With thanks and apologies to Pet Fly and special thanks to Alyjude and Dolimer

When does a crossword puzzle become a journey to self-awareness?

New Years Day ... on those rare years when Ellison had it off ... had always been a day of casual indulgence. A long, hot shower. Sweats, newly laundered but worn soft with long use. A pot of the specialty coffee that was Simon's inevitable, invariable Christmas gift. A Sara Lee pecan coffee cake for breakfast. A serious study of the bowl game lineups, selected and ranked in priority of kickoff times and teams of interest, and then the games themselves, with popcorn, shrimp, pizza, and other favorite munchies.

A new year ushered in with peace and quiet and a bit of self-indulgence by a man whose life was otherwise a study in self-sublimation to the whims of criminals, victims, and CPD management.

Of course, those had been the years before Blair Sandburg entered Jim's life.

The shower was never as hot or as long as it once had been, if Blair beat Jim out of bed. The sweats were only available if Sandburg had washed his own and not pinched Jim's out of the clean laundry. The coffee remained a constant, but the coffee cake had given way to cut fruit and whole-wheat toast, somewhat mitigated by feral honey and whole butter.

Jim could live with these things. Somehow, over time, the disruption and disorganization generated by their intersecting lives had become strangely comforting to him ... an organic white noise that blocked out the harsh emotional jangle that Jim's work subjected his heart to, both on the job and off.

Still, there were times when Jim longed for a life of independence and self-determination. Too often he'd impulsively flung that longing at Sandburg. And too bitter had been the lessons learned in those unguarded moments, by both of them; too raw, still, some of the unhealed wounds between them ... especially at the end of this past, most difficult of years.

Jim had many resolutions on his mind, and had lain long in bed that morning reviewing and resolving to keep them. Reviewing, resolving ... and resting. He'd spent the holiday eve working a car hijacking that had left two innocents wounded, turned a city street in front of a major nightclub into a three-ring circus, and required a report that took so long to write that he'd only finally crept home and to bed when the new year was two hours old.

So he'd slept late. He was entitled. Unfortunately, the delay gave Sandburg the first shower, which had been ... disappointing, but Jim could live with it. But now, he was dressed in the sweats he'd worn all week, while across the breakfast table it was his own beloved rag of a "1992 Charity Volleyball Tournament -- Team CPD" in which Sandburg was huddling against the morning chill. And the toast and feral honey was on Sandburg's side of the table, while Jim was staring down at chopped cantaloupe ... and it was the entertainment section in which the Bowl game kick-off times were waiting to be highlighted that was folded in Sandburg's knobby, nail-bitten fingers.

"Sandburg, hand over the paper."

"In a second, Jim," came the absent-minded reply. "These crosswords are too damn easy," he muttered as he squinted through his glasses at the small print. "If it's that easy, then drop it and hand me the paper."

"Can't leave it half-done, Jim."

"Why not?"

"Can't leave it half-done ... it'll make me nuts. It's a ritual, Jim." His pen moved swiftly as he filled in several small squares.

Blair was doing the crossword with a pen. Jesus. Jim's patience abandoned him.

"Dammit, Sandburg! THE PAPER. NOW."

Blair's head snapped up and he blinked. Twice.

"Um ... okay."

Blair capped the pen, laid the paper flat on the table and smoothed the folds, reassembled it in its original page order, and pushed it across the table toward Jim. Quickly he got to his feet and began to clear the table.

"Thanks," said Jim, a bit apologetically.

"Sure," came the quiet reply. It was not accompanied by a smile, or even a meeting of their eyes. Jim sighed, got up from the table with pen and paper in hand, and headed for the couch.

Hell, maybe he shouldn't have spoken so harshly, but he was entitled to at least one unbroken ritual himself, wasn't he?

Water ran in the kitchen, dishes rattled, and a heartbeat silent to all but a Sentinel raced. Jim tried to ignore his vague feelings of guilt and thoughts of resolutions, and concentrate on the television schedule for the day. But his eyes strayed to the almost completed crossword puzzle. He studied the few clues that had no checks by them.

"Peaceful, serene." Eight letters, beginning with "T".

Tranquil, thought Jim. Like life before Sandburg. Jim snorted to himself. He had to admit that the difference between tranquility and boredom was a fine line, using that definition. But he found himself carefully writing in the word.

"Stillness; word used to quiet a baby." Four letters; second to last letter "S".

And it was still in the loft. Jim looked over his shoulder; Blair was quietly wiping down the counter.

Hush. Jim frowned a bit, then filled in the squares.

"Jim?"

"What?"

"I'm ... ah ... I've got some stuff to do in my room. New year ... time to clean house a bit, you know?"

"Sure, Sandburg," Jim answered absently, not looking up, his eyes on the next clue.

"Sound of bells." Six letters, fourth letter "M".

As Blair closed the French doors behind him, Jim heard the soft tinkle from a small string of bronze Sherpa pony bells Naomi had given her son.

Chimes, Jim thought. He inked in the letters, and then looked up. Blair had closed his doors. Blair never closed his doors.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. Blair had begun closing his doors this past year. From time to time.

Well, all right. A lot. Since....

Jim determinedly returned his attention to the puzzle.

"Tune. Song." Six letters, ending in "Y".

He listened to the soft sound of the bells fade away and wrote in "melody".

"Soft voices; whispering." Nine letters. Two "M"s.

And what the hell was Blair saying to himself behind those closed doors? Automatically Jim listened in, caught the words "Sandburg, you idiot--" and immediately and guiltily dialed down.

He looked at the empty squares on the page.

Murmuring, he wrote.

He shouldn't have been so gruff. It had been a tough week on Blair too. A tough month ... a tough year. Several tough years, in fact.

"Rich yellow." Six letters, beginning with "G".

Shit. Too easy. Golden. His hand shook a little, and the "E" and "N" were written with a minute wavering in the lines.

Shit.

"Break of day." Four letters. A "W" and an "N".

And suddenly he remembered the hospital room, and the light coming up behind the curtains, and Blair's even breathing, and the sudden certain and frightening knowledge that had grown within him as the light had grown within the room, but never acted upon.

Dawn.

Jim sighed, added the two missing letters, and looked at the next clue.

"Glows; gives off light." Eight letters, beginning with "L", ending with "S". Luminous, Jim thought. Blair's eyes.

What?!

But they had been, when they opened that morning in the too-golden light of that hospital room. That Caribbean blue had been the only color besides "golden" that Jim's own damaged eyes had been able to see.

Luminous.

His hand was shaking even more now, but he carefully wrote each letter in its square.

"Soothing evening song." Seven letters, and several "L"s.

Heartbeat, Jim thought. "Lullaby", he wrote. He had to blink hard in order to read the next clue.

"Fog; haze." Four letters. Only the "I" was missing.

Only the "I". Jim cleared it from his own eyes, and then completed the word "mist".

Since when was a crossword puzzle a journey to self-awareness? Jim frowned.

The bells chimed again, and Jim turned to see Blair coming out of his room, a basket of laundry in his arms. Jim's "Team CPD" sweatshirt was on the top. Blair had changed into a tattered, threadbare Rainier sweatshirt with holes in each elbow and the cuff half-torn from one sleeve. Sweat pants hung precariously from hips that Jim suddenly realized had supported them quite easily in the past. When had Blair gotten so thin?

"Um, Jim? I'm gonna catch up on the laundry. You have anything you want to add?"

Jim looked at him ... really looked at him. The year had worn on that body, and on the face that Jim had frozen in his own mind in happier times he could suddenly see lines that hadn't been there before. How could he have missed them?

Ten-letter word for 'blind idiot',' he thought. 'Jim Ellison'.

"Sandburg, it's New Year's Day. Forget the laundry. If you want to do something useful, get some popcorn in the microwave and make sure the big green bowl is washed. I'll get a fire going." He turned the page with the crossword puzzle over and scanned the television schedule. "Orange Bowl kicks off in half an hour; it'll be beer time by then, and if we take the shrimp out of the freezer now, they'll be thawed in time for the Rose Bowl."

"But Jim...."

"Don't argue, Sandburg," Jim growled. He got up from the couch and walked over to the young man, took the Rubbermaid hamper from him and set it by the kitchen door, and then put both big hands on Blair's shoulders. "It's New Years Day. We're going to sit on the couch together. We're going to eat too much, and drink too much, and watch too much television. And we're going to make some New Years resolutions." He leaned forward and watched Blair's eyes go wide. "It's a ritual," he whispered, and screwed up his courage, and held his breath, and kissed his partner.

It was over too soon. Jim looked down at luminous blue eyes blinking through a mist of confusion and ... hope. And love.

"A ritual?" he heard Blair murmuring in a voice as resonant as any chimes, as sweet as any melody, as soft as any lullaby.

"Yes."

"Ah." He blinked again, and smiled. "I hate to leave things half-done, Jim. Makes me nuts."

"Really? How can you tell?"

"Smart ass."

"I learned from a master."

"Did you?"

"Hush," Jim whispered.

And in the silence, a tranquil heartbeat filled the golden dawn of a new year.

-30-

End CROSSWORD by GreenWoman: grnwoman@aol.com

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