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Disclaimers: Pet Fly Productions owns the characters and is making money off of them. I hope.

Other: Pre-slash. G-rating. Domestic poisoning and a spurious threat of legal action. Nothing actually happens. I probably owe an apology to Martha Stewart. (Like she cares.) Set just after Flight and before Deep Water. Thanks to Lynn for the beta.

Author: annezo @ fastmail . fm

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Breathe Deeply

Blair stretched his legs out in front of him and sank deeper into the couch cushions. This is the life.

"So, what do you have planned today?" Jim's question interrupted Blair's no classes, no urgent cases, nowhere to be coma.

Blair considered going after another cup of coffee. "This was pretty much it."

"There's a game on in a couple of hours," Jim offered.

"There's beer in the fridge."

Jim grinned at him. "Life is good." He propped his feet up on the coffee table and sighed.

Blair knew how he felt. Even the simple comfort of a cushioned chair was a gift after Peru. "Excellent." Blair considered the rest of the weekend. "So, what were you thinking of for this evening?"

"More of the same with any luck." Jim shrugged. "We'll think of something. Or, not."

"I hear that." Somehow though, Blair felt like some kind of celebration was in order. He looked over at Jim's contented face, seeing the lazy smile that curved his partner's lips, and he didn't regret Borneo at all. He'd made the right choice. Solid. "We could go out. Have a drink, maybe meet some people," Blair suggested

"You go ahead, Chief. Call someone."

"Nah, forget it. I'm not really in the mood for that much effort." Blair hadn't been thinking of a date, just the two of them having a couple of beers, relaxing, yakking. Guy stuff. He stared at the wall for a while, then his eyes focused on the dirty white paint. "Hey," he said idly. "When was last time this place was painted?"

Jim closed his eyes. "I meant to do it a couple of years ago but Carolyn and I couldn't agree on a color and afterward...I just never got around to it."

"It could use something."

"I like it this way." Jim defended. "I don't want the place cluttered up with a lot of stuff to trip over."

Territorial. Blair made an automatic mental note of it. Sometimes it was hard to tell if Jim's possessiveness about what was his was an Ellison trait or a Sentinel trait. Blair hadn't figured out how to test for that yet. He wasn't even sure if it was possible to draw a line on that one.

"I don't think painting the walls will interfere with your ability to find your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night."

Jim rolled his eyes, but Blair could sense victory in the air, so he kept going. "Look, you own the place, right? Why not do something to it? You know, Fix it up a little? A little paint might work wonders."

Jim looked around. "I guess it might. I just kind of got used to the place. I don't really look at it that much."

"Well, that's no surprise. It's not much to look at."

"If you've got a problem with the accommodations, Sandburg...."

"That's not what I'm saying," Blair objected. "Just that...well, after all, you're single, right? You have the occasional date?"

Jim sat up. "What exactly does that mean? The occasional date. I've told you before, Sandburg, not every guy feels the need to stalk every woman who crosses his line of vision."

"I don't do that." It was already a familiar argument. "If I meet someone interesting, I ask them out. What's wrong with that?"

"I don't know. Maybe the fact that you've never met a woman between the ages of 17 and 70 you didn't find 'interesting'?"

"At least I'm out there trying."

"What does that mean?

Blair brushed off the argument with a wave of his hand. "Forget it. The point is, the place looks like a dump. It's no place to bring a date."

Jim leaned back and took another sip of coffee. "No one I've brought home has ever said anything. Maybe it's just the type of women you attract."

"Look, you know what I'm talking about."

"If one of your dates wants to see a designer couch and matching curtains, she can...."

"There's a lot of territory between Martha Stewart's house and this place," Blair interrupted.

"Yeah. I doubt if Martha Stewart keeps her wet towels on the bathroom floor."

"Get over it."

Jim grinned and shrugged. "Okay, what do you suggest?"

"Like I said, how about starting with a little paint and see how it looks?"

Jim looked around skeptically. "What color?"

"What color did you want before?" Was it going to be this easy? Jim usually resisted any change to his environment as though the addition of bookcase to a room was the last step before the downfall of contemporary civilization.

"I can't remember. I know Carolyn wanted some kind of weird textured thing."

Touchy subject. "Okay, do you have a favorite color?"

Jim thought about it. For a long time.

Blair couldn't believe the guy didn't have a favorite color. Everyone had a favorite color, right? "If that's too big a decision, we could go with white again."

Jim looked pleased. "White is good."

Blair rolled his eyes. "I knew it."

"It was your suggestion, Sandburg," Jim said defensively. "What's wrong with white?"

"Nothing. It's just that something a little more creative could be kinda' cool."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "You have been watching Martha Stewart, right?"

"Nothing weird," Blair nobly let that one pass unanswered. "Blue is nice."

Jim shook his head. "I like green."

"Green?"

"Yeah, green. Any problem with that?"

Blair looked around. "No, actually, that could be great." At least Jim had picked an actual color.

Jim looked satisfied. "Okay, then."

"So when do we start?"

Jim grinned at him. "You'd do that? You'd paint my house for me?"

"With you," Blair said pointedly. Borneo flashed across his mind again. "As it happens, my schedule is unusually open right now, yeah. You up for it?"

The project almost died at the paint store when the salesman tried to make Jim choose between "forest," "mountain," "mist," "seaweed", and "meadow," but Blair cornered him and forced Jim to agree that, no matter what the store called it, "forest" was the color Jim had been thinking of.

"Okay." Back at the loft, Jim got that drill sergeant look in his eyes. "We need to get the ladder up here from the basement, wash down the wall, mask off by the ceiling and the floor, get the drop cloths down, get out the paint thinner, and then decide who will do what."

Leave it to Jim to make something as simple as this into enough work for ten people. "We're painting a wall, Jim, not the Sistine Chapel."

"It's my house," Jim pointed out. "We're going to do it the right way or not at all. A job worth doing...."

"Since when did you become cliché central?" Blair interrupted.

"Do you want to do this or not? Because I can always go out and change the oil in my truck or something, okay?"

"I mean, I didn't know we had to choose up sides, that's all."

"Sandburg!"

Blair held up his hands. "Okay, forget it. Let's get started. I'll wash, you fetch."

Jim gave him that look. There had been a time when that had worked on Blair. "The ladder. Get the ladder."

Jim disappeared toward the basement, mumbling things a non-Sentinel probably didn't want to hear.

By the time he got back, Blair had washed as much as he could reach of the wall and was starting to mask. "Where in the hell were you?" he complained. "I'm not doing this alone, you know."

Jim leaned the ladder against the wall and swiped his arm across his face. "Next time, you can go drag the twelve foot ladder up from the basement, okay?"

"All you had to do was ask. I would have helped you."

"I had it under control." Jim put up the ladder and made short work out of washing off the rest of the wall.

I had it under control. Of course he did. He always said he did, no matter what was going down.

Blair tried not to watch Jim balancing on the unsteady ladder. It was good not to be the one up there reaching across to stick masking tape along the top of the wall on a ladder older than his roommate. He watched as the muscles in Jim's legs flexed, helping him keep his balance. The ladder rocked slightly. Blair started to tell Jim to be careful, then decided he'd be better off keeping his mouth shut. And his mind on the job.

"You want to do the kitchen, too?" Blair finished masking along the floor and on the living room side of the kitchen cabinets.

"Yeah, probably." Jim shifted the ladder over and climbed back up. "Have to do the whole wall, don't you think?"

Blair looked around. The other walls were mostly brick. "Probably."

Actually, it was all going to look pretty good. Green was a good choice. Very organic, very grounding. Not that he could share that thought with Jim. A few more plants, some books, and the place might be livable.

Blair put a stop to that line of thought. He didn't want Jim to even suspect he might be thinking of 'decorating.' It wasn't really Blair's place, after all. It was Jim's. Blair was just there temporarily. Passing through, or something.

Blair dragged his mind back to the present and looked around. The washing and masking were done, drop cloths in place, and they were ready. "Want a beer before we get started here?"

"Sounds good."

They finished their beers, waiting for the damp wall to dry before they started the painting. Blair took the empty bottles back to the kitchen, remembering to rinse them out and drop them into the recycling bin he'd set up. Jim had looked at it and shaken his head, but he hadn't actually objected. He'd just said, if that starts to smell, Sandburg, you're going to be sleeping with it. In Ellison's World, that was practically a gold star of approval.

Jim spread out a thick pad of newspapers to hold the paint and supplies. Blair put the paint can on top of the papers, pried the lid off, and stirred it, wiping the stick off very carefully since he could feel Jim's eyes on him. Then he pulled the two paint pans over and poured paint into each of them.

"That neat enough to suit you?"

"You're learning." Jim started putting together the long-handled roller. "Why don't you start at the bottom and work your way up?"

Blair gave him a look. "What else have I been doing for the past few months?"

Jim grinned and handed Blair a brush. "Just get down there."

Blair thought about his aching knees, sighed, and dropped to the floor. They didn't talk much. The television played the game in the background and Jim whistled occasionally. Jim had about five feet of the wall done, from the edge of the kitchen and over the door, by the time Blair finished edging along the floor and the kitchen counters.

"This is great, you know? Blair stared at the wall in satisfaction. "This is going to be totally excellent."

"You sound like a refugee from an eighties sitcom." Jim rolled paint on the wall slowly. "Totally, like, man, cool. Bowlin', even."

"Bowling?"

"Okay, I made that one up. But you know what I mean."

"I guess it's good to be in touch with your inner dork." Blair stood up and rubbed his knees. "Hey. How about a break?"

"We've only been at it for thirty minutes, Sandburg."

"There's no rush, right? We have all weekend. Besides, you try crawling on that floor for half an hour and see how you feel about it."

Jim shrugged. "Take a break if you need one." He went back to painting and whistling.

Blair got them another beer, leaving Jim's on the table for him to grab when he had a second. He stood back, watching for a few minutes. He could have finished the kitchen but there was no rush. He had a feeling that as soon as he did, he was going to be at the top of that ladder, edging by the ceiling. No rush at all.

"You're slopping paint all over the floor," Blair said smugly.

"At least I'm still working, Martha."

"Bowlin', in fact."

"The paintbrush is the thing with all the fuzzy bristles at one end, in case you've forgotten."

Blair ignored the hint, tracking down a new line of thought. "You know, maybe we should try that."

Jim dabbed at a spot on the wall. "You're interfering with my artistic concentration, Sandburg."

"I'm serious. We haven't done enough tests to see how your Sentinel abilities can be used to improve your hand-eye coordination. That could be a valuable study."

"No way." Jim kicked a piece of newspaper over a paint splash on the wooden floor. "Some kinds of humiliation I can live without."

"What do you mean? Look, if you can use your enhanced vision to improve your motor skills, think of all the ways that could be useful!"

"Name one."

"Like...." Nothing came to mind. "Like a lot of ways."

"I am not standing in some crummy bowling alley surrounded by a bunch of drunken slobs, listening to you tell me to be the ball, Sandburg."

"It wouldn't have to be crummy. There are nice bowling alleys, you know."

"Just forget it."

"Sure," Blair muttered. "Fine. Who knew you were a snob?"

"I'm not a snob," Jim said defensively. He took another swipe at the wall. "These fumes are making my head hurt."

Blair felt a pang of guilt. "Can you just block it out? The way we practiced?"

"Of course I can. But just because I can't smell it doesn't mean it won't give me a headache. The fumes will still be there."

Blair made a mental note. Getting shot was nothing, but a headache meant a surly Sentinel. "Well, yeah, I know. But usually things you can't sense don't affect you, right?"

"You think." Jim stood still and Blair could tell he was focusing on shutting his sense of smell down until he could tolerate the paint fumes.

Blair drank his beer slowly, fighting the urge to ask, are you okay? Is it any better? Jim wasn't in the mood to be fussed over. Not that he ever was.

After a minute, Jim opened his eyes and started painting again. The almost invisible line of pain between his eyes had disappeared.

Jim finished that stretch of wall and came over to lean on the table by Blair. He opened his beer and dropped one arm across Blair's shoulders casually.

"Looks pretty good, Chief." His smile was an apology.

"It does." Blair was surprised, but pleased. "This was a good idea." He leaned against Jim fractionally, feeling the warmth of Jim's skin through the thin layers of tee-shirt. They'd both worked up a sweat.

"It was," Jim agreed cheerfully. He nudged Blair's neck with his forearm and smiled at him. The world seemed to be a brighter place when Jim was in a good mood. It was surprising that one guy could have such an effect on his surroundings. It wasn't just Blair, either. Blair had watched the other guys in the squad room brighten up when Jim showed up at work in a good mood.

Jim finished his beer and got back to work. Blair stayed where he was, watching Jim work until Jim caught him at it. Jim looked at the ladder significantly.

Blair looked at the ladder, looked at Jim's grin, then sighed, refilled his pan and carried it slowly to the top of the ladder. Back down the ladder to get a rag and stuff it into his pocket and get a clean brush. Holding on with both hands, Blair climbed back up. He wasn't taking any chances on this antique equipment. At some point, Jim started whistling again, which was kind of strange. Blair wasn't sure what the whistling meant except that maybe Jim was in a really, really good mood.

Blair was glad he'd mentioned painting. There were probably other things Jim had originally intended to do around the place, too. Blair would have to figure out what some of the stuff was.

Jim had a weird technique with a paint roller. He rolled one long stripe, then dabbed at the wall, matting the paint on before finally smearing it around with the roller again.

It was distracting. Blair kept watching Jim as he finished one section of the ceiling, then shifted the ladder down to the last section. Jim was going over some spots several times and barely hitting others, and Blair couldn't see any reason why. He would have asked, but Jim was still whistling cheerfully and Blair didn't want to do anything to break the mood.

Blair finished working next to the ceiling, and took his pan and brush back down the ladder, still moving very carefully. He caught the edge of a grin on Jim's face as Jim watched him ease his way down the ladder, but Blair ignored it. He wasn't taking a twelve foot drop to bounce his ass off a wooden floor for anyone's entertainment.

"Hey!" Blair headed for the kitchen. "You want a sandwich?"

" Abso-bloo-min-lutely." Jim eyed the wall critically.

"Huh?" Blair did not believe he'd heard that.

"A sandwich would be fine." Jim stepped forward and repainted one spot carefully. "No sprouts. They get stuck in my teeth."

"Even I don't eat sprouts on balogna," Blair told him.

Jim made a face. "Why balogna? Don't we have any ham?"

"No. Someone forgot to go to the store."

"Wasn't my turn."

"It was absolutely your turn," Blair insisted. "I went last week, remember? The department meeting ran late and by the time I got home, you'd given up on me and ordered pizza. Remember?"

"Abso-bloo-min-lutely." Jim splashed paint into the pan recklessly.

There it was again. This time, Blair was sure he'd heard it right. He wasn't crazy. Jim was. Blair really wanted to ask, but....

He went to the kitchen and opened the turpentine. It was going to take some work to get his hands clean enough to handle food. Blair opened the can and poured the pungent liquid onto a rag. There was a faint noise from the living room. After a few seconds, Blair identified it. Jim was singing. Jim? Blair listened more closely.

"My baloney has a first name," Jim sang tunelessly. "It's b-l-a-i-r."

Blair stared at him. "What's up with you?"

"Up? I am, man."

Up? Blair didn't get it for a second, then the pieces fell into place with a shock. Up. The paint fumes. No wonder talking to Jim had been like having a conversation in Wonderland.

"Are you kidding? Why didn't you say something? How bad is it?" Blair knew he was babbling. Panic attack. "How are you feeling?"

"Too cool for school." A definite giggle. No doubt about it. Jim had been standing there, getting stoned and never saying a word to his partner.

Blair wasn't sure who to blame first. Himself for not having thought about the possibility, or the stubborn, secretive, macho jackass he was trying to help. He wondered if his so-called partner would ever learn that he needed to tell Blair any time anything went weird with his senses.

"Jim?" Blair headed for the living room.

Jim threatened him with the paint roller. "Back! Back!"

"Whoa!" Blair stumbled back a few feet. "Down boy! Jim! Snap out of it, man!"

"This one's mine." Jim grinned at him. "Get your own toys, Sandburg."

"C'mon, Jim. Put it down." Blair tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

"I'm not done yet."

"I think maybe you are. For today, anyhow." Blair stepped forward. "Friends don't let friends paint stoned, Jim."

Jim looked at Blair, then at the paint roller, confused. "I'm not done yet."

"It doesn't matter," Blair coaxed. "You'll live to paint again." He eased his way into the living room, hoping he wasn't going to wind up with a paint roller in the face.

He was about a foot from Jim when Jim suddenly jumped back, grabbing at his face. "What in the hell is that stuff?

Blair looked down at the rag. "Just turpentine."

Jim's eyes started watering. "Jesus Christ, Sandburg. You're killing me here."

"Oh, shit." Turpentine. Blair backed off quickly. The fumes must be murder on Jim's senses, especially in the condition he was in at the moment.

The roller slid out of Jim's hand.

"I have to get out of this." Jim pressed his hands over his eyes.

"Okay, wait." Blair looked around quickly. "Behind you. Turn around and take one step forward, then about four steps to your right. You should be right in front of the balcony."

Jim's breathing was ragged and painful as he moved toward the door.

"Listen," Blair said urgently. "Do not rub your eyes, okay? I'll get some water to wash them out with."

"Hurry up."

It was just the two words, but Blair practically ran after a big bowl of clean, cool water and a cloth. When he reached the balcony, Jim pushed him aside and splashed his hands into the water, rinsing his eyes again and again.

"I can't believe I did that." Blair touched Jim's shoulder. "You...uh...you gonna be okay?"

"You mean, aside from having my eyeballs burnt out of my head?" Jim's nose was running, his eyes were red and swollen.

Blair could have kicked himself. "I should have thought of it. We both should have. We've got to start anticipating things like this."

"Yeah, you should have," Jim complained. "When I can see again, I'm going to kick your ass from here to Canada and back."

"Now that's the Ellison we all know and love," Blair cooed.

"Watch yourself, Sandburg," Jim growled.

"You must be coming down." In spite of his teasing, Blair felt relieved. He'd really been worried. That had been so stupid. He couldn't believe he'd done something that potentially dangerous to his partner. "Anything I can do?"

Jim pressed a wet cloth against his eyes. "When I was little, my mom used to let me sit on her lap when I was sick. She'd sing me this little song and give me cookies."

Okay, he was still floating. Blair could deal. "Well, yeah, you're a little big for lap-sitting these days, and you've had enough junk food."

Jim shrugged. "You asked."

"Anything I can do for you that doesn't involve dislocating a hip?"

"You never know until you try."

"What?"

Jim shook his head. "Nothing, thanks." He cocked his head. "You want to get back to work?"

"I think you've had enough of the whole painting experience for one day." Blair damped a fresh cloth and handed it to Jim. "Another hour in there and you'll be doing a Fred Astaire with the paint roller."

It was hard not to feel sympathy for the reddened, swollen eyes trying to shoot a glare in Blair's direction.

"I hate you, Sandburg." Jim sniffed pathetically, then ruined the effect with a loud sneeze.

"Bless you."

"I should arrest you for assaulting a cop."

"What? With a paint rag?" Blair laughed. "Who's going to believe that?"

"Simon will," Jim said smugly. "He owes me a favor right about now, anyhow." He sniffed again.

"Hey, it was both of us wading through that jungle, you know."

"Yeah, but he likes me best." Jim managed to get the words out before he sneezed again. "He'll do it if I ask him to."

"Bless you." Blair was starting to wonder if Jim really had all ten toes firmly back on planet Earth yet. "Okay, how much time do you usually get for fabric-related assaults? Ten minutes? Fifteen? I'll be out before I get my toothbrush unpacked."

Jim pressed the damp cloth against his eyes and moaned softly. "I hate you."

"Yeah, we did that part already." Blair pushed a fresh cloth into Jim's hand and dropped the one he took back into the cool water. "How are the eyes?"

"Better." Grudging admission at best.

"Better, how?" Blair probed. "Burning? Swelling? Let me take a look."

"Better, that's all." Jim elbowed Blair's hand away, proving that he could see at least enough to peer out from under the cloth. "Not great. Better."

"Would it be safe to assume that I'm not going to be needing the services of a Public Defender in the next twenty-four hours?"

"I'll keep you posted."

"You're not charming when you're stoned, Jim."

"I'm not supposed to be stoned. I'm a cop, dammit!"

"You're a Sentinel and we had a little miscalculation with your senses, okay? It's just us, so it's cool. It's not like you were singing the balogna song for the entire precinct."

"Singing?" Jim pulled the cloth down and one reddened blue eye tried to burn a hole through Blair. "I wasn't singing."

"How quickly they forget." From Blair's limited view, most of the ugly looking swelling around Jim's eyes seemed to be disappearing. "Next time, I grab my recorder."

"How was your trip, Jim?" Jim's voice was casual. Thoughtful.

There he goes again? "Stay with me, buddy."

Jim ignored him. "Oh, nothing we couldn't handle, Joel. In and out, you know? What? Sandburg? Well, yeah, Sandburg had a few problems."

Blair had an uneasy flash of Jim's voice ringing through to every interested ear in the Major Crimes squad room. "Uh. Jim?"

"He said he was okay in the jungle." Jim shook his head, one corner of his mouth fighting a grin. "But you know Sandburg. First thing he did was pick the tallest tree for a mile around to fall out of."

"C'mon Jim." Blair didn't like where this was going.

"Then we had to put the whole mission on hold while he played with this lizard he was keeping in his shorts...."

"Hey! No way!" Blair sat up, starting to get really worried. "Look, you know how hard it's been for me to get those guys to take me seriously. You can't tell them shit like that."

"Oh, I don't know. I think they might find it kind of funny, don't you?"

"Okay, I give." There wasn't any way for Blair to win that one. "The singing thing never happened, okay?"

"There's still the thing about you trying to poison me."

"You know that was an accident and I apologized for that."

Jim pried the damp cloth away from his eyes, winced at the brightness of the light, and re-covered his face. "My eyes hurt, Sandburg."

"There's nothing I can do about that right now. Just be patient."

"You could try painting."

"To help your eyes?"

"Hearing someone paint always puts me in a good mood."

"This is blackmail, you know." Blair stood up reluctantly. "An actual criminal offense."

"Remember the lizard, Sandburg."

"I'm an anthropologist, not a house painter," Blair mumbled, returning to his job. "If I fall off of this stupid ladder and kill myself, you can explain it to my mom." He knew Jim could hear him, but there wasn't any answer to any of his complaints.

It took him a couple of hours to finish the painting. Blair cleaned up carefully, washing out the sink and sniffing around the counter to make sure there wasn't any lingering smell of turpentine. Sweating and exhausted, Blair went back out on the balcony. "How's the vision thing?"

Jim looked up at him with a slight frown. "What?"

"How are your eyes?"

"Oh. That cleared up a while ago."

"Then what was I doing in there painting your entire loft by myself?"

"It was just one wall," Jim said. "Anyhow, you wouldn't want me to have a relapse, would you?"

Blair glared down at him. "Fine. See if vI come running the next time you yell 'wolf'."

"Let's see if it's aired out yet." Jim stood up and walked back into the loft. He walked around and waited for a couple of minutes, standing next to the freshly painted wall. And his eyes started to water again, turning red around the edges.

"Shit." Blair felt another stab of guilt as he followed Jim back to the balcony. "Okay, well, I guess that answers that. It should be okay by tomorrow."

"Probably," Jim agreed. "It had better be, or someone around here is going to be regretting it."

"You just keep it up," Blair threatened. "And I'll lock you out here. You could be sitting out here all night, you know."

"What makes you think I won't be?"

That was true. There was no way Jim was going to be able to sleep in the loft. "You know, you could go to a hotel for the night."

"Forget it," Jim said. "I can sleep right here on the balcony. I've slept in worse places."

"It's a little chilly for camping out."

"There are sleeping bags in the storage area downstairs," Jim reminded him. "They'll be good enough."

While Jim was making up his bed, Blair threw together some more sandwiches and carried them out to the balcony.

"Take a look at our last case. Could we have tracked Simon and Daryl down in the jungle without your senses?" Blair put the plate down between them. He didn't want Jim blaming this on the Sentinel thing. Not when the real blame was Blair's failure to anticipate problems. Guide failure.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Jim tore into a sandwich with the air of a man who was half starved. "I was doing okay before they came back."

"It's just that the advantages don't mean we can ignore the dangers," Blair insisted. "Contemporary society with all its pollutants and chemicals is a minefield for someone with Sentinel senses."

"You're telling me."

"We can handle it." Blair finished his own sandwich, thinking aloud. "We both need to learn to watch for this kind of stuff, head it off before it becomes a problem."

Jim yawned. "Close the door, Sandburg. We can't afford to heat the whole city."

"Yeah, it's cooling off out here, isn't it?" Blair slid the door shut. He could have gone inside, but it didn't seem right to leave Jim out here alone. "Hey, move over."

Jim slid aside and Blair took the unoccupied half of the improvised bed. He'd slept on worse and with the second bag spread over them, he would warm up fast. "And, another thing...."

Jim groaned. "Give it up for tonight Sandburg. Just look at the stars, okay?"

"Okay," Blair said comfortably. He yawned. "You remind me later, I have some more examples for you."

. . . .

Somewhere during the black middle of the night, before the glow of the first dawn, Blair woke up to a feeling of being warm and protected. His mind cleared slowly. Jim was curled up against his back, one arm over Blair's waist, his face pressed against Blair's neck.

Blair thought about it for a minute, then decided it was smarter not to think about it. It was a cold night. A couple of buddies were sharing some body heat. Nothing more than that. Blair took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Behind him, Jim stirred and hugged him closer for a second.

Blair closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

****

end