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Author's disclaimer: Petfly and those other people own them, and make what money is to be made. I retain my amateur status, although lucrative endorsements would allow me to retire and write more.

Cascade Olympiad

I. Opening Ceremonies

"Hey, Sandburg, is that popcorn ready yet? The beer's getting warm."

Blair headed toward the couch carrying a bowl the size of Dennis Rodman's ego. "It's coming, it's coming--keep your shirt on." He grinned, turning it into a leer as he sat down next to Jim. "Or not."

Jim put his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table and commandeered the popcorn. "You were the one who wanted to see the opening ceremonies, Junior. You wanna watch or you wanna fool around?"

"Watch now. Fool around later." Blair concentrated on filling up any remaining air space between him and his partner while he grabbed a handful of popcorn. "It'll be worth your while. Major rituals always make me horny as hell."

"Oh yeah? Maybe you'd better give me a list of what you consider major rituals. Just so I can be prepared."

"Let's see--the Olympics, of course. Especially the opening and closing ceremonies."

"Great." Jim took a swig of his beer. "Even if you count the winter ones, that's still only once every two years."

"Well, that's about the only truly international ritual event, even if the ceremonies are pretty artificial these days. At least it's got a few millennia of history as background."

"So does it have to be international? Should I quit the force and begin to work toward a single world government?"

"Nah, you'd blame your career change on me and Simon would never forgive me." Blair tilted his head back onto the top of the couch, ruminating--seemingly unaware of the effect the sight of his vulnerable bared throat had on his partner. "Royal weddings and state funerals are usually pretty good, although Princess Diana's was a bit on the psychopathological side. The funeral, not the wedding."

Jim chewed furiously, trying to concentrate on what his lover was actually saying. The once and future anthropologist really did want to see the damn ceremony, but "not now, Jim" didn't seem to be in his sexual vocabulary...at least he'd never uttered it or any variation thereof in well over a year of their own non-competitive version of Greco-Roman wrestling. If the Sentinel was in the mood, it didn't take much to get the Guide in the mood. In the absence of a Selfish Bastards Anonymous, Jim was trying all on his own to make up for years of treating Blair a lot less well than he deserved. He was a rough tough ex-Ranger, he could wait until the ritual-junkie next to him got his fix. Even if the ceremony was supposed to last over four hours. He drank more beer.

"Although those are kind of international," Blair continued. "But the opening of Parliament gives me a charge...even a good State of the Union address. Local is OK too, though. I once had a short but torrid affair with the woman who catered my second cousin's bar mitzvah. "I've never had such fantastic..."

Jim scowled.

"...blintzes."

The scowl metamorphosed into a smug little smile. He swallowed. The scowl came back. "Hey, there's no butter on this popcorn!"

"One more time, Jim--saturated fat bad. Cholesterol bad. I sprayed a little olive oil on it, that's good for you."

"But popcorn's supposed to have butter--it's a tradition," Jim complained.

"So were tarring and feathering, and slavery, and hanging pickpockets. We managed to give them up." Blair stared pointedly into the depths of the bowl. "Gee, and you hated it so much you ate only three-quarters of it."

"Look, it's starting," Jim announced. Saved by the bell, or the didgeridoo, or whatever. The popcorn was pretty good, and Blair's insistence on taking care of him, in ways both large and small, was better. He loved it, and Blair knew that, but the complaint routine was one of their own little rituals. One that got the Guide hornier than normal? Considering the usual healthy level of his libido, how could a mere Sentinel tell?

The two settled back contentedly to watch the festivities. Megan had been going on for months about the Olympics being in her home country, and all the little side bits about Australia might be interesting. Maybe all the purple-prose paeans to the glories of the Land Down Under would provide some nice ammunition for later needling. Jim hadn't watched these ceremonies since he was a kid, and back then they'd been nowhere near as elaborate. His father had thought them a waste of time, although watching the athletic events themselves was encouraged. William Ellison probably thought it would build up his sons' competitive spirit. Well, William Ellison's son-in-law could also be damned competitive when he had to be--such as in the Academy--to the surprise of a lot of cops outside the Major Crime inner circle. It hadn't surprised Jim at all. Though Blair was always happiest when he could engineer a win-win situation, if someone had to lose it wasn't going to be him if he could help it.

The one glaring exception had been the infamous press conference, of course. Although that hadn't been a loss, but a sacrifice. Big difference. A damn big difference. Growing up in the Ellison household might have been one way to produce winners against the odds, but growing up as a "short precocious bisexual Jewish bastard"--in his partner's words--apparently engendered a determination and strength of character that made any mere Olympian look like a wimp.

Jim glanced at the TV screen once in a while, just to keep from losing the thread of what was going on. It was a lot more entertaining to watch the younger man as he raptly followed the unfolding drama. Blair almost jumped out of his seat when the little Australian actress suddenly flew into the air. He seemed torn between nervousness at the child's midair acrobatics and fascination at the way the huge open-air stadium was transformed into an undersea world.

"God, Jim, look at that kid. It makes me twitchy just to watch her, and she's flipping around like she doesn't care she's a gazillion feet up. I'm shown up by a prepubescent girl."

"Yeah, but can she parachute into the jungle? Climb trees? Jump into the ocean from a helicopter? For somebody who's supposed to be afraid of heights, you could've fooled me."

"But that was different."

"How?"

"You Sentinel, me Guide, remember? The Guide goes where the Sentinel goes--it's his job. Besides, when you're with me I find myself able to do things I don't think I could ever do on my own."

Jim lifted his arm to drape it over his lover's shoulders. "Like me taking a swim in the middle of the ocean when I normally any water away from the sight of land makes me break into a sweat?"

Blair smiled as he leaned into the embrace. "Yeah, like that. I guess we're just stronger together than we are apart."

"I guess."

The next part of the spectacle got Blair started on the Aborigines--creation myths, ancient culture, contact with Europeans, current politics--the amount of sheer stuff packed into that nicely shaped head continued to astound Jim. Was he at all aware of how his voice changed when he talked about anthropology? Professorial authority and sheer love of his subject combined into a voice that was so compelling that Jim could have listened to him lecture for hours on the evolution of the hand axe or techniques in the analysis of coprolites. When you fall, Ellison, you fall hard. Blair was one helluva detective, but Jim vowed that someday, somehow, his partner would be a teacher again.

The arrival of the Europeans quieted Blair down a little...not quite as fascinating as the Aborigines. Jim returned his attention to the TV, and watched contentedly as the pageant continued to unfold. With a cold beer in his hand and the sexiest cop in the Cascade PD curled into his side, he'd be happy to sit and watch paint dry. The theatrical quality of this whole thing was pretty compelling, and it was interesting to see what kind of dazzler the team who put this together would come up with next. It took a lot more to get people going in these days of digital special effects, but so far human imagination seemed equal to the task. That fabric waterfall effect was amazing, not to mention getting the audience to cooperate in the spectacle. Maybe the PD should import these folks to work on the obstreperous citizens of Cascade. Now that would give them a real challenge.

Finally the athletes began parading in. Jim vaguely remembered Megan telling him there were more countries represented in this Olympics than ever before. He could believe it. There were countries he didn't even know existed, and others so small that their entire Olympic team could have been dropped into the police gym--even on a busy night--and nobody would feel crowded. And there were thousands of the fittest, most toned bodies on the planet, and most of them were wearing outfits from UglySuits R Us. Jim sneaked a sidelong glance at his partner. Even he was looking a little bored, except on the rare occasions when a team showed up in native dress. They were only up to what, Hungary? Helluva lot of countries to go before the torch showed up. Drying paint was starting to look good.

Jim drained his beer and set the bottle down on the table. Using a coaster, of course. Then he casually began undoing the buttons on his shirt. He got about halfway down before Blair realized something was up. Oh yeah, something was definitely on the way up--just thinking about having his way with his partner sooner instead of later guaranteed that.

"Jim--what are you doing?"

"Unbuttoning my shirt. I thought they taught you at the Academy to be observant."

"Such a comedian. I thought we agreed to fool around later. You know I wanted to see this..."

"Wouldn't want to miss a minute of it myself. I love watching shotputters and weightlifters in blazers...I always wondered what a building would look like wearing a suit. In honor of the Opening Ceremonies I'm opening something. My shirt."

"Ah...and here I thought you were trying to distract me. Maybe even seduce me."

"I'm hurt that you think I have so little self-control. I'm just trying to be comfortable. It's kinda warm in here, don't you think?"

"The middle of September in Cascade...yeah, downright tropical."

Jim leaned back, ostensibly absorbed in watching phalanxes of waving, grinning athletes parade around a very large stadium. In reality, he was watching dirty pictures playing inside his head. Visualization was a popular technique among athletes, after all--so he visualized sex with his lover in graphic detail, knowing full well what it was doing to his body. With his job, he had to buy sturdy pants. They could take the strain.

By the time Korea marched in, Blair was trying to pay attention to the historic sight of North and South Koreans walking hand in hand, but he was squirming. When Monaco entered, he groaned. By the time the parade got to Palau, Jim was almost knocked off the couch as his lover lost it.

"You shit!" Blair was all over the larger man, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off then going for the zipper of the jeans.

"Whoa, tiger," Jim laughed. "Careful of the torch, there." He lifted his hips as Blair tugged impatiently at the jeans, taking the boxers along at the same time. He shivered in anticipation as the cool air of the loft touched the overheated flesh between his legs. Blair was ripping his own clothes off as if they burned, his eyes never leaving Jim's body. Oh, this was gonna be good. Maybe Blair wasn't kidding about rituals as an aphrodisiac.

Jim lay back, raising one leg to the back of the couch and bracing the other against the floor, opening himself to his lover. Naked himself now, Blair lowered himself between Jim's spread legs, giving him one blazing blue look before bending his head downward, stroking his lover's side as he slid one hand up to support his weight, partly on the couch and partly on the muscled thigh under his arm. Jim only had time to gasp at the touch of silky tendrils of hair against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs before his cock was engulfed almost to the root in Blair's mouth. He barely had a chance to cry out his surprise at the almost painfully sensual shock, before a familiar hand cupped his balls, gently rolling them between its elegant fingers. Oh my God... Blair was working his lover's cock like he never had before--taking it deeper, sucking harder.

Jim clutched Blair's arm where it lay braced against his side and over one thigh, holding down his hips against the urge to thrust. In an erotic haze, Jim watched as Blair's head moved up and down between his legs, elegant cheekbones limned in sharp relief with each upstroke, hair laying little trails of fire against the Sentinel's skin with every movement. When Blair added a spiraling swirl of his tongue to the powerful suction, Jim knew he couldn't last much longer. He could feel his balls begin to tighten and rise against his body. The hand that had been fondling them now stilled, cradling them there. With a cry that felt like it began at the soles of his feet, Jim exploded into his lover's mouth, wave after wave of pleasure breaking him apart like a tsunami as Blair milked him dry.

Jim tried to pull the scattered pieces of himself together while Blair licked him clean in long, slow strokes, like a particularly self-satisfied cat. Or wolf. Finally he managed to get his thoughts coherent enough to utter an actual sentence. "God, babe, how long have you been waiting to spring that little wrinkle on me? If blowjobs were an Olympic event you'd be up on the podium right now, listening to 'The Star-Spangled Banner.' "

Blair sat back on his heels, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Well, that was a personal best, I admit. Who knew all those muscle-relaxing techniques I learned from Naomi's gurus could be applied to so many things besides the quest for spiritual enlightenment?" Blair leaned forward over Jim, supporting himself with one arm while using his other hand to take one of his lover's, sliding his thumb lightly over the palm. "But I'm not going for an individual medal here. This is a team sport--a relay. And I'm passing the baton to you." He wrapped Jim's long fingers around his own erection.

"Never let it be said that I let the team down...scoot up here." Jim moved over onto his side, against the back of the couch, making a pillow for Blair's head out of one arm. His head bent to capture those irresistible lips, while he slowly pumped the younger man's cock with the other hand. The thin film of olive oil left on the hand was just enough to smooth the way, and the flavor of it lingered in the mouth he was plundering, along with salt and popcorn and the faint taste of his own come. Every once in awhile he'd let his lips and tongue wander to Blair's face, his ear, his neck, his throat; then back into the depths of his mouth. When the younger man's moans dipped an octave lower, and his hips rose frantically against Jim's hand, the Sentinel began pumping harder and faster, his tongue working Blair's in time with the movements of his hand. He could sense his lover's orgasm building, and just in time he freed Blair's mouth, letting him cry out his completion to the far corners of the loft. The huge crowd in the Olympic stadium seemed to roar out its approbation as Blair came, bathing Jim's hand and torso, as well as his own, in milky fluid.

"My God," Blair gasped out, "that was so good you're making me hallucinate. I could swear I heard cheering."

Jim grinned as he glanced at the TV, then back at the flushed and sated young man cradled in his arm. "I think the Australian team just came into the stadium."

"Did you say the whole Australian team just came in the stadium?" Blair laughed. "What kind of Olympics is this anyway?"

"If I had said that--which you know damn well I didn't--it would be the one where we just clinched the team gold for Men's Relay Orgasms."

"Oh yeah. With a new world record in the bargain."

Jim kissed Blair again in heartfelt agreement, then urged him up. "If you really want to see that torch lit, we should clean up now, or we'll be too busy itching to concentrate."

Blair fished around on the floor for the sweatshirt he'd been wearing. "Start with this, it's about ready for the hamper anyway. I'm kinda surprised your sense of smell could take it, frankly."

"Doesn't bother me when it smells like you. Not that your scent doesn't bother me sometimes..." Jim grinned at Blair. "But in a good way."

Blair grinned back. "As in hot and bothered?"

"You got it."

The junior partner of the Ellison and Sandburg detective team wiped himself off rather haphazardly with his sweatpants, then handed off the now-hopeless garment to the senior partner. They completed their cleaning job in the bathroom, and Blair snagged an extra comforter from the linen closet on their way back to the couch. Jim was picking up the remainder of their scattered clothes, deciding which of the abandoned garments had had it and which had another wearing in them.

Blair curled up on the couch, under the comforter. "C'mon man, there's the torch!" He held up the comforter for Jim to scoot in beside him. "Megan's gonna be talking our ears off about this Monday. All the torchbearers tonight are female Australian athletes--she probably knows all their life stories, not to mention their stats."

"Yeah, we'll be up to our balls in Australian chauvinism for weeks after all this is over. Especially if those Aussies win a lot of medals."

"There'll be no living with her." Blair tucked the comforter tighter around them, making sure no molecule of body heat was allowed to escape. "I wonder who's actually going to light the torch--the big one...the cauldron, or whatever they call it. I hope it's Cathy Freeman. It would be really cool to give the honor to an indigenous athlete."

Jim slipped his arm around Blair under the covers, pulling the younger man closer against him. "Darwin, you can light my torch anytime."

"Yeah, they sure are phallic symbols, aren't they?"

"You're not ticked off that I...distracted you for a bit, are you? I know you wanted to see this..."

Blair leaned into Jim. "Gee, watching row after row of people walk, or sex with you. Tough call." His hand curled around Jim's thigh. "I got too see all the good parts. And when you consider that the original Olympics was a bunch of oiled-up naked men getting all sweaty with each other, I'd say you were very much in tune with the spirit of the thing."

Jim let out a breath. "Hey, I like a good ritual as much as the next guy."

Blair's head sank to Jim's shoulder, and he sighed happily as Cathy Freeman stepped out of the shadows to accept the torch. Jim watched the rest of the fire-and-water spectacle in a relaxed post-orgasmic haze. As fireworks burst in the night sky over Sydney, only one coherent thought managed to make its electrochemical way to the light of consciousness. We've got to get a bigger couch. And more Scotchgard.

II. Men's Gymnastics: Floor Exercise

Morning. Get up. Go to work...get the bad guys. No, wait. Saturday morning. Bad guys can wait until Monday...or get themselves gotten by somebody else. Jim extended his senses while leaving his body happily where it was, in a nice warm bed with a nice warm Guide splayed half on the bed and half on his Sentinel. Trying to get past the overwhelming Blair-ness next to him was always a challenge; his senses wanted to stay there and play. He convinced smell and hearing to go out to work while touch tried not to act smug, reveling in its contact with several square feet of warm Sandburg skin and hair. Sight got a temporary holiday, since Jim was too comfortable to open his eyes. Taste would have to wait, even though smell and hearing made it impatient as they picked up the sounds and smells of breakfast being prepared by that chipper morning person on the second floor.

No sound of alleged perpetrators creeping up the stairs or would-be assassins jimmying the windows. No smell of untraceable poison gasses being insinuated into the keyhole or C-4 packed around the doorway. Just the smell of Cascade in the rain (a really familiar smell that was) and Prospect, in all its human variety, slowly waking up around him. Life was good. If Blair would wake up, life would be better. Well, if taste wasn't allowed to get breakfast yet--

"Mpff. Wathafuk? Timezit?"

"Dunno. Don't much care. Morning." Jim cracked one eye open a millimeter or two. "Sun's up."

"OK. Sun's up. Gotta be...laws of physics. Sun's job." Blair groaned and rolled over onto his back. "But why me?"

Jim groped around under the blanket. "Who said you were up? Don't see much evidence here."

"Very funny. If I hadn't gone downstairs before dawn to pee away all that beer...and you're not doing any better, smartass."

"Yeah, well, same reason." Jim nuzzled under Blair's hair to lick his neck. Taste did the happy dance. "Easy to fix, though."

"And suppose I'd rather sleep?" Blair used the same tone he might use to ask, "Suppose I decide to try out for the NBA?" or "Suppose I go get you a few double Wonderburgers with cheese?"

"Well then..." Jim suddenly rolled on top of his smaller partner, pinning him to the mattress. "I'd just have to use my greater weight and superior strength to have my way with you."

Blair locked his eyes with his grinning conqueror, opening them wide. "Well, I guess there's only one thing to do, then."

Before Jim had a chance to gloat, let alone nibble an earlobe, he found himself flipped over onto his back, staring up at Blair in surprise. "Damn. This is how you pay me back for spotting you in the gym. You were paying attention in the Academy."

"You bet I was. I only let my mind drift a bit during the classes on report writing, for obvious..."

"Don't go there."

"No? So where do you want me to go then?"

"Well--" Blair was ready when Jim tried to flip him this time, and sheets, comforter, pillows, and a sock Blair had been trying to find since Thursday went flying. Jim was larger and stronger, but his Guide was quicker and sneakier, not to mention possessed of the arcane knowledge of several holds unknown to the civilized world, and a few pressure points even Xena had never heard of. The reek of testosterone permeated the air as they struggled, almost evenly matched, turning the marital bedding into a shambles. Grunts alternated with laughter, peppered by the occasional endearment--

"Dickwad."

"Asshole."

"Schmuck."

"Pissant."

Finally, the Sentinel escalated the conflict by going for the ticklish spots, and the no-holds-barred melee that followed ended with a loud thump and a duet of curses as they suddenly ran out of bed. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry, babe-are you OK?"

Blair's lungs were obviously fine, since he was laughing so hard he couldn't answer at first, and only nodded his head. "Nothing injured but my dignity. How about you?"

"Yeah, that sure took a beating, but my pride took a worse one. You're a strong little sucker. I mean you always were, but..."

"But you didn't really know because you didn't wrestle me in the old days, more's the pity. Then of course, two hours a day of PT in the Academy warped me for life...actually got me in the habit, instead of busting my butt to get in shape for field work and letting it slide the rest of the year."

Jim gathered his partner into his arms right there on the floor, sliding his palms lightly over the muscles of Blair's back and the aforementioned butt. "Maybe we should start training you for the next Olympics. You're the right size for a gymnast."

Blair leaned into the embrace, rubbing his body slowly against his lover's. "Hmmm...but not the right age. That ship has definitely sailed. I'm even a little tall for a gymnast, actually. Blaine Wilson is only five feet four, you know."

One happy six-foot detective kept stroking every inch of the best packaged sixty-eight inches on the planet. "No, I didn't know that."

"And," Blair continued, "he's engaged to a female volleyball player who's two inches taller than you are. Now there's a man with confidence."

"You made that up."

"No, I swear--I'd say Scout's honor but I'm pissed at them. I read it in an unimpeachable source."

"What, some anthropological study of athletes?"

"No, TV Guide."

Blair was bounced around as Jim gave himself up to helpless laughter. Finally recovering himself, he loosened his grip on his partner to pull back and stroke his face. "You know, I think I've laughed more in the last fourteen months than in the fourteen years before that."

Blair slid a hand down Jim's back, coming tantalizingly close to the cleft of his ass. "That's not all you've done more of."

"If that isn't the understatement of the millennium...I don't know whether the laughter or the sex has done more for my blood pressure."

"They potentiate each other. Trust Dr. Sandburg."

"Babe, I'm really glad you managed to get your degree after all, but I don't think a Ph.D. in anthro lets you prescribe treatment. Is potentiate a good thing?"

"In this case, you bet. It means one thing enhances the action of the other. So, getting some on a regular basis gives you a lot more to be happy about. Laughing more gets you more sex, because you look so irresistible when you do, the Doctor can't keep his hands off his patient." Blair slid his hand back up Jim's back to cradle his head, pulling it toward his own for a deep kiss.

When they finally came up for air, Jim kissed his way in tiny increments from Blair's mouth to his ear. "You realize we're still on the floor?"

"Uh-huh. Aren't you glad we bought this nice thick rug...so easy on the knees...if you're uncomfortable, maybe you could just rest your arms on the bed."

A frisson of desire ran along the nerve path between Jim's ass and his cock, building into an escalating feedback loop as his body moved to the position his imagination had already taken. "And what do you plan to do?"

The sudden roughness in Jim's voice drove Blair's own arousal up several more notches. He lay against his lover's muscled back, his hands sliding around to caress torso and legs, one cheek rubbing the back of Jim's neck, hair trailing along the broad shoulders. "Oh, I'm gonna show you some of my best floor exercises. I've got some moves you're gonna love..."

"Oh, yeah...do it now."

Blair groped for the lube that was tucked next to the mattress, deciding the nightstand was way too far right now. His other hand stroked the cock it held to rock hardness, while he kissed and licked his way around the broad planes of Jim's back, moaning as Jim's ass pushed back against his cock. Finally finding the elusive tube, he uncapped it with sudden clumsiness, tearing himself away from the heady sensation of skin against his cheek to squeeze the lube onto his fingers.

"Fuck me now, baby...I'm ready...come on, I need you in me now!"

Trusting to Jim to know what he needed and could handle, Blair prepared himself quickly, pushed slowly until he felt his lover open up, then buried himself to the hilt as Jim pushed back hard against him. Taking his cue, Blair gripped the hips that gripped his cock, steadying himself as he thrust, hard and fast and deep. One of Jim's hands left the mattress to pump his own cock in counterpoint to the penetration that seemed to open him to the core, feeding the fire that burned there along every nerve. Jim groaned every time the flesh of Blair's hips slammed against his own, and cried out each time the angle of penetration changed and ignited his nerves with an extra jolt of pleasure. He dialed up his hearing until Blair's inarticulate cries penetrated him as deeply as the thrusting cock, with a sweet vibration that sank into his very bones. The scent of their mutual passion was a fog around him, and touch was about to go on overload.

Even without enhanced senses, Blair was nearly overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation as he buried himself in that tight channel again and again, trading thrust for counterthrust, strength for strength with the powerful body before him. He was teetering on the edge when he felt Jim's pumping suddenly speed up, then heard him cry out. Then he was over, falling, thrusting fiercely into Jim as he drowned in one wave of pleasure after another. He collapsed against his lover, wrapping both arms around his torso and kissing the nape of his neck.

The sound of lungs drawing in air was the only sound to be heard for awhile. Jim was the first to find his voice.

"I'd give that a ten."

Blair managed to collect enough oxygen to laugh. "I'll take it. But if I don't pull out now, I'll never make it to the podium. Unless you plan on going like this."

"Now that would be an Olympic moment. I'm ready, lover, go for it."

Blair pulled out carefully, if reluctantly, and both sank to the floor. Jim leaned his head against the bed, and Blair leaned his against Jim. "You know, it's a good thing we knocked all the bedding onto the floor after all, or we'd be washing the rug again. It's a lot easier to wash the sheets."

"I hear you. We need to do laundry more often, or buy more sheets. Or have less sex."

Blair slid an appreciative hand up the inside of Jim's thigh. "I vote for buying more sheets."

"Sounds good to me." He leaned over to give Blair a long, appreciative kiss. "Ready for the showers?"

"Only if you let me stand on the toilet while you sing the national anthem."

III. Men's Triathalon

"Sandburg, get a move on! I want to pick up the truck on our way to work."

Blair came careening down the stairs from the bedroom, adjusting his shoulder holster. It was harder to get the thing adjusted comfortably, but wearing a gun where Jim did was an invitation to shooting your own ass off as far as Detective Sandburg was concerned. "I told you that last chase did in the oil pan as well the alignment. The way you treat the poor thing I'm surprised Fred was able to fix it this time, even if he is the best mechanic West of the Rockies."

Jim watched Blair shrug his jacket on one-handed--no mean feat with a holster--and scoop up his keys. Blair looked at him quizzically as he stood there, unmoving.

"Jim, I thought you were in a hurry."

"Yeah, I am, but..." He leaned over and kissed Blair quickly. "It was a great weekend."

The quizzical look turned into a dazzling smile. "And you just had to tell me that before we went out into the big bad world?"

"Yeah."

Blair pulled Jim's head down for another kiss, a longer one. "It was pretty great, wasn't it? But it's time for game faces now. Scowl for me." Detective Ellison pasted on his "I-don't-know-what-you've-done-but-I-know-you're-guilty" face (patent pending). Blair settled for a more generic "tougher-than-I-look." Time to serve and protect.

They rolled along the streets of Cascade mostly in companionable silence--broken only by sporadic complaints from Jim about the piece of junk they were riding in. Blair commiserated automatically, agreeing that generic motor-pool unmarked cop cars were totally without soul, and reassuring his partner that they'd have the truck back within the hour. Their little verbal dance was so familiar it barely required thought; most of their attention was fixed on their surroundings as they raked the neighborhoods they passed through with the hyper-vigilant gaze of cops everywhere. They were only ten minutes from Fred's when Blair felt the man next to him tense suddenly.

"Shit! I can't believe it!" Jim was staring forward intently.

"What? Did you spot something?"

"Up there, on the right. The guy in the green jacket getting into that Porsche."

Blair spotted the car, far ahead at the limit of his vision. He squinted and could just make out a red-haired man sliding into the sleek sports car.

"Got him--you recognize him?"

"Gil Beckman. Used to be a big-time corporate lawyer. Turned out his hobbies were turning underage runaways into hookers then shipping them to Southeast Asia, and getting his goons to beat the crap out of anyone who tried to stop him."

"Could you actually pin anything on him?"

"There's a sheaf of warrants out on the guy. That was one of Major Crime's biggest cases just before you joined us. We built up a watertight case against him and his muscle, but he somehow got onto us...skipped just before we closed in. We netted most of his underlings, but he seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth."

Blair had his cell phone out as soon as he heard "warrants," and speed-dialed Cascade PD. "Dispatch, this is Detective Sandburg. Ellison and I are following one Gil Beckman, several outstanding warrants, heading west on Pike toward the harbor. Suspect is driving a black Porsche California license number--" he looked at Jim.

"4YHU 784."

"4YHU 784. Requesting backup. Suspect does not appear to have spotted us..."

"Bastard always carried a gun in the old days. A big one."

"...but may be armed. Approach with caution. Sandburg out."

Jim followed at a discreet distance, keeping several cars between them and the Porsche at all times. Soon they left the closely-packed cluster of small businesses behind, and most of the traffic with them. The neighborhood of dockside warehouses and boatyards they found themselves in offered little concealment near the street, and they felt exposed. "Where the hell is backup?" Jim grumbled, as he let the Porsche get farther ahead of them. Dialing up hearing, he piggybacked sight onto it to compensate for the increased distance.

Blair guessed what his partner had done and spoke softly. "Rita in dispatch said there was a major bank robbery at Fifth and Pine. Big shootout, hostage situation, the whole works. It might take a while for backup to get to us, since we're not in immediate danger."

"A big-time crime and we're not in the middle of it--I can't imagine how that happened."

"Yeah, it's been years since I've been taken hostage. I'm beginning to feel unwanted."

"Only by the criminals, Chief, only by the criminals." Jim's lips curved into the merest suggestion of a smile.

Blair's alert face softened into something else. "Careful, Detective. Remarks like that verge on the inappropriate where your work partner is concerned."

"How about we clock out for lunch and I take you to the Mermaid's Grotto Motel. Then I can really get inappropriate."

"Isn't that the place that has those gross plastic covers on the mattresses?"

"Gross, maybe, but necessary when you rent out by the hour. And how do you know about the plastic covers?"

"The Okara murder, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Another good reason for the plastic. Think of the poor maids who--shit!" Jim jerked as if from a blow at the sudden sound of a klaxon. It even caused Blair to jump; it must have been excruciating to dialed-up Sentinel hearing. As Jim almost lost control, Blair grabbed the wheel and guided them to the shoulder of the road. A fire truck roared by while Jim hunched over the steering wheel, Blair's arm around his shoulders, desperately trying to shut his ears against the assault.

"It's OK, babe, it's OK--just keep dialing it down..." The Guide's hand made slow circles on his Sentinel's back as the soothing voice flowed like cool cream over every twitching nerve.

Finally, Jim raised his head from the steering wheel, eyes still closed. "I'm almost afraid to open my eyes, Chief. When that thing sounded, I went blind as well as deaf. If you hadn't grabbed the wheel..."

Blair slid his hand from behind Jim's back but kept it resting on his arm. "You had sight piggybacked onto hearing, didn't you? That's why they both went out at once, I'm sure. How's your hearing now?"

"Dialed way down...you sound like you're talking through a couple of blankets. Thick ones."

"Well, dial it up slowly, until my voice sounds normal to you. I'll keep talking...yeah, I know, big stretch for me. Did I ever tell you about the time I helped one of the other TAs move into a new apartment? It was on the second floor and it we had to carry all her boxes up; took most of the day. Somehow I got into a pun contest with her cousin and for about six hours straight we fired puns at each other. Everybody was amazed we could keep it up that long but I'm kinda verbal, as you may have noticed, and her cousin was an Assistant Professor in the English Department, so after all...we even got into bilingual and trilingual puns by the afternoon, but he challenged me on one just because he didn't know Ancient Greek and I did, and the pronunciations are different enough from Modern Greek that...." He stopped as Jim's hand slid over to squeeze his thigh. "OK now?"

"OK, although I was tempted to let you keep going just to see how long it took you to run out of steam."

"More time than you've got. Now look down at the dash and open your eyes, very slowly."

Jim tensed, did as he was told, then slumped in relief. "I can see."

"Good. Now look up slowly; let your eyes get used to more light. Let me know when you can look out the window comfortably. It's gotten a bit brighter since this morning, so be careful."

Blair watched intently as Jim head slowly rose, his eyes blinking frequently at first, then settling into a more normal frequency. "Seems fine now," Jim sighed. "But we lost Beckman, dammit. That's one guy I really don't want to have out there roaming around loose."

"Well, we don't have anything lose if we keep looking. There's not much out here to turn off for, so could still be ahead of us. Want me to drive?"

Jim pulled carefully back onto the road. "No, I'm fine. But I don't think it would be a good idea to turn up sight and hearing again right now."

"I agree. Both of those senses had a big shock, and with our luck it's sure to turn out to be a four-alarm fire. I don't suppose you'd recognize the smell of a Porsche, specifically?"

Jim shook his head. "My experience with expensive cars has been limited, Chief. I think I'd have to be pretty familiar with a car before I could pick it out by smell...more familiar than I'm ever likely to get with anything in that price range."

"Well, we may as well just continue along Pike and maybe catch up with Beckman. We can speed up now, and slow down to check any side streets as we pass. There aren't many."

They followed Blair's plan, neither really thinking it would work. Jim's sensory spike had lost them a lot of time...Beckman could have turned north or south and be far enough away by now in either direction that they'd never spot him. Or he could be at the waterfront, on a boat or in one of any number of diners and bars and hole-in-the-wall stores strung out along the shore. They were almost to the harbor and ready to concede defeat when Jim began to slow down.

Blair looked at him sharply. "What? Are you getting something?"

"Smell of engine oil, hot. High-grade stuff, not what you'd use in the kind of working vehicles you'd expect around here. We're coming to the last cross street before Harborview...keep your eyes peeled."

They slid through the intersection at a snail's pace, and were almost past it when Blair spotted their quarry. "There he is! Next to Parker's Market!" The suspect was just tossing a plastic bag into the passenger side of his car. Jim kept going until he was past the cross street, then made a U-turn followed by a quick left. Beckman was just getting into his car as they rounded the corner, and he looked up. Then he threw himself behind the wheel, slammed the door, and peeled away from the market in a cloud of sublimating rubber.

"Damn!" Blair cursed. "Looks like he made us."

"It's this fucking car," Jim groused as he accelerated. "Has 'unmarked police vehicle' written all over it. And he'll leave it in the dust if he makes it to Harborview--his speed isn't any advantage on these side streets but once he hits the straightaway--"

"He knows it, too," Blair agreed. "He's cutting across that boatyard."

"Hang, on, Chief!" Jim shouted as he floored it. Blair braced his feet and grabbed the handhold above the door, muttering curses (or maybe prayers) under his breath in several arcane languages. At least this car was new enough to have airbags.

Jim's driving in a vehicle that wasn't his own was even more uninhibited than usual, and they actually began to gain on the Porsche as it dodged around piles of equipment and material. Piers and docks jutted out into the harbor on their right, the buildings and vehicles of a working port hemmed them in on the left. They both knew that soon, however, this commercial area would morph into the tourist-friendly part of the waterfront. The road would widen and straighten, giving the advantage to a man in a fast car whose disregard for pedestrians who might be in his way wasn't matched by his pursuers.

Blair was torn between admiration and terror as his partner's death-defying driving brought them right behind the Porsche. In a last-ditch effort to escape, Beckman suddenly swerved right, aiming his small but powerful car toward a space between a pier and a lumber pile that would give him mere inches of clearance at best. Jim was right on his tail as he shot into the gap. By the time the strange iridescent patch on the ground registered in the drivers' brains as "oil slick" both cars were airborne. As they shot off the side of the pier and toward the water, Jim barked out orders. "Seatbelt off, now! Open the door and jump when we get closer to the water--but away from the car."

Even before his Academy training, Blair had figured out that there were some times that when you heard an order, you followed it, no thinking or arguing. This was definitely one of those times. Just before the surface of Cascade Harbor came up to smack them silly, Blair threw himself away from the car as far as he could. He would have yelled "fuck!" when he hit, but the shock of the cold water froze his vocal cords solid. There was a reason surfers around here wore wet suits. He tried not to gasp, since that would only get him lungful of oily, salty liquid. Treading water, he turned around to look for Jim, their searching gazes finding each other as Jim did the same. Relief flooded Blair as he dove forward and started kicking. Time to swim for it.

They hadn't seemed that far from shore, but Blair was sure at one point some alien technology had suddenly transported him to the English Channel instead. Maybe it was just the less-than-ideal situation of swimming without a wet suit and with all your clothes on, including a shoulder holster, after your adrenalin was severely depleted due to the Car Chase from Hell, latest in a series. Well, he'd be damned if he was going to drown again. Been there, done that, didn't like it, still had nightmares about it once in a while. Finally his hands found dock pilings, and he felt himself being hauled out of the water by a motley crew of boatyard workers, joggers, and a fry cook. "Partner," he gasped out. "Where's--"

"Here, Chief. OK." Jim's voice was coming from the middle of another knot of rescuers.

Blair struggled to stand despite rubber muscles and water-soaked clothes. "Thanks, guys." Using his concerned Good Samaritans for handholds he lurched his was toward Jim. "Beckman?"

Jim looked around at the crowd as he struggled to his feet. "Third man? In the Porsche?"

"Bastard." A burly fisherman spat on the ground. "Came ashore a bit south. Swung at the guys who were tryin' to help him--give me mate a black eye, 'e did. Took off down Harborview on foot."

"Oh, great." Blair tried to squeeze excess water out of his hair. "We'll never catch him on foot if he's got a head start."

Jim's eyes raked the periphery of the crowd. "Not on foot, no." He grabbed his partner's arm and dragged him toward a preppy-ish couple rubbernecking from the side of the road. Pulling out his ID and scraping the fronds of seaweed off its plastic cover, he thrust it before their startled faces. "Cascade PD, folks, in pursuit of a dangerous fugitive. We'll need to commandeer your vehicle."

"You're kidding!" Blair burst out, echoed by the male half of the preppy duo.

"Get in front, Sandburg, you're lighter."

"Jim are you nuts? You actually expect to chase Beckman with this..."

"Hop on and pedal. Now."

Blair hopped. They'd better catch this sleaze, because it would be the only thing that would make up for the humiliation of pedaling down Harborview on the front half of a damn tandem bicycle, soaking wet, with bits of flotsam and jetsam still clinging to his sodden clothes. As he pedaled furiously, he began to wonder if a person could actually die from lactic acid buildup. The muscles that were tired from swimming were shrieking at him, and now a whole new set were starting to complain. Jim was pedaling even harder in the back, but Blair's arms were aching with effort of steering. This damn bicycle-built-for-two might be just the ticket for a romantic ramble by the waterfront, but it sucked big time as a pursuit vehicle. It was about as maneuverable as a log. Blair prayed he wouldn't actually have to turn the thing--it would be easier to make a right in a semi. At least he'd had experience driving a truck.

"I see him!" Jim yelled, startling his partner into a wobble. "Come on, pump it! Harder!"

Blair liked hearing those words in a different context. This was so not the same. This was not fun. But he pumped.

Beckman was loping along, looking none too happy or comfortable himself, when Jim's cry made him turn his head and he almost fell over in astonishment. Blair felt almost sorry for the guy, thinking he'd escaped for sure only to find himself pursued by the Tandem Bicycle of Doom. Realizing he'd never outrun a bicycle, even this one, the hapless crook speeded up. His last chance was looming up on his right, Sailor's Memorial Park. He reached it just seconds before his pursuers caught up with him, and left the road.

Blair took quick advantage of a wheelchair-access dip in the curb to follow, but it soon became painfully obvious that their vehicle was even less suitable as a dirt bike than a road bike. Missing trees and picnic tables by millimeters, the desperate Guide shouted, afraid to even turn his head.

"We'll kill ourselves on this turkey! We've got to get off!"

"Right," Jim agreed. "Do it!"

Blair managed to wrestle the unwieldy thing to a halt, taking out a nicely maintained flowerbed in the process. Another snippy letter from the Cascade Parks & Recreation Department. They jumped off the bike as it crashed into the dahlias, lurching as they found their ground legs again. Blair decided his leg muscles had gone past pain into some altered state indescribable in mere human language. If the grim set of Jim's jaw was any clue--and it was--he was hurting also. Nonetheless, the combination of long legs and Ranger training propelled him forward, gaining ground on Beckman, whose stentorian gasps for oxygen were audible even to a non-Sentinel.

They were almost on the other side of the small park when Jim got close enough to his quarry to launch himself into a flying tackle. They both crashed to the ground next to the restrooms, sliding as they hit a large patch of mud under the dripping water fountain. The mud and the unmistakable odor of Eau de Merde wafting from the building seemed to be the last straw for the fugitive. He lay there, breathing hard and offering no resistance as Jim fished around for his slimy handcuffs.

Blair came up panting like a bellows but gun drawn. He held it pointed at Beckmann, though he had no intention of actually firing it before a damn thorough cleaning. Immersion in saltwater was not good for firearms; it would probably blow up in his face. It'd probably be safer to throw it at Beckman if he had to. As Jim struggled to get the slippery handcuffs onto the prisoner, Blair briefly looked away to see two squad cars and one unmarked come into view on the access road, sirens wailing. They pulled up and uniformed cops began to pour out, guns drawn. Uniformed cops and--oh, shit, Rafe. It would be Rafe.

The Detective in question approached, gun trained on the pitiful prisoner now being hauled to his feet by Jim. He stood there in his natty vest, perfectly tied tie, elegant suit, and shoes shined to within an inch of their life. Rafe stared in astonishment at Jim--jacket missing, gun missing, still dripping seawater, and slimed with mud. He turned to Blair, who had miraculously retained both jacket and gun, but was equally wet and had an aquarium's worth of sea life still tangled in his hair. He had a tear in his pants that put him only centimeters away from indecent exposure, and a big streak of what could be bicycle grease on the inside of one leg. Rafe shook his head sympathetically, which didn't prevent his trained Detective's mind from cataloguing every detail for later sharing in the break room.

"Why don't you guys sit down and give it a rest while we finish up here? If you did half of what the people who directed us here told us you did, you've definitely earned a rest."

Not waiting to be asked twice, Jim and Blair dragged themselves to a dry spot next to the restrooms. Both leaned against the side of the building, still sucking in air, too exhausted to feel like standing up any time soon. They watched as Beckman was read his rights, packed into a squad car, and hauled away to his just rewards. When their breathing returned to an approximation of normal, Jim turned to Blair.

"I can hear the phone calls now--incensed citizens complaining about high-handed police methods and the brutal maltreatment of innocent wheeled vehicles."

"Incensed citizens about the bike, yeah--but wait until the brass hears about the car."

"Oh, yeah, the car. Shit." Jim leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Park & Rec's gonna be pissed again too. I think I squashed a few tree seedlings before we got to the flowerbed. Geez, they act like we do this stuff on purpose."

Jim snorted. "Screw 'em all. Do you realize after what we did today, we're candidates for the triathalon? Think it would be good PR for the Cascade PD?"

"PR, hell. You're hoping it'd distract them from the fact that you just killed another car, and this time it's one of theirs."

"Still, the triathalon--big jock points. The thrill of victory..."

"The agony of defeat. Do you know what you'll have to learn how to do if you even mention triathalon to me again?"

"What, tiger?"

"Fuck yourself. For a week. At least."

IV. Closing Ceremonies

"You're gonna kill me."

Blair nudged at the one hundred and eighty pounds of post-orgasmic dead weight sprawled partly on the bed but mostly on him. "What do you mean, I'm gonna kill you? I'm the one who just got nailed to the mattress here."

Taking the hint, Jim rolled slightly so that most of his weight now rested on his side. "Whether you're the nailer or the nailee, that's still the third time today-or is it the fourth? I'm not as young as I used to be. My aging carcass can't afford to spend so much energy replenishing bodily fluids."

"What a pile of--well, you know what it's a pile of. You're not that much older than me."

"But I'm just a human being. You're a sex machine."

Blair rolled his eyes toward the railing. "You are so full of it."

"Not any more, Chief, not any more." The arm that was still possessively curled around Blair's body moved, seemingly of its own volition, until the seeking hand at the end of it was buried in the mass of chestnut curls that lay in sweaty disarray over the pillows. "And don't think I don't know about your nefarious plot."

Half conscious, one thoroughly sated cop-cum-anthropologist (accent on the cum) stroked the muscled arm that lay across his chest. "Oh, yeah? What plot is that?"

"You just want to see the closing ceremonies without getting interrupted by your horny partner. So you've kept him in bed all day until he can't get it up with a crane."

"How cruel of me. Forcing you to have sex over and over. Guys hate that, I know."

Blair's neck tickled as Jim chuckled into that perfect space where neck met shoulder, the one that was just the right size to bury his face in. "Well, I admit you did let me stop for dinner. A quick dinner."

Jim had almost drifted off when he felt his Guide's soft voice vibrate along the inside of his ear, making its unerring way toward his tired brain and overflowing heart. "You were great, though. A real gold medal performance."

Jim raised his head from its nest to look at the unique face, the one he'd never get enough of. "Team gold, baby. Always." He leaned forward to kiss Blair's nose.

His lover wrinkled said nose and made a face. "You remember what that Spanish gymnast did when he made that great vault and clinched the gold medal?"

Sandburg segues could be hard to follow, although there usually turned out to be a bizarre logic to them when explained. Despite the fact that his neocortex had pretty much had the day off, Jim struggled to cast his mind back near the beginning of the games. Finally an actual memory floated to the surface. "You mean the guy who jumped up and kissed the vaulting horse?"

"That's the one." Blair grinned. "Do you remember what one of the commentators said when he did?"

Jim sighed. Was this going to be pass/fail, or was Dr. Sandburg going to give him a grade? What the hell had that guy said..."Wasn't there something about this being a new trend with gymnasts?"

"Yup. He said the new thing seemed to be--and I quote--'win the gold and kiss the apparatus.'"

Aaahhh....amazing what things stuck in that one-of-a-kind brain; even more amazing how they got transformed once stuck there, like a grain of sand turning into a pearl. "So what you're trying to tell me is--"

"You can kiss my apparatus any time."

Awake now, Jim shifted himself on the bed to do just that, although the item in question had been too well-used to react anymore. Then he sat up and slid his legs to the floor, taking his partner's hand and giving it a tug. "I think your apparatus and mine need to hit the showers now if you want to see that ceremony."

Wrapped in his old plaid robe, Blair made tea for them both while Jim cleaned up the bathroom. They had both vowed to give up beer for at least a month after spending Monday evening with a pubful of hollow-legged and persuasive Aussies. Megan had gotten up an impromptu Cathy Freeman Race Night party after work and, somewhat against their better judgement, they'd allowed themselves to be swept along (with a good portion of the Major Crime crew) into joining what appeared to be every Australian expatriate in the Pacific Northwest. Man, those people could drink.

It had been interesting when that female firefighter responded to an injudicious remark about women's upper-body strength by lifting up the nearest man--who just happened to be one Detective Sandburg, natch--over her head in an almost perfect clean and jerk. It got even more interesting when the aforementioned Detective's irritatingly amused partner made a crack about Sandburg not being much of a weight. The look on Jim's face as--what was her name? Sharon! As Sharon hoisted him off his feet and over her shoulder in a classic fireman's--oops, firewoman's carry...it was beautiful to behold. Who knew Sharon had missed making the Olympic women's weightlifting team by only half a kilo?

Thank the gods for the two Muslim patrolmen and the Mormon forensic tech who had stayed sober. Between driving people home and organizing cabs, they'd performed above and beyond the call of duty that night. Blair shook his head at the hideous memory of the morning after. For two men who were usually pretty moderate in their alcohol intake, it had been a horrible shock. One would have thought that years of anthropological fieldwork--which had often involved imbibing the obscure but powerful fermented beverages of at least three continents--would have immunized one against a single evening of Aussie beer. One would have been wrong.

"Smells good, babe. What kind is it? Jasmine?" Jim came out of the bathroom wrapped in a very small towel.

"Right as usual, Sentinel mine. You planning to wear that all night or get a robe? I'll never be able to concentrate on the TV if you don't."

"Oh, come on--I don't believe you have anything left after today."

"Hey, my eyes aren't worn out...and right now you are serious eye candy. I could get diabetes just looking at you."

Jim detoured to the stairs, giving his lover's rear end a playful swat on the way. "Wouldn't want that. I'll be right back." Once he'd put on a robe and was slightly less distracting, they settled back to watch the final ceremony.

It had been an interesting couple of weeks, the Sentinel mused. At first he'd thought Blair had been kidding about the aphrodisiac effect of major rituals, but now he wasn't so sure. It was hard to remember that after his marriage fell apart, he'd actually worried about having an underactive libido. He hadn't dated that often--a lot less often than he could have. When he did, it never lasted long. Now he realized what had been going on--he'd simply been saving his strength waiting for Blair to make his meandering way into his life and his bed. Hope he'd saved up enough.

He let himself drift, watching a celebrating mob of athletes milling around the field...mugging for the camera, wearing funny hats, waving camcorders around. No game faces tonight; just some happy kids--and God, most of 'em were kids--busting loose after the tension and hard work of the last week or two.

"Quite a party, huh?"

"Sure is. Know what it reminds me of? Your Academy graduation party."

"I don't remember having quite this many people...but I kinda felt like I'd run the marathon, now that you mention it. That's about the loosest I've ever seen Simon. I think that was the first time he really relaxed in almost six months."

"I knew you'd ace it once you decided it was what you wanted. Now, Simon...I think he had the occasional fit of doubt."

"Well, I got the gold, didn't I? Just turned out to be a shield instead of a medal."

Jim glanced at his partner as he sat there, absorbed in watching the Olympic flag being lowered. Good thing he had gotten that shield, or the Cascade PD might have been short one Cop of the Year. Maybe he could have managed without Blair at his back; maybe not. That was one thing he never wanted to find out.

"Wow! Is that cool or what?" An F-111 streaked across the televised sky, burning fuel.

Blair was saying something about carrying the flame to Athens, and the archetypal symbolism of the passing of the flame. Jim just let the voice wash over him, filling all the empty places as it always did. Image after memorable image came and went, blurring into a strange collage of stiltwalkers and ballroom dancers and a huge conga line. Jim decided he must have fallen asleep after all; he must be dreaming the bit about the Aboriginal rock band and bananas wearing pajamas and a hundred thousand people singing "Waltzing Matilda." He came close to zoning when the most spectacular fireworks display he'd ever seen lit up the sky over Sydney, but he realized that Blair's fingers were somehow twined with his, and the gentle stroking of a thumb along his palm was keeping him grounded. He didn't even notice right away when Blair used the remote to shut off the TV, but responded when Blair rose from the couch and tugged at his hand.

"C'mon, love. It's almost midnight. Time for all good Sentinels and their Guides to be in bed."

"Gotta lock up--"

"I can do that." His lover steered his unresisting form toward the stairs. As Jim slowly ascended, then hung up his robe and crawled into bed, he could hear the sounds of locks being checked and lights being turned off below. A tiny beep told him that Blair had set the coffeemaker to turn itself on in the morning. Soon he heard familiar footsteps on the stairs to the loft. There was a soft sound of fabric on fabric as his partner's robe landed on the chair, then a welcome downward movement of the mattress as the empty space beside him was filled.

Jim watched as Blair leaned over him, drinking in every feature of his Guide's face. It was still a little strange to him that he could see that face almost as well as in the light of day, while his lover saw only a faint outline in the darkness. Not that either of them needed eyes for this; some things were imprinted on the heart indelibly. The touch of lips on his was as gentle as the words that drifted down to him on a soft breath.

"I love you."

Jim's hand reached up to touch his lover's cheek. "Love you too." As Blair settled down beside him, Jim turned his head, unwilling to lose sight of his touchstone.

Fitting himself into the swells and hollows of the body beside him, Blair kissed Jim's shoulder as he gently stroked the arm next to him. "Close your eyes, love. I'll be here when you open them in the morning."

Jim closed his eyes.

END Cascade Olympiad