Author's disclaimer: Jim and Blair belong to Pet Fly, not me - I just make them bicker for fun.

Author's notes: This is in response to a writing group challenge, where the following words/phrases had to be used: Norman Bates; zenith; peanut butter and fluff; concupisence; laundry; Harvard Law Review

"Z-E-N-I-T-H. Let's see - with the Z on the - is that dark blue, Chief?"

Blair glowered and gave a sullen nod. "Like you need help to see it - asshole."

"Hey, hey, watch the language there, buddy!" Jim glanced up with a frown that collapsed into the most blinding grin the detective could muster. "42."

Sandburg groaned, writing down the score reluctantly. How did this happen? Just how in the hell was it possible that academic prodigy Blair Sandburg was getting his ass whipped by Jim 'just the facts ma'am' Ellison?

"You could forfeit, you know..."

"Fuck you."

"Not at the rate you're going, Chief. It's gonna be a looong time before that happens." Jim leaned back, stretching out his arms in a torturously langourous fashion.

"I hate you." Blair leaned over the board and placed down his tiles. "Okay, that's 25," he mumbled quickly, "let's see what word you're gonna kill me with next."

"Dry. Dry? The brilliant anthopologist, Great Shaman of the City, and the best you can come up with is DRY?! Come on here, Chief - I'm not gonna play if you're gonna throw the game." Jim couldn't resist teasing. "Where are all your killer words, Sandburg?"

"With your killer tiles, man! I can't help it if I'm drawing shit here - and I swear to god, if I find out you're cheating somehow, I'm gonna - " Blair was stopped mid-sentence by a finger on his lips.

Jim leaned in and growled in Blair's ear, "You're gonna do exactly what I tell you to do if I win - that was the deal, remember?" Sandburg held his breath as lips brushed the edge of his lobe. "I'm not cheating - and I will win."

Ellison settled back into his chair as Blair tried to calm his racing heart. He wasn't gonna roll over that easy, goddammit! "It's your turn - go, big guy."

"Okay, I see your DRY and up it LAUN - that gets me a pink, so that's 46."

Sandburg shrugged his face into his hands and groaned again. He couldn't believe he'd suggested this massacre. But after countless games of strip poker, strip rummy and strip backgammon where he'd spend far too much time shivering half-naked while his fully-dressed partner would prolong the agony by insisting on 'playing the game all the way, following the rules', Sandburg had been singleminded in his plan to fix the next round of dirty games night.

He had thought Scrabble was perfect - of course he would get out to an early lead. At first, he was determined to make it a strip game somehow, so that Jim would have plenty of time to get drafty (it's a long game), but then his devious mind decided that Jim deserved a much worse punishment than that. So Blair had proposed that this time, it would be a winner take all kind of game - the loser would go along with whatever fantasy the winner had in mind. Nevermind that it was always Blair who had the fantasies, and always Jim who shot down the suggestions.

He should have known something was up when Jim agreed so readily.

"So you were so clever with LAUNDRY, it's my turn - just add a few more letters, and voila! 35 points!"

"Detergent. Good one."

"Don't get so cocksure of yourself quite yet, Detective - I feel a come-from-behind rally that'll pull us even!"

"Uh huh." Jim began to place his tiles on their edge, in slow deliberation. "Well, that might just push me around the bend, Chief - don't know if I could handle it." He started to tip each tile over, into its space. "You'd just have to call me Norman Bates." He smirked at Sandburg as he revealed the last tile. "Oh, the blank one is a P, by the way."

"PSYCHO? You got 'psycho'? That's it, man! I'm handing you your tiles from here on! You gotta be able to feel the letters on the backs of the tiles, something!"

Secure with a big lead, Jim brushed off the insult. "Hey, if that's what your little ego needs to do, fine - keep in mind, though, when I win," he leaned in a little too close to Blair's ear again to whisper "and I will" then moved back to relax into the chair, "you're not gonna be able to accuse me of cheating - you're just gonna have to deal with me being the better Scrabble player."

"You are NOT a better Scrabble player, this is just flukey luck - if it's not cheating, which I'm not 100% sure it isn't, by the way - I have played way more games of this than you, my friend, you are so not a better player than me!"

"Wow. Sandburg, I had no idea beneath all that flannel lay such a competitive little guy. Of course, usually by now all those layers would be off - maybe you're only competitive when you're clothed?"

"I hate you."

"You said that already - it's your turn, Great Scrabble Player of the City."

Jim couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun teasing Blair. Ever since Sandburg suggested the 'games as foreplay' idea, Ellison had been amazed at how many dirty little ideas had popped into his head. Jim had always been the straightforward kind when it came to sex, especially with guys. That was the beauty of sex with men, you didn't have to wonder so much about, is this enough? is she ready? am I going too fast?

But Blair - well, he got Jim's brain as well as body going. All the time. And tonight, Blair was gonna find out just how imaginative his partner had become. Just a few more rounds, and Blair Sandburg was not gonna know what hit him.

"Ah! I got you, I got you! Great word!" Sandburg's full-body wriggle of joy brought Jim back to the game. "Woo hoo, that's gonna get me some major points, man - I'm on a red and a pink!"

"C-O-N-C-U-P -"

"You thought you were so cool, getting SCIENCE in there, and now I've trumped you, man!"

"Sandburg."

By now, Blair had broken free of his chair and was shimmying towards the refrigerator, hips sashaying as his sock-clad feet slipped along the bare floor. Ellison figured he'd enjoy the show as long as possible, before he had to destroy the mood.

"Chief."

Sandburg held up a finger as he finished taking a long chug of his just-opened beer. "What? You want one?"

"Sure."

Blair turned back, still cackling with glee as he retrieved a second beer and strutted it over to his partner. By now he'd started up a little chant, "I'm going to wi-in, I'm going to wi-in."

"Blair. It's spelled wrong."

"What, man? I'm going to wi-WHAT? No friggin' way, man, that word is spelled RIGHT, it's right - it's my goddamn word to live by, don't tell me it's spelled WRONG?" Sandburg's entire body went from blissful joy to sheer panic in .5 seconds.

By the time Jim had pulled out the Official Scrabble Dictionary he had in his bookshelf, Blair Sandburg again lay with his face in his hands, groaning. He was now sure of two things: one, concupscience was not how the word was spelled; and two, in about five minutes Jim Ellison was gonna own his ass. Hmm. The groan changed in tone, as Blair reconsidered that last item.

"C-O-N-C-U-P-I-S-E-N-C-E. Sorry, Blair." Jim sat back down at the table, stroking his partner's head in sympathy.

"Hey - no pity! I ask no quarter, for I will give no quarter. Hands off the hair, buddy, I didn't give you permission!" Blair reared his head up, practically snarling at Jim, and grabbed the offending tiles from the board. He hoped the effect would draw out the proper reaction. Which it did.

"Permission? In about five minutes, you're the only one who's gonna be asking permission, Hair-Boy." Jim snarled back, shifting slightly to relieve the sudden snugness in his jeans.

"It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings, Big Guy."

"Try spelling a word that exists, this time, okay?"

"C-O-U-N-T. 27 points."

Blair took the last 3 unused tiles and placed them on his tray, studiously avoiding Jim's gaze. Jim's possessive, hungry gaze. Jim's primal, heat-seeking, I-know-exactly-what-I'm-gonna-do-to-you-and-you'll-be-begging-for-it gaze. Yeah, that gaze. He looked up and locked eyes.

"Your turn, Jim," he murmured huskily.

Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Jim knew Blair was just taunting him, trying to get him to break the one rule Jim himself had instituted: no petting of any sort during the game. Blair had hit upon that scheme during a round of strip poker, driving Jim to distraction, and eventually succeeding in getting him to forget about the game. Until afterwards, when of course he insisted that the game had to be called a tie, given Jim's unforgiveable behavior. Sneaky brat.

He placed down the last tiles he had that could form any sort of word. "That's it, Chief - I'm out, I can't do anything with what I got left. I got 19 on that last one. You've got the last move."

"Damn right I do - I'm adding on to your word here. F-L-U-F-F-E-R." Blair looked up, defiantly.

"It's not a word." Jim sighed.

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't!"

And it was on. Both players slammed out of their chairs, ready to rumble.

"Look, if I let you get away with putting FLUFF down in the first place, the least you can do is return the favor!" Blair punched the air towards the gameboard.

"What the hell are you talking about, FLUFF is a word!" Jim reached towards the dictionary.

Blair got there first, and flung the book onto the sofa in the next room. "It's a processed food product, it is not a word - peanut butter and Fluff, Jim, doesn't count!"

"You can't be that idiotic, you're just jerking my chain!"

"Only in your fantasies, baby," Blair leered back.

Oh, the kid was gonna get it. "I challenge you!" Jim bolted for the indisputable proof laying open on the couch in the living room, Blair on his heels.

"It's a word, I swear it's a word!"

"If it's not in the Scrabble dictionary, it's not a word." Jim thumbed through the pages quickly, as Blair paced in front of him.

"That's bullshit - what kind of fascist gameplayer are you, man? Besides, no way is this word, which is real, gonna be in the Official Scrabble Dictionary -"

Jim pivoted the book around triumphantly, "And it's not."

"Of course not - go ahead, try to find fellatio in there, or better yet, blowjob. Those are real words, right? You wouldn't have challenged me if I'd spelled them, right?"

Jim turned the book back, considering. "Then what the hell does FLUFFER mean, Sandburg?"

Blair stared back at his partner, a half-grin appearing on his face, and dropped down to his knees in front of him.

"How about I show you, rather than tell you, hmm?"

Alright, that was it. Jim grabbed Blair by the upper arm, and dragged him back towards the table.

"Your little tricks aren't gonna work this time, Sandburg." Once they reached the table, Jim pressed Blair's face towards the notepad. "I'm giving you FLUFFER - so now, what's the final score?"

Blair groaned quietly but otherwise remained silent.

"Well?"

"You win." Blair breathed out.

"What? I didn't catch that."

Sandburg roughly straightened himself out and stalked up to his roommate. "I said you win, like you needed me to repeat that, asshole!"

"Hey, what did I say about language? And especially coming from a man of your sterling reputation, too." Jim grinned, and moved towards the storage room that used to be Sandburg's bedroom, so long ago.

"Fuck - say what, what? Jim? Was that some sort of insult?" Blair started to follow Ellison.

"Stay right there - don't move."

Jim came back quickly, with a small duffel in one hand, and a tweed jacket in the other.

"What the hell are you doing?" Blair was a little pissed that Jim had completely turned off the erotic tension they had gotten going while arguing.

"Put this on." Jim held out the jacket, which Blair slid around his shoulders, still mystified.

"Button it up, oh wait - here, put this on...shit, you need a collared shirt. Hang on. Hold this. Stay there."

Who the hell is this man? Blair wondered, as he held a bowtie in one hand, and the bag in the other. He'd never seen Jim this wound-up, overeager. Who knew Jim Ellison could enter the Sandburg Zone all by himself?

"I'm coming, hang on - and DON'T look in the bag!"

It hadn't even occurred to Blair to do that, until Jim suggested what sounded to be a damn fine idea. Blair crouched down and began to unzip the bag - a quick peek couldn't hurt, right?

"Sandburg! What did I say?" Jim was hovering over him, menacingly.

"Man, that was fast - you left it open, I was closing it all the way up, once you said I shouldn't see what's in there. I swear."

"Riiight. That mouth of yours..."

"What, this mouth?" Blair's tongue darted out to lick his lips and teeth.

"Is gonna get you in trouble - even more trouble. Enough with the tongue bath, here put this on."

After a few minutes of following Jim's directions, Blair found himself in the bathroom wearing a pair of black chinos, a blue oxford button-down with bowtie, and that tweed jacket as he grumblingly took out his contact lenses and put on his wire-rim glasses.

"Okay, now what?"

As he came out, he saw that Jim had put on a full-length rain coat. Blair couldn't help it, he just started to giggle. Jim glared at him. He looked like a pissed-off Peeping Tom. Soon Blair was snorting back his belly laughs.

"I'm sorry man, I am just SO lost over what kind of sex fantasy this is."

Oh, you'll be sorry, no doubt about that. "Finished?"

Blair nodded as he pulled himself together.

"Good. I'm leaving. In five minutes, I want you channeling the most arrogant, stuckup, uptight academic type you can think of, got that? Then answer the door when I knock." Grabbing the duffel, Jim exited the loft.

Blair reeled for half a second, then his imagination took over. "So what're you gonna be, Jim, neighborhood perv spying on the professor? Hmm - this could be good. Odd, but good. So what's he got in the bag? Props? Nah, Jim and sextoys?... no, couldn't be. Could it? That bag was kinda heavy... Omigod, this could be really good. I gotta punch this outfit up, man!"

He disappeared into the storage room, babbling to himself the entire time.

Five Minutes Later

Knock, knock.

Skip Skeffington the Third, Editor of the Harvard Law Review, opened his door. A copy of Ulysses tucked under one arm, he peered over his glasses, irritated.

"Yes?"

Nick the Building Repairman, stood in front of him, in a form-fitting worksuit, sleeves rolled up to reveal sweaty forearms.

"We've been getting a lot of complaints about clogs and drainage problems from your neighbors. Stopped by, just in case - want me to check your pipes?"

END