Author's disclaimer: Don't own 'em. We all know who does. Have a day job; this one makes no money...but brings intense satisfaction (to characters as well as author).

Author's notes: R is more for raunchy language (Jim is not in a good mood) than sex. Although we do get some heavy petting.

It was ironic.

That was all Jim could seem to think of as he struggled through writing yet another report. Though he always hated doing it, he used to be reasonably good at this paperwork crap. He'd gone to college, for Chrissake. He couldn't have forgotten how to do this in just a few years. Well, maybe more than a few. Five. OK, five and a half. Almost six.

It's not like Blair wrote all the reports....Shit! Another one of those fucking red lines. It's not like James fucking Ellison didn't remember how to spell, his typing was just rusty. Really rusty. Really, really rusty. There--shit. It doesn't like that one either. Goddam, where was that stinking spell checker now? Musta been someplace else in the last version of this thing...oh. So that's the way the mother's spelled. He could have sworn...at least he didn't have to deal with white-out any more.

Jim's head snapped up, a scowl on his face that had caused more than one perp to pee in his pants over the years. Was that a snicker? //If somebody in here thinks this is funny, fuck IA, I'm gonna beat him to a pulp. Even if it's Megan//. Everyone seemed busy at their desks, heads bent over their work, or industriously questioning some skel or other.

//Bet they think it's funny, Big Tough Cop Ellison can't write a damn report just 'cause his little buddy isn't around.// Jim sighed, hands stilled as he stared at the computer screen. They were too damn close to being right. It was ironic.

When Blair had become a cop, Jim first worried about him hating it, and growing to hate his selfish bastard of a partner for backing him into a corner where the only way out seemed to be tanking his real career. Hating Jim for waiting until Blair's heart was bleeding on the altar to have the guts to show the kid how he felt about him.... Well, a few lectures on unconditional positive regard and a lot of mind-blowing--OK, not just mind-blowing--sex set him straight about that. So to speak. Finding the love of his life in exchange for a one-eighty on his career path was more than a fair trade to a certain ex-anthropologist.

It was ironic. The neo-hippie cut his hair and took the silver rings out of various body parts for six months, and aced the damn Academy. Even the gun stuff. Then he graduated, and got his shield for real, and had the body parts re-pierced, (and Jim got to watch this time) and stopped cutting his hair. It almost seemed like he'd gone back in time, except he wore better clothes, ones that actually fit and didn't come from Goodwill. Almost, but not quite. He was quieter, and there was something behind his eyes that hadn't been there before. And he tensed up whenever they had to go near the Rainier campus. Not so the average person would notice, but painfully obvious to a Sentinel.

Yeah, ironic. All the time Jim was agonizing and Blair was brooding, a revolt was brewing in the groves of fucking academe. Chancellor Dragon Lady was not popular, and soon things like "lawsuit" and "AAUP censure" and "due process" and "Brad Ventris" were bandied around the hallowed halls. So, the ex-anthropologist is made an offer he can't refuse, and dusts off some other research and polishes it up, and bingo, Dr. Sandburg. The only cop in Cascade with a doctorate in anthropology. Jesus, the only one in the country. Probably the only one in the fucking world.

It was ironic. If he hadn't taken that one-eighty, Dr. Sandburg would be just another college professor trying to pound Melanesian kinship systems into dense little freshman heads, and popping off every summer to paddle up the Amazon and eat slugs and live in a tree. Jim suddenly had a pain in his chest that would've had him calling 911 if hadn't known it had nothing to do with heart as organ and everything to do with heart as metaphor. Thing is, Dr. Sandburg'd probably be doing it someplace else, because tenure-track jobs teaching anthropology weren't that thick on the ground. And he'd maybe be doing it alone, because that stupid schmuck Jim Ellison would never have let himself believe that somebody like Blair could love him, not in a "forsaking all others, death-do-us-part" way. The thought of what he almost lost still scared the hell out of him.

So instead Blair's an anthropologist and a cop, dealing with Cascade's subcultures and their intersection with law enforcement. Anyway, the title of his paper sounded something like that. The Society for Applied Anthropology. Never heard of 'em before they got up on their little hind legs and invited Blair to present at their stinking conference. Apparently getting invited was a big deal, bigger than having to ask, even if they'd said yes. Blair was over the moon, talking about the increasing number of anthropologists working in non-academic settings, and the influence of postmodern theory on research methodology in the social sciences, yadda yadda yadda.

Jim felt like a shit for minding, but the goddam conference was thousands of miles away in Buffalo, and his partner was gone almost a week. It was ironic. When Blair first became a cop, Jim had worried about them being together so much. All day at work, all evening at home, all night in bed-well, sometimes all day, when they had time off...

The machine beeped in alarm. Oops. //Relax, Ellison...unclench those fingers. You'll never hear the end of it if you break the damn thing out of sexual frustration. Not that you're gonna tell anybody...ah, shit. Like they won't know. Or at least guess. Suspect.//

Well, being together too much on the job was certainly no problem. Sometimes Jim thought Blair had been around more when he'd been juggling the Sentinel-minding with teaching and research and dissertation writing and helping his friends with their problems and fucking his way through the female population of Cascade. Greater Cascade. To be fair, the Sentinel thing was now on a pretty even keel, especially since Sentinel and Guide had started playing hide-the-spear with each other. Even when Blair wasn't around, he was, because there were always bits of him left on Jim--scent molecules, skin oils, body fluids lurking in places he didn't dare think about now, or he'd have more to explain than a fucked-up keyboard. //Oh, Jesus, don't say fuck. Don't think it.//

Too much time together. Ha. When Narcotics wasn't borrowing his hirsute partner for a buy-and-bust in the more bohemian parts of Cascade, Community Relations was throwing him at some pissed-off ethnic group to make up for some bureaucrat's big mouth. Ironic that Blair once worried that Simon was giving him that shield as a consolation prize, sorry about your lifetime dream but here are some lovely parting gifts. It turned out that an anthropologist/detective on the payroll who could speak and/or read at least five languages (not counting the dead ones) and could talk a guy into believing up was down in all five, was a real handy thing for a police department to have. Especially a cop/anthropologist who could also hot-wire a car and drive a semi and shit, redecorate the damn lobby. Probably borrow him to do that next.

//Dammit, Ellison, if you don't move you're gonna explode. Get a coffee. No, if you get any more wired you're gonna kill somebody. Candy bar. Chocolate. Feel-good food. Look on the bright side-one advantage to being Blairless, you can pig out on junk.//

When he rose out of his chair, all the cops in range (and a few perps who knew the Ellison rep) got so tense and alert they should have had fight-or-flight stamped on their foreheads. A few who had been contemplating a stint in the break room themselves abruptly decided they didn't really need that coffee just yet. As if aware that its life hung by a thread, the vending machine disgorged a Milky Way, a Hershey bar, and a package of M&Ms with all deliberate speed. Jim sat chewing and brooding, while the bullpen bush telegraph warned the unwary that the break room was now an "enter at your own risk" zone.

//You are such an asshole, Ellison. You gnawed your damn liver two years ago worrying that the former Darwin was gonna hate his life and end up resenting what you made him give up, and now you're pissed that he's got it back. After what he did to save your sorry ass, you should get down on your knees//...what he wouldn't give to be down on his knees right now, pulling Blair's zipper down with his teeth, feeling that hard...//Shit! Do not go there! Christ, it's only been a week, and it's not like you and Mr. Digits haven't gotten reacquainted every damn night.//

But it's not the same. As Blair would say, it is so not the same. //Face it, you're addicted to the guy and you need a fix so bad you could die. And you should have had it last night, except for a bunch of assholes and a few Acts of God, and what did you ever do to God to piss him off? Unless he's still mad about all your bitching at St. Whatsit. Boy, can the Big Guy hold a grudge or what?//

Last night was supposed to be so great-sign out early, pick up Blair at the airport at two, drive home using the siren, get into the loft, shut the door, attack Blair, fuck each other's brains out, help Blair unpack, repeat step 7, eat, repeat step 7, repeat, repeat...But no. //The Universe, as your partner would say, had other ideas.// It was some human asshole who canceled Blair's flight and stuck him on a later plane with a different airline, one that stopped in Cincinnati. Then God or the Universe or whatever steps in and sends the Mother of all thunderstorms, and Blair sits there on a runway in Cincinnati for hours watching the light show. So they eventually they take off, and it's the flight from hell, rain, major turbulence, bad coffee...the love of your life finally staggers into the Cascade Airport at midnight. And he'd so tired he can barely stand, and his stomach still hasn't figured out it's somewhere that isn't bouncing. So he falls asleep in the truck and can barely make it to the loft, asleep on his feet, and you both know he has to be in court today.

Ergo, no fucking, barely a "love you, Jim, so glad to be home" before he's out like a light, and you let him sleep until the last minute, and drop him at the courthouse. So now he's sitting there, waiting to testify and not even sure what time zone he's in yet, and you're here getting sick on too much chocolate. //I love this fucking job.//

//Wonder if he caught on just how needy you were, Ellison. Every time he called, you told him you were fine, right? Trouble is, he knows you too well.// The Ellisonese-to-English translation of "I'm fine" could be anything from "I'm fine" to "I should be OK after months of intensive physical therapy" to "I probably won't die for at least thirty minutes" to "I'm not leaving a suicide note, so you'll get my insurance." Kind of the Boy Who Cried Wolf syndrome in reverse.

The past week had been a long series of experiments. It'd make Dr. Sandburg proud, only he wasn't ever going to hear about it. One painfully horny Sentinel established early on that cold showers were totally useless, especially when taken in the loft bathroom. Their own shower held enough vivid memories that it might as well have been the bell that got Pavlov's dog going. A near-mortifying experience showering at the police gym only reminded Jim just how much time Blair spent with him there, now that both of them had access. Too many hours spent surreptitiously ogling his sexy, sweaty lover in a tank top and gym shorts, or less, had pretty much put that place off limits too.

So, work was supposed to be a distraction, right? It seemed fine at first, until he realized just how often people kept asking him how he was. Then there were the looks, every time he was in the bullpen. The "poor Jim" looks at first. The "is he gonna blow?" looks as the week wore on. It drove him nuts, so he'd avoided the building altogether for the last few days. Potential witnesses were canvassed more thoroughly than ever before-he'd need both new tires and new shoes a lot sooner than usual. He'd volunteered to replace Brown on a stakeout so his fellow detective could mend some fences with his latest girlfriend. Scared the shit out of poor Rafe, though-the guy was on pins and needles all night. //Wonder if the schmuck thought he was gonna get punched out, or ravished, or both.// Ha. Like Mr. GQ was in any danger. Like he could hold a candle to Blair.

(Too bad the worthies of Cascade weren't around to see the look on Jim's face as he prowled the streets, since the precipitate drop in crime statistics for one week drove them crazy. Reams of paper were churned out by analysts trying to come up with a logical explanation, so the phenomenon could be repeated. The crime rate in this particular metropolitan area was a thorn in the side of both the city politicians and the Chamber of Commerce. Just as well they never found out, since gaining peace on the streets of Cascade in exchange for the intense sexual frustration and emotional turmoil of its Sentinel would have presented a thorny moral dilemma.)

Jim crumpled up the empty candy wrappers like Superman making coal into a diamond, and tossed them into the trash. //How long was that stinking trial going to take, and who the hell did they think they were, keeping Blair waiting so long to testify? Probably just getting back at him for last time.// One thing that got drummed into cops from the Academy on, was to never give the defense attorneys anything they can turn against you, because they're experts at twisting what you say and tripping you up. Just the facts, Ma'm. And don't be too precise either, that lets them attack your credibility.

"Now, Detective Sandburg, you say you and your partner had probable cause to stop and question the defendant because you'd received a radio report that a Hmong man had just attacked the victim. Are you telling me, Detective, that you-a white man-could distinguish a Hmong in Western clothes from any other Southest Asian, or any Asian for that matter? Are you some kind of expert, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Gee, what would you consider an expert? Somebody like a Ph. D. in anthropology, maybe?"

"Somebody like that would do nicely, Detective. Did you happen to have one in the car with you?" says attorney, smirking.

"Somebody who'd done extensive research in Southeast Asian subgroups for a grad seminar in Physical Anthropology would be even better, I suppose?" replies little dumb cop, innocently.

"Oh, indubitably, Detective." Counselor is enjoying his own wit.

Detective tries unsuccessfully to hide shit-eating grin. "Well, not only did I get an A in the seminar, I got the paper published. I'll be happy to send you a photocopy. And please-call me Dr. Sandburg."

Jury snickers. Cops in court guffaw. Defense Attorney has a cow. Judge bangs gavel. Dr. Detective Sandburg gets his picture tacked up on the wall at the Public Defender's office. A legend is born.

That little mental detour to the Sandburg Zone cheered up Jim Ellison enough to return to his desk and finish the next damn report. As soon as his well-toned butt hit the seat, there was a small stampede of the caffeine-deprived for the break room. As he plugged away, the scowl returned. After stretching their breaks as long as possible, other employees of Major Crime began drifting back, taking a circuitous route to avoid the vicinity of the Ellison desk. Finally, with a growl, Jim hit the print key.

What with all the surreptitious glances he was getting from everyone, the sudden change in Jim Ellison's demeanor was noticed by many. He lifted and tilted his head in that weird bird-dog way he had, and the scowl began to disappear. Heads swung toward the door. Breaths were held. Could salvation be at hand?

Salvation walked in the door in the person of Detective Blair Sandburg, Ph. D. The odd sound of many people beginning to breathe again simultaneously was noticeable even to non-Sentinels. Interestingly, the only Sentinel in the room didn't notice it at all, since he was too busy saturating sight, smell and hearing with his Guide. Touch and taste were complaining loudly about being left out, but Jim was fairly sure there was something in the regs that frowned upon ripping your partner's clothes off and having your way with him right there on your desk. Damn regs.

He watched Blair wind through the bullpen, smiling and waving at all the happy people who were so glad to see him back. //Wonder if he knows it's not just his charming personality that makes him so popular around here?// Blair's eyes met Jim's and the younger man shook his head in fond exasperation. //Yeah, he knows. I'll probably get another lecture later. Much later. Oh yeah.//

Blair finally arrived at his own desk and sat down next to Jim. "So, Detective Ellison, have you been a bad boy while I was gone? Everybody's looking at me like this is Transylvania and I'm an overdue garlic shipment."

Jim tried to look innocent but came across closer to brain-damaged. "Who, me, Chief? I swear I haven't bitten anybody in the last week."

"Poor baby. We can fix that as soon as we get home."

Jim's eyes glazed over. Every hormone in his body started to do the happy dance. //Can they take away my pension for public fornication? Do I care?// "Blair," he whispered, "you're killing me. We've got hours to go here, unless you can pull a rabbit out of your hat."

Blair smiled. "I don't have a hat, Jim, and I don't do rabbits. But I can pull a lizard out of my pants. Will that do?"

"If you mean that sort of literally, I'll have to arrest you. Then I'll have to arrest myself for indecent exposure, lewd behavior, and creating a public nuisance."

"More like running an unlicensed entertainment venue. But I was speaking metaphorically."

One extremely put-upon Sentinel was using all the weird biofeedback techniques his Guide had drummed into him over the years, trying desperately to redirect blood flow to his brain. Every last little bit of hemoglobin was digging in its heels and arguing. They had other body parts in mind as a preferred destination. The brain was successful enough that eventually the meaning of the lizard crack started to sink in. Jim gripped the desk and spoke through clenched teeth. "Are you telling me that you got Simon to let us out of here early? Or have I got a case of terminal wishful thinking?"

Blair started gathering file folders from his desk and Jim's. "You've got a bad case of something, Detective, but it's not wishful thinking." He turned to his partner, smiling. "Simon said I should go home and get over my jet lag, take you with me, and keep you away until-and I quote-you're fit for human company again. He also said I should make sure these reports get finished, as long at they get finished far from here."

"I was doing them-"

"According to Henri, you've been prowling the streets scaring not only the criminals of Cascade, but stray pets and little old ladies and poor Rafe, and have hardly seen your desk except for today. So I guess Simon thinks you've got some comp time coming."

The truly important nugget of information buried in Sandburg verbiage finally began to glitter faintly in Jim's starved brain. "We can go home? Both of us? Now?"

"Give the man a cigar." Blair stood up, file folders clutched to his chest, and grinned again. "Interesting choice of words on my part...a Freudian would definitely make something of it."

Jim almost jumped out of his chair, practically racing Blair to the door. Their colleagues managed to keep the sighs of relief (and raised eyebrows and chuckles and lascivious winks) to themselves until the door shut behind the two partners. The fortuitous arrival of the food cart was the signal for an impromptu celebration. Sometimes it felt more like the Bomb Squad around Major Crime. Another potentially dangerous explosive had been successfully defused without loss of life or limb-let's have a donut.

James Ellison was chomping at the bit in a manner reminiscent of Little Stogie, wondering if running pell-mell down the stairs would be faster than the elevator. Maybe, but his feet were killing him after the past week, and the files Blair was carrying looked awkward and precariously balanced. He stood impatiently in front of the elevator doors, willing the damn car to get up here now. When it finally did and the doors opened, he stood aside as a wave of people poured out. Everybody seemed to have business on the sixth floor today. Jim realized the implications as the last person walked past him, leaving the elevator empty. //There is a God.//

"Alone at last," Blair said softly as the doors swooshed closed. "So, did you miss me?"

Jim stepped as close to his partner as possible, given the large stack of files he was holding. "Only as much as I'd miss oxygen for a week." Blair was all dressed up in his testify-in-court suit, hair decorously pulled back, earrings nowhere in evidence. Jim was willing to bet that if he'd had to leave the earrings behind, Blair would be wearing the nipple ring. The thought drove him crazy. And that hair just begged to be freed from its confinement and be mussed up real good. Actually, all of Blair needed to be freed from those pesky clothes as soon as possible. Jim was ready to skip steps one through six and get right to step seven on the spot.

He reached behind his lover to undo the hair tie, but his hands were shaking too much. It wasn't one of Blair's good hair ties-not one of the leather ones, or the one with the silver decoration. So Jim just ripped it apart. //Put hair ties on the shopping list. Again.// He ran his fingers through the long strands, almost zoning as they fanned out to settle onto Blair's shoulders. They seemed happy that they'd finally been let out to play. Their owner seemed even happier, or about to be, if the heavy breathing and cloud of arousal that surrounded him was any clue. Jim whimpered a bit when Blair suddenly stepped away.

Before he'd had time to identify the thudding sound as files hitting the floor, Blair was all over him-arms around his neck, mouth glued to his own, body pressed up against his. //Oh yeah...is that a nightstick in your pocket, Chief, or are you glad to see me?// He pulled the younger man even closer, one hand wrapped once again in that gorgeous hair, another slipping down to clutch the delicious ass. Blair was playing spelunker with his mouth, and he happily returned the favor.

They broke apart for air, and Jim realized the ragged sounds Blair was making in his ear were actually words. "God, we must be out of our minds. Tell me you're not gonna zone on me here. Tell me you'll notice when the elevator stops. If you don't we'll both end up on foot patrol on opposite sides of town."

"Right," Jim promised huskily, just before he started kissing every inch of Blair's face and sucking on his earlobe for variety. He could feel his partner's hands slide down his back, cupping and kneading his ass. He wasn't sure they could make it home. //Ellison, you jerk, why haven't you ditched that truck and gotten a closed van?//

Meanwhile, back in the bullpen, Rafe slunk into the room slowly, glancing nervously around.

"It's OK, mate, he's gone," Megan sang out.

Rafe jumped. "Gone?" he croaked.

Brown grinned at his sometime-partner's discomfiture. "Yeah, Blair finally got out of court and Simon sent the two of 'em home. Decided Ellison's been so cranky lately he needs a tune-up or something." The big detective leaned back in his chair and drained his coffee cup with satisfaction.

"I'd say a lube job, more likely." Megan was the soul of innocence as she sipped her own coffee, ignoring the spewing and choking sounds that suddenly erupted from the region of Henri's desk. Rafe stared, wondering if a remark like that was possibly less suggestive in Australian.

Simon poked his nose out of his office. "Brown, what happened to you? Did you get assaulted at Starbucks? Never mind...does anybody know what the hell that noise in the hall is all about?"

"It's coming from the Control Room, Sir," Rafe volunteered. "I just went past there."

"Tell me it's not another bunch of paramilitary nuts taking over the station. Is Cascade listed in the Terrorists Guide to North America or something?"

Rafe shook his head. "It didn't sound like trouble, Sir. It almost sounded like a party-hooting, hollering, clapping. I wondered what they were so happy about...it's not the most exciting job in the PD, most of the time. Maybe it's somebody's birthday."

Simon grunted. "I suppose we should be glad they're feeling good and not pissed off, considering their workload just increased."

"Increased? How?"

"Captain," Megan explained, "Rafe hasn't been around HQ for the last several days. He probably doesn't know about our little budget windfall."

"I've only been asking for this for about six years, ever since Kincaid's takeover," Simon grumbled. "Then all of a sudden it's 'here's your money but you've got to spend it by the end of the fiscal year.'"

"But it got done, Captain," Brown soothed. "That company was great, for a low bid contractor. They seemed to know what they were doing. I still can't believe they finished in two days."

"Well, they're a new company," Simon explained, chomping on his cigar. "Trying to drum up a business. They could get a lot of city contracts by doing a good job for us."

"So what did they do?" Rafe asked.

Blair was kissing Jim's neck, and slipping his hands into his partner's waistband, but the Blessed Protector mode kicked in enough to keep the Sentinel from zoning. The cheesy elevator was slow, thank God, and obviously nobody had rung for it on the intervening floors. But the increasingly loud lobby sounds, and the subtle change in air pressure, told Jim they were going to be on the first floor any time now.

He peeled Blair off reluctantly. "Babe, we're almost there. The doors are gonna open in a minute."

His disheveled partner's glazed eyes came into focus. "Right. Door. Open. Soon." He finger-combed his hair, trying to get it to lie down and behave itself. Can't look like he and his partner had been going at it hot and heavy in the elevator. Course that bulge in the front of its pants might give a small hint, in a building full of trained observers. Maybe his suit coat would cover it.

"Shit," Jim tucking in his shirt and noticing his own problem. //What were you thinking, Ellison, wearing light pants and a t-shirt today. Nowhere to hide.//

"Eureka!" Blair shouted, diving to the floor. He quickly gathered up the dumped files, giving most of them to Jim. "Here, carry 'em low."

If Detective Sandburg didn't look quite as neat as he had that morning in court, and Detective Ellison seemed to have chosen a rather awkward method of carrying a large number of files, no one in the Cascade PD lobby was likely to notice. They had their own problems to distract them.

"Jim," Blair said softly as they hightailed it for the garage, "I know we're not supposed to use the siren unless it's an emergency, but do you think-"

"Damn it," his partner groaned, "This is an emergency. A medical emergency. If we don't get home and start fucking our brains out soon, I'm gonna have a stroke."

"All right!" exclaimed Blair, heading down the stairs to the garage at a run.

Simon retreated into his office again as Rafe turned to Henri and Megan. "So what did this budget windfall pay for, and what does it have to do with the personnel in the Control Room?"

"Well," Megan replied, "they've got a couple of extra monitors to watch now, haven't they?"

"Extra monitors?"

Brown laughed. "Rafe, man, you gotta pay more attention. You can miss a lot if you avoid this place for a few days. You're as out of it as Ellison."

"So what actually got done?" Rafe demanded, exasperated.

Megan took pity on him. "Finally, surveillance cameras in the elevators."

Rafe blinked, amazed. "You're kidding. I didn't notice a thing."

Brown shook his head. "Modern technology, man. Those things are so small you'd never see 'em if you weren't looking for 'em. If I hadn't actually seen those things goin' in, I'd never know they were there."

Silence reigned for a moment as the three police detectives contemplated the wonders of state-of-the-art surveillance technology. It was suddenly broken by Megan.

"Omigod!"

The two men swiveled. "What?" they demanded in unison.

"Jim wasn't here when those things got put in. And Blair's been gone for a week. They don't know about it."

"So?" Rafe asked. He was missing something here.

"Blair's been gone for a week," Megan repeated. "A whole week."

"And Jim's been getting more pissed every day," Brown added.

"But I thought Blair got home yesterday." Rafe mused almost to himself. "You'd think that would give him enough time to...uh, I mean. er..."

"Time to-calm down?" Megan suggested with an evil grin.

"Yeah, sure," Rafe stammered. "Calm down. Exactly."

"Except," Brown informed him, "I heard Jim bitching to Simon this morning that Blair's plane was delayed by those thunderstorms in the Midwest, and he didn't get home until almost one a. m., practically dead on his feet."

"So," Megan added, "no calming last night. Not if Jim's demeanor today was any guide. The man practically growled."

The light of understanding dawned on Rafe's handsome face. "So you're telling me that Blair and Jim haven't had a chance to...calm each other in over a week, and they just left together to get into an elevator equipped with surveillance cameras they don't know about?"

"Yup." Brown grinned from ear to ear.

Megan matched him grin for grin, then mentally shook herself. "But surely they wouldn't be in the elevator alone. I mean, what are the chances of that?"

"But they were," Rafe volunteered. "I saw them get in."

A huge whoop drifted down the hall from the vicinity of the Control Room, only slightly muffled by distance and doors. Brown looked at Rafe. Rafe looked at Megan. Megan looked at Brown. Faster then you could say "instant replay," Rafe sprinted for the door. Brown and Megan were out of their chairs in a flash, following right behind. Just before the bullpen door closed behind them, Brown's voice could be heard from the hallway as he sprinted for the Control Room.

"Man-I love this job!"