's way too big for you, Sandburg."

"It's baggy on me. Baggy is good. I can do baggy. Lizzie likes the grunge look."

"So let me get this straight. You want to borrow my new, best, blue jumper so you can impress your latest woman?"

"Well, … when you put it like that, Jim … yeah."

"No way. No fucking way."

"Okay, Jim, just asking."

Jim harumphed and then got angry partly because he had harumphed, partly because Sandburg had a fucking nerve and partly because, … well, because he was just angry.

Blair smiled to himself as Jim purposefully strode out of the loft without looking at him, without speaking. Baby steps he thought to himself, baby steps.

***

Four days later.

"Stay in the truck, Chief." Jim told Blair, as they pulled up behind Simon's car.

The small parking lot in front of the church was full of police officers, both uniformed and plain-clothed, taking cover behind their vehicles, guns drawn, protecting themselves from the sporadic gunfire that came from within the old church.

"You need me, Jim. This situation is going need me. I spoke to Crosland last week. I know I can reach him. Don't shut me out."
Jim heard the plea in his partner's voice, but one police officer and a priest had already been killed and he wasn't about to add a police observer to that list.

"Last week he was a rational member of the public making a complaint. Today he's a murderer. There's a big difference, Sandburg. If he sees you he could make you a target," Jim argued back.

"You know what was in his file. This guy is exhibiting classic symptoms of abuse; he has a string of convictions for petty offences, a history of drug abuse and self-harm, he hasn't held down a job for longer than six months and he's been in and out of therapy almost his entire life."

Jim wanted to retort, 'so have you', but he knew that would be unfair and come from a fear for Blair's safety. "Just because he was here as a child in the home run by the church doesn't mean he was abused by the priests, hell, it doesn't even mean he was abused at all," he replied instead.

"The man is in pain, Jim. He needs help. All you've got out there are a bunch of guys who are more likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Maybe I can help calm things down, talk him out …."

Jim scowled at the comment.

"Okay, okay help you talk him out," Blair said quickly, verbally side-stepping at Jim's reaction.

Jim shook his head. "No, you're staying here." He knew he was being unreasonable, but in that split second, fear outfought common sense.

Blair paused. "No, Jim, I'm not. I'm coming with you. You need me."

Jim read the determination in Blair's eyes, saw the sense and sensibility of what he said, recognized the logic and the passion and hated himself for it. "Okay, but you stay close to me, Chief. Do what I say, when I say it."

Blair nodded and scrambled out of the truck.

***

Jim was crouched down behind the first black and white that had responded to the scene. The driver of the vehicle lay dead twenty feet in front of his own car. His partner had already been taken to hospital. Blair was behind him, protected by his body. A voice shouted, but Jim kept watching the church.

"Simon's on his way," Blair told him quietly.

Jim nodded in acknowledgment and kept watch on the upstairs window. Every now and then Crosland peered out, waving his gun, threatening the assembled mass. His face was tear-stained and his hand shook as he brandished the gun. The man's pulse was racing and he was constantly talking to himself. Jim had been listening to his muttered ramblings. They were incoherent and made no sense, so he tuned out the man's words, but made sure he monitored his behavior in case he became more erratic.

Simon thudded into the door of the patrol car, allowing it to stop his zig zag run from car to car to safety by the side of Jim and Blair. He was breathing hard.

"SWAT will be here in less than thirty minutes."

"Oh man, that's crazy," Blair interjected. "Crosland is going to see them and lose it completely."

"Blair's right, Sir," Jim agreed. "He's walking a tightrope in there. The slightest thing will push him over the edge."

"Too many men have died here already today," Simon stated grimly as he considered the options.

"Then let us go inside," Jim suggested, hopefully. "If you tell the SWAT Commander that one of your men is in there, he might hold off … for a while."

"Us?" Simon asked sharply.

Jim nodded. "If I go in, Sandburg comes with me. He's spoken to Crosland. I think he stands a better chance than anyone of getting through to him in the small amount of time SWAT is going to give us."

"Jim, he's not a cop. No offence, Sandburg," Simon offered as an afterthought.

Jim heard Blair chuckle and mutter 'none taken' in reply.

"He may not be a cop, but he can get the job done. Let him try, Simon."

"Okay, Jim, but you go with him and if anything happens to him you do the paperwork."

"Still here, guys," Blair muttered.

Jim turned to his partner, "Stay low, stay behind me and be careful."

Blair smiled at Jim. "Yes, Sir."

Jim returned the smile. "Now that's a first, Sandburg," he joked and turned back to the situation.

The two men moved off. Each time they stopped Blair rested his hand on his partner's back and did as he had been told.

***

It was strangely quiet and calm inside the church. If he hadn't known what was happening outside, Jim could have taken the opportunity to admire the stained glass and architecture, but there wasn't time for that. He coughed and even that small sound reverberated. There was dust covering everything. It was amazing how quickly the covering of detritus settled when the world wasn't there to disturb it, Jim thought. Blair's hand touched his back.

"He's down here. He must have seen us come in," Jim whispered.

Blair was looking round, peering through the gloom. The light that filtered through the windows threw bright colored shafts of sparkling sunlight in streaks across the nave. The incongruity of those rainbows of light threw the unlit areas into deep pools of gloom. Jim was having difficulty in finding a level for his sight that balanced the two extremes.

"Don't try and see it all at once, concentrate on one area at a time," Blair suggested, "and use your other senses to cover what you can't see: hearing and smell."

Briefly Jim wondered how Blair knew what he had been thinking and then promptly did as he had been told. It only took a few moments.

"He's by the altar." Jim told Blair. He moved to a spot behind one of the columns that gave them both more protection. Blair moved behind him. "Okay, Chief, do your stuff."

"Mr. Crosland, it's me, Blair Sandburg. We met at the police station last week. You gave me your statement about the church closing down. I need to clarify a few things with you about your statement. I really need to speak to you, Mr. Crosland."

Jim stared at Blair, amazed at what his partner had come up with. Blair shrugged his shoulders as if to suggest it was the best he could do in the circumstances and smiled at Jim. Sighing, Jim returned to watching the area around the altar. He would deal with Sandburg later.

Something was wrong. The shadows were off, different. As Jim realized Crosland had moved, Blair started talking again and the SWAT commander chose that moment to bellow at Simon, demanding to know what the hell Detective Ellison was doing inside the church. The angry blast from the conversation outside relayed to him over Simon's ear piece distracted Jim momentarily. He tore the ear-piece from his ear and went into a crouch, bringing his gun up. Jim needed a better line of sight. He stepped back putting an arm behind him to guide his partner as he moved.

Aware that Blair was moving with him, Jim stepped away from the protection of the Doric column. On the periphery of his hearing the SWAT commander was still shouting. There was a strange distorted echo as he heard the angry voice tinnily from his now discarded ear-piece and more naturally from outside the building. Readjusting his sight again, Jim got a whiff of dirt, sweat and fear and the pounding of running feet. The footsteps echoed off the walls and he turned to put himself between his guide and the threat.

Quiet descended again and Jim felt Blair's hand on his arm. The Glock was still in the ready position, Jim's trigger finger held steady, parallel to the barrel, ready to react. Finally Jim nodded and Blair tried again.

"Mr. Crosland, please, we need to talk. I can help you. No one needs to get hurt."

Jim approved of Blair's words. There was no need to remind the man that he was already facing a double homicide charge. There was the smell of salt water; Crosland was crying and Jim heard him sob. With the gun still ready, Jim signaled to Blair to keep going.

"I know you're hurting Mr. Crosland, but we can help you. Please, put your gun down and come out slowly. We just want to help. There's no one else here, just you, me and Detective Ellison. You remember him, don't you Mr. Crosland? He was with me when I took your statement. He's a great detective, Mr. Crosland, the best; Cop of the Year. He will investigate your case. I promise. If anyone can get at the truth, he will, but he can't do it without you, David. Please, let us help you."

For a moment Jim thought it was going to work, he really thought Blair was getting through to the man. Unexpectedly Crosland bolted from his hiding place. Following his route in and out of the shadows, Jim kept his gun trained on the moving target and half-turned to his partner.

"He's on the move. Stay close, Sandburg."

"Damn!" Blair cursed, but followed Jim as he moved slowly forward.

In the split second that Jim had turned to speak to Blair, Crosland had stopped, spun around and charged towards the two men. Jim missed him in one of the pools of darkness as his eyes adjusted.

"Fuck!" he muttered and dialed up sight in an effort to see the entirety of the inside of the building. The brightly colored shafts of light acted like a prism on his enhanced vision and pinpoints of color exploded in front of him. Desperately trying to regain some control over what he could see, Jim stepped into a darkened area hoping that it would provide him with a perspective that would allow him to spot Crosland. It worked and Jim was just in time to see the deranged man rush towards Blair, gun waving.

Jim dropped low and pushed off towards his partner, launching a tackle that any defensive line-backer would have been proud of. He hit Blair low, between the knees and the hips. He hit him with his shoulder, blasting the smaller man out of Crosland's path, but straight into the column that had until so recently been sheltering them both. He heard Blair's shout and the explosion of breath from his body as he hit the proverbial immovable object. Jim hit the floor and as Crosland arrived at the point where Blair had been, his momentum took him over the top of Jim and face first on to the floor. Rolling back to his feet as quickly as he could, Jim had Crosland cuffed and Mirandized in record time. The distressed man sat on the floor, his back against the wall. He had not reacted at all when Jim had read him his rights and now he stared off into space, totally non-responsive.

Turning his attention to his still-prone partner, Jim hurried to Blair, calling out as he approached. "Sandburg, are you okay?" He got an annoyed grunt for a reply. "I'll take that as a yes, Chief."

"No," Blair replied, finally moving. "Give me a hand here, Jim. I think I've hurt my shoulder."

Between the two of them, Blair was soon standing, but it was obvious he had done something to damage his shoulder. He was in pain and could hardly move his arm. Making sure his partner was as comfortable as he could be under the circumstances Jim reported to Simon and requested paramedics. Blair was watching Crosland. Jim stood by his guide, placing a hand lightly on his back to steady him.

"At least he's alive," Blair commented. "Do you think he'll ever stand trial?"

"The way he looks at the moment I'd have to say no, but someone else will make that decision, Chief. It's not for us to say."

Men were entering the church from different points and Jim maneuvered Blair to one side. With his damaged shoulder he didn't want him jostled by overeager cops.

"Let's get you checked out, Sandburg. I've a feeling you're taking another trip to the ER."

Blair groaned, but didn't try and deny Jim's words or argue himself out of a visit to the hospital. It must be bad, thought Jim.

"Well done, Sandburg," Simon announced, as he arrived by Jim's side. "You too, Ellison. Though you may want to avoid the SWAT Commander on your way out."

Blair was smiling despite his injury. "Thanks, Simon."

Jim scowled half-heartedly and tried to steer Blair towards the approaching paramedics.

"Don't let it go to your head, Chief," Jim smiled.

"But I was right, you were right to let me go with you, to let me talk to Crosland," Blair said pointedly.

"Yeah, you were right, Sandburg. Just this once," Jim admitted grudgingly.

***

The next day.

Blair lay on his bed, propped up with most of Jim's pillows. His arm was in a sling and he was eating grapes from a bowl by his hips. Jim walked into the open doorway as his guide managed to balance a book, eat and turn pages, apparently all at the same time.

"Want coffee, Chief?" he asked.

"You must have read my mind, Jim. I was just thinking of making a cup."

"The doc told you to rest, Sandburg, not wander round the kitchen. I told you, if you want anything, ask."

"Yes, Jim," Blair replied contritely.

"Good!" Jim nodded, as he got the reply he wanted. For once Blair was doing as he was told. Turning away from his guide's bedroom, Jim didn't see the smile that ghosted across the younger man's face.

***

One month later.

"Jim." Blair whined.

The croaky voice came from the bedroom. Jim Ellison ignored it, hoping it would go away. He knew it was petty and childish, but a sick Blair Sandburg was enough to try the patience of a saint, he told himself. Jim had spent his entire day off looking after his partner. What Blair had wanted he had got. Jim had happily seen to his room-mate's every need, taking simple pleasure in caring for the man.

As the evening approached and Blair slept, Jim had found himself checking on the sick man even though he needed nothing. At one point he stood in the doorway just watching the younger man. Annoyance and embarrassment blew through Jim. Looking after your room-mate when he was ill was only human kindness, but this went far beyond that and he fought with his first instinct, knowing that he had stepped over a line the meaning of which was too frightening for him to contemplate. And not for the first time.

Sighing, he tried to get comfortable on the couch. He started reading the same paragraph he had read twice already. There was no repetition of the call from Blair's room and he felt smugly self-satisfied that ignoring the voice had been the right thing to do. He felt ashamed too.

Blair had the 'flu. It had been raging through the University like wildfire and Blair had hung on while others had gone under. He had taught more extra classes covering for sick colleagues than Jim could count and still managed to help Jim. Then when it looked like the bug was on the way out, Blair had succumbed. He had spent the first two days of his sick leave semi-delirious and in his bed. Jim had spent all his free time trying to get the younger man to take in fluids and keeping him cool. Forty-eight hours later the fever had broken and an exhausted, sweat-stained Blair Sandburg emerged from his bedroom on unsteady legs helped by his sentinel. He looked like hell.

"You look like hell, Sandburg," Jim told him as they made their way to the bathroom and the shower.

Blair grunted and glared at the man supporting him. The sore throat that had robbed Blair of his voice was one of the weirdest things about the past two days, Jim thought. Blair's voice was so much part of what you got from Sandburg; he used his voice to guide Jim, to lecture his students, to inform anyone who would listen, to laugh, to love, to enjoy life to the full. A Blair without words was like a Wonderburger without fries, theoretically possible, but unthinkable.

The doctor had told Jim to keep Blair cool; try and keep his temperature down and get plenty of fluids inside him. It had been a constant tussle. Blair complained of being cold and wanted extra covers. Jim had bought down the comforter from his own bed. Then, five minutes later they were all kicked off as Blair complained of being too hot. On the first night Jim had finally taken to using a sponge and lukewarm water to wipe the sweat from his partner's face. Blair had tried to bat Jim's hands away ineffectually and in a voice broken and cracked Blair had pleaded with Jim.

"No, Jim, please I'm cold. Too cold. Please, Jim."

His temperature was 104 and he was hardly coherent. The cool water seemed to work though, as Blair settled to Jim's touch. He pushed the sweaty lank hair away from his guide's face and wiped the sponge over his cheekbones. Hot, flushed, dry skin was bathed in coolness as Jim gently brushed the sponge across Blair's forehead; down his nose, across his lips and round his sweat-stained neck. Turning the sponge over, Jim traced the shape of both ears before dropping to his partner's shoulder.

"S'nice," Blair whispered.

Jim soaked the sponge and started at the shoulders again, using long continuous licks to sweep up and down each arm. He took exquisite care with each hand, gently applying the sponge between each finger and as he drew the sponge across the palm of each hand, he allowed his thumb to brush where the sponge had been. Another soak and squeeze and Jim wiped up along an underarm to an armpit that smelled strongly of musk and sweat and sickness.

Blair stirred vaguely trying to pull away. A grimace that could have been half a smile ghosted across his face. Jim remembered that his partner was ticklish. Another soak, another squeeze and now Jim worked on Blair's chest. The sponge was hampered by the hair on his chest; short and springy. Jim increased the pressure of his strokes, parting and flattening the hair, cooling and wetting all the way down to the skin. He moved the sponge in circles around each nipple, fascinated to watch each one harden in response.

Another soak, another squeeze and now Jim was getting perilously close to running out of friendship and care and comfort and into an area he didn't want to even think about. He followed the hair from the chest across his stomach and as it narrowed to his navel, he pushed the sponge across Blair's waist to his hips, letting a trickle of water slide down his side to drop onto the rucked up bed clothes. Finally as Blair settled into a restful night's sleep, Jim pushed the edge of the sponge into Blair's belly button and circled the little dip. With a start he stopped himself and dropped the sponge back into the bowl. Pulling a single sheet up over Blair's chest, Jim sat back, giving the sleeping man more room. He sat there, then stood, collected the bowl and left Blair's room.

***

"Er, Jim, I can manage on my own now thanks."

They were standing in the bathroom. The shower was already running. Jim had thought Blair would prefer to get into a shower that was warm from the outset. He had even checked the temperature.

"Right, okay, Chief. Just don't lock the door. You're still unsteady on your feet. I don't want to have break down the door just to pick you up off the floor," Jim chided.

"Want to make sure I wash behind my ears, as well, Jim?"

"Sandburg, with the amount of hair you have I'm surprised you can even find your ears, let alone ever wash them."

"Funny, Jim."

A coughing fit cut off the rest of Blair's comment and the groan that escaped told Jim that even that much talking had cost Blair a lot of effort and pain. Jim smiled to himself. He needed to appreciate the few moments when he could get in the last word.

"Don't forget to wash the back of your neck, Sandburg."

In the kitchen, Jim listened to his guide's progress in the bathroom, assuring himself of his safety and well-being.

The hot lemon and honey was cooling on the side. He had rung Sally and got her recipe. He remembered sick days at home when he was young; hot lemon and honey and apparently a small shot of whiskey. Jim took the ice cream from the freezer. It was Hagen Daz. It was expensive, but it was Blair's favorite and he deserved the treat. Blair had hardly eaten anything in over two days and needed something that wouldn't hurt his throat. Ice cream would do the trick. By the time Blair got out of the shower and had drunk his hot lemon the ice cream would have melted enough to be soft but not runny. Jim had it all planned out. It was the least he could do for his guide.

***

Two weeks later.

"Jim," Blair called. "Now."

Jim stood blindfolded in front of the stairs that led to his bedroom. Sandburg had been testing him all morning. First taste, then sight and touch and now it was hearing. He dreaded to think what he had planned for smell. He knew Blair was wearing the pitcher's mitt and was tossing a softball in his right hand. For the last thirty minutes Blair had been pitching the ball at him. The object of the test was for Jim to use his hearing to judge movement through the air. At first Jim had failed miserably, but as they worked out that if he combined hearing with touch he could sense the currents of air as they were displaced by the movement of the ball. He had caught about seventy per cent of the balls since then.

"You know, Sandburg, with a little more practice this could work even better. Still with your pitching arm it's not much of a challenge. Maybe I should ask Connor to pitch me a few. I hear she has a demon slow-ball."

There was quiet. He strained to hear and felt Blair's movement. Bringing his hands up, Jim grabbed his guide as he rushed forward.

"Nice try, Chief."

Blair laughed, "You're too damned good at this, Jim." He held on, feeling Blair's laughter as his body shook. "I'm gonna have to make these tests harder."

"Living with you is a hard enough test, Chief," Jim commented wryly, as he finally let go and unknotted the blindfold. Blair was standing immediately in front of him. His face was slightly flushed and his eyes glowed with the exercise and laughter. Jim could almost taste his enjoyment. The mood was infectious and Jim returned his smile.

"So what next, Chief? What torture have you got in store now?"

The look on Blair's face was pure mischief, thought Jim and groaned. What had he let himself in for?

"Well, you need to put the blindfold back on. Then I need you to relax. I'm going to release five different smells all at the same time and I want you to filter them out and tell me what each of them is. Okay?"

"I got it, Sandburg. Now, can we get on with this?"

"Got somewhere you need to be?" Blair asked.

"Yeah, Wonderburger. You promised me lunch for doing all these tests," Jim replied, smiling.

"Ok, here we go."

Jim sniffed. This was going to be easy.

"Orange zest, those vanilla things you put in custard, cigar ash, perfume …," he paused. "Chanel Number five?" He heard Blair chuckle and knew he had got it right. "And … Oregano," Jim answered proudly.

"Five out of five, Jim. Very cool."

"Wait, there's something else."

"I only used five smells. Whatever you're getting it's outside the test."

Jim breathed deeply through his nose. He savored the scent. He knew it intimately. It surrounded him every day. He knew when it changed; when the acrid tang of fear tainted it, when the flush of testosterone infused it, when it was mixed with the smells of dirt and cleanliness, just washed and laced with newly awoken or overnight breath. Now it was here again, stronger, muskier, mingled with something sweet, but strong; an aroma that that made him want more. He breathed in again, taking in the scent through his nose and mouth, trying to taste, leaning forward; reaching for the unknown. There was a desire and a longing and he took a step toward it.

A voice cut through the haze.

"Come on, Jim. If you want to get to Wonderburger before the lunchtime rush we had better get a move on."

Jim shook his head and slowly removed the blindfold. He wanted to hold on to that feeling, but it was slipping through his fingers faster than cool water. Opening his eyes, he focused on his guide. Blair stood in the doorway, dangling the keys of the truck in front of him. He was smiling and his blue eyes sparkled.

"Come on, Jim. Shake a leg, old man," he taunted.

Jim moved forward, still trying to retain the essence of that scent. As Blair went through the door Jim followed.

***

Six weeks later.

He was tired and dirty. It had been a shitty day and all he wanted was a meal, a shower and bed. Maybe a beer featured in there somewhere too and to be honest he didn't care where.

Devren Coles, the Pacific Northwest's best forger, had, after years of trying, been finally caught. The Treasury Agents who had instigated the task force that had brought Major Crime in on the chase, had caused Jim untold grief as well as weeks of stake-outs and butt-numbing, grinding detective work . They had trawled through financial records and company records day after day and despite working closely with Major Crime, the Feds had been constantly supercilious and arrogant and Jim wasn't too sure whether he was happier that Coles had been caught or that he would no longer be working with the pencil-pushing, gray-suited Feds.

Most nights he'd returned to the loft with a headache, but Blair had been there with quiet words, good food, soothing music and the occasional back rub when things were really bad.

The Feds had refused to allow a civilian observer to be involved in their case. Simon had tried to persuade them and Jim had first ranted, then sulked, but Blair had told him to grow up. Jim acknowledged that Blair was really busy at the University anyway and that as most of his own days would be taken up with searching through paperwork, his biggest risk was probably a paper cut and the only danger of a zone out was from boredom.

The days had worn on and Blair had turned up at the bullpen when the Feds left with an almost uncanny accuracy and each time he had arrived bearing gifts; a pastry, a decent cup of latte, a sandwich from Jim's favorite deli and once, even a Wonderburger: double deluxe with cheese. Jim had been in seventh heaven and had wanted to hug his partner: it had been a particularly bad day. Blair had just shrugged at Jim's effusive thanks and pushed his hands into the pockets of his pants, as though he were embarrassed.

Now, though, it was all over. All Jim had left to do the next day was some of the final paperwork, box up all the records that had piled up around his desk and then he had a four day weekend to look forward to. He couldn't wait.

As he slowly trudged up the last few steps the enticing smells that had assailed his nose since getting out of the truck, got stronger. He knew what Blair had cooked; his signature lasagna with ricotta cheese and there was garlic bread in the oven; warm garlic bread had a distinctly different smell and the warmer it got the more the smell matured. There was another smell underlying those of cooking food. Jim breathed deeply. A bottle of Chianti was open and had been for a while; the rich aroma of the wine had spread throughout the loft. It had been 'breathing' for a while. Opening the door, Jim shrugged off his jacket and dropped his keys in the basket. He turned slowly. Blair was sitting on the couch, reading. His hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck and his glasses had slipped down his nose. He looked at Jim and put down his book.

"Hey, man, how's it going?"

"Good, Chief." Jim paused and just looked at the younger man. "What's with the big meal? I gotta tell you, Sandburg, if you have a hot date tonight you're going have to change your plans. I'm too tired to head to the theater and watch the Green Mile again, even for you."

Blair stood up and took off his glasses. Jim was rooted to the spot as his guide walked towards him. At the last minute he brought up his hands as if to ward Blair off, but whatever he intended to do he never completed as Blair stopped immediately in front of him and stabbed at his chest with a finger.

"Is that all the gratitude I get for sweating over a hot oven all day? This is for you, Jim, a celebration for closing the Coles case."

He turned away as if offended and Jim reached out and grabbed his shoulder to pull him back.

"I'm sorry, Blair, I didn't realize you knew we were done."

It was important he made sure that Blair knew he was grateful for the effort. Blair shook off his grip and headed to the kitchen.

"You've got time to shower before its ready," Blair muttered darkly, without looking back.

Sighing, Jim took himself off to the bathroom, cursing to himself silently that he'd spoiled what had promised to be a fantastic meal. He did appreciate all the efforts Blair had made for him and his off the cuff remark had been a joke; he hadn't been serious. By the time the hot water was easing the strain of muscles that had been forced into the inactivity of sitting still at a desk all day, Jim had kicked himself mentally all the way up one side of Prospect and down the other. Now he was gently banging his head against the white tiles on the wall in front of him. Jim dawdled in the shower as long as he could and then dried off slowly. For a reason he couldn't identify, he didn't want to face Blair, to see the disappointment in his eyes.

Blinking, Jim was taken aback as he finally opened the door. Blair had turned off the lights and gone to his room. The food was still cooking, but the chef had left the kitchen. He was in his bedroom. Jim sighed and went up to his own room to dress.

The evening was going to hell in a handbasket. Part of him bristled. It wasn't his fault Sandburg had no sense of humor; anyone could tell he hadn't been serious. The kid shouldn't be so touchy.

Who the hell was he kidding? He knew he had sounded annoyed and ungrateful and he knew he was in the wrong, but there was still no need for Blair to get so snippy. After all he knew Jim had been joking, didn't he? Conflicted, Jim walked down the stairs. At the bottom he paused, unsure of what to do next.

"Jim," Blair whispered.

He pulled open the door to Blair's room. His guide stood in the candle-lit glow of the room. Blair's hair had been pulled out of his tie and now fell loose about his face. Jim's breath caught in his throat.

"You're a jerk, Jim," he said quietly, his face serious.

"I know. I was joking, Blair. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

"I know. Come here, jerk."

Jim did as he was told. Something was happening here that he didn't quite understand. Part of him wanted to ask questions, wanted to know what the hell was going on. The rest of him was celebrating like some sort of hyperactive cheer leader. His mouth had gone dry and he couldn't take his eyes off the man in front of him. Someone's heart was beating hard. Blair looked calm and resolved, so if it wasn't his heart beating its way out of his chest then whose was it?

"Jim," Blair smiled. "Kiss me."

And Jim did.

***

Jim pulled back slowly. His head spun and he wasn't sure what had just happened. The only thing he was sure of was that he had just kissed a man and not just any man; his friend, his partner, his room-mate, his guide. Dammit, he had just kissed Blair.

"I just kissed you, Sandburg!" he blurted out, shocked.

"Yes," agreed Blair.

There was no smart comeback, no sarcastic retort, just Blair standing in front of him looking inordinately pleased with himself. Blair licked his lips and Jim stared at that face, at those lips, at that tongue. Unable to stop himself, Jim reached forward and gently brushed his thumb across Blair's cheek and then kissed those lips, again. This time it was Blair who pulled back first, but Jim let his hand slip from Blair's cheek to the back of his neck and stopped the backward movement. Jim rested his forehead against Blair's. The pounding of his own heart was still loud in his ears.

"Blair?"

Jim grasped for understanding. His whole world had just been turned on its head. Opening his eyes, Jim looked down. Blair stared at him, a smile played at the corner of the lips Jim had just kissed.

"Don't fight it, Jim," Blair told him gently.

"Fight?" Jim managed to respond. "I couldn't put up a good defense against a stuffed toy right about now, Chief. Fighting just doesn't come into it."

Blair chuckled. "Hungry?" he asked.

Jim considered that question. He liked the closeness. The feel of his guide beneath his hands was comfortable. He sniffed and dropped his face to Blair's neck. Suddenly smell wasn't enough and Jim licked at the skin just below Blair's ear. His hand still rested on Blair's neck, effectively trapping the man close to him.

"Yeah," Jim replied. "I could eat." As he said it, Jim realized what he meant. He wanted this man, wanted more of him; more than room-mate, more than guide, more than partner. "I want you, Blair."

"You've always had me, Jim. You just never realized it before." Blair explained.

"Are you saying I'm slow, Sandburg?" Jim growled into the ear that was inviting him to bite.

"If the cap fits … "

Blair's words were cut short as Jim gave in to temptation. As he felt Blair's body respond, Jim pulled him closer and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Jim?" Now it was Blair's turn to ask.

"Shut up, Blair." Jim told him and kissed him again, lengthening the encounter, seeking entrance to Blair's mouth and being granted access to that exquisite cavern.

The kiss lingered as Blair's hands found their way under Jim's shirt and reached skin. At that first touch, Jim started and broke all contact between them. The two men stared at each other. Jim suddenly felt light-headed and took a step to the side sinking onto Blair's bed just as his knees gave way. Dropping his head forward he gazed at the floor. He'd just kissed a man! He felt Blair sit next to him and did not object when his hand rested on his thigh.

"This is huge, Blair," Jim managed to utter.

"Only if you let it, Jim."

Blair's hand stroked his thigh and Jim felt the response in his groin. He groaned out loud. "God, Blair," he muttered.

"It's gonna be okay, Jim. I promise." Blair spoke the words fiercely.

"You promise?" Jim asked as his head came up and he looked hard into beautiful blue eyes. Blair nodded and gracefully lay back on his own bed. He held one hand out to Jim.

"Let me show you."

Jim went to him willingly. His finger's undid buttons and pushed aside layers until Blair was naked from the waist up. He had seen his room-mate semi-naked before, but it had never had this effect on him. He wanted to touch every part of Blair and as he thought that his hands did his bidding, trailing gently over skin that reacted to the slightest touch. Jim could see the blood vessels rushing to the surface, following the trail left by his fingers. Tiny hairs became erect and as Jim's caresses approached Blair's stomach he could see the muscles contract and relax in his path.

He knew then that it would happen, he would one day be inside Blair and Blair would be inside him and he smiled at that as his fingers dropped to one final button which came undone much too easily. Blair wriggled beneath him and Jim shifted his body weight to allow him to push his pants down as far as he could. Blair lay back on the bed with his pants around his knees and Jim moved so that he was trapped, unable to sit up. Tentatively Jim's fingers strayed to Blair's boxers. He knew the man beneath was hard, that much was obvious, and he could smell his arousal. The boxers came down surprisingly easily and Blair was exposed to him, his cock strong and proud. Jim was enthralled, he wanted to touch, to taste, but he hesitated instead. Then he did it, he leant down and touched his tongue to the tip of Blair's cock. The taste was strong, salty and Jim wrinkled his nose; not really pleasant, but something he could get used to. He licked again, taking his time, lingering over the contours of Blair's cock. He pulled back to stare at the object of his desire. He wasn't ready yet to suck Blair off. That would come though, he knew, and soon.

He could hear Blair breathing hard and shifted his position to raise himself back to look at his face. He was flushed and his eyes half-closed, his mouth open. Jim plundered that mouth. As Blair tried to bring up his legs and kick off his pants the rest of the way, Jim swung one leg over his thigh's to pin him to the bed. Jim's hand was drawn to Blair's groin as if of its own volition and as Jim's tongue invaded Blair's mouth, so Jim's hand first caressed and then ravaged Blair's cock. The body beneath him writhed in desperate arousal and he changed his grip to allow his thumb to brush the engorged head on each upstroke. Blair fought back, sucking at Jim's tongue, nipping at his lips, forcing Jim's tongue out of his mouth and plundering Jim's mouth himself. Jim tightened his grip and Blair was coming over his hand, breathing hard, his breath in great heaving gasps.

Jim watched as Blair recovered. His lover smiled before he opened his eyes. Jim wiped his hand on Blair's bed sheets.

"Jim," Blair murmured.

Jim gently touched the kiss-bruised lips.

"What?" He asked.

Blair didn't answer. The silence stretched and Blair's smile widened.

"Jim," he said again.

Jim leant forward and put his mouth by Blair's ear.

"What?" He whispered.

Blair shivered and finally opened his eyes.

"Just, Jim," he uttered as though that explained everything.

"You better believe it," Jim said trying to sound gruff. Instead he smiled and fell back on to the bed next to Blair. "How the hell did we get here, Blair?" Jim asked with a smile on his face.

"Baby steps, Jim, baby steps."

The End?