"Simon, no..."

"I don't want to hear any complaints, Ellison. Richards religiously attends that class two nights a week. We've been after him for eight months with nothing to show for it and believe me, the Police Chief has noticed. I don't care what you have to do...buddy up to the guy and bust him."

Detective Jim Ellison crossed his arms and frowned even further. "I won't fit in there, Simon. No one will believe that I'm just there because I felt like exploring my creative side."

With perfect timing, Megan Connor stepped through the Captain's door. Simon grinned, a frightening sight to anyone under his command. Sadistic bastard. "Of course they wouldn't believe that, Jim. But they would believe that you'd be there to please your lovely but demanding wife." He paused; letting his words sink in and then added, "It's so difficult for couples to find time to spend together nowadays."

Fuck. Jim hated assignments like this. He wasn't good at pretending to like people he didn't like, and was even worse pretending to be romantic. It made him feel awkward and inept, and that affected his mood.

"Simon..."

"Don't bother, Detective. You have your orders. Megan enrolled the two of you this afternoon and your first class is tonight. Bring a smock." This time, Simon chuckled outright, sending Jim striding from the room, pissed off.

"Sweetie, don't be angry," Megan called after him. He displayed his middle finger in her direction and pulled his file on Richards, the reason that he was being given this rotten assignment.

Richards, Tobias. Age 36. He knew the suspect's stats by heart, knew him by name and face, but what no one could seem to figure out was how to bust him. With a ring of rabidly loyal lackeys surrounding him to the point of inaccessibility, it had been impossible to pin even the smallest crime on him. He had alibis coming out of his pockets, as abundant as his money in the bank. No one would rat him out, his followers would rather face years in prison than cut a deal incriminating their beloved Richards.

But why?

Jim tapped on the folder thoughtfully, letting his mind take this familiar route once again. Alleged drug trafficker who stayed, on the outside, as clean as a whistle. Rumors of other illegal activities ranged from murder to bribery and blackmail, but nothing would ever stick. This had been declared the year of Richards' demise by the Chief of Police, but several raids and many hours of police work had yielded nothing.

Get close to him. Did Simon want him to become one of those loyal men and women who would sooner die than give up their...friend? Boss? The relationship was puzzling. Despite his reservations, he knew that he would do it and do it well; he wasn't Detective of the Year three years running for no reason.

***

"I don't think so, Ellison." Megan shook her head, amused. "Don't you have anything a little less dressy?"

Jim looked down at his jeans and button down shirt. "Dressy? Connor, this isn't dressy. Last time I checked, jeans were considered casual."

Casting a disgusted look at her partner, she started up the stairs to his bedroom. "But they look as though they've been ironed. And they're so...dark. We're going to a pottery class, don't you have anything a little more...threadbare?" Without a thought for his privacy, she flung open his closet and began pushing clothes aside.

"My God, this is like every woman's dream come true," she murmured, stopping to admire his best suit.

"What?" He paced behind her, decidedly uncomfortable with the idea of someone in his closet. Even when he'd been married, Carolyn had stayed on her side of the room.

"A man who knows how to dress well is a prize," she mourned. "Most men I've met required at least a minimal overhaul. Lucky t-shirts, short shorts, polyester," mock-shuddering, she grinned over her shoulder at Jim.

Grunting, he opened a drawer and pulled out a lighter, more worn pair of jeans. Connor was making way to big a deal of what to wear, but telling her so would only start an exhausting discussion. "I'll wear these and a t-shirt."

"Fantastic. I'll just be waiting downstairs."

He emerged a few minutes later from the stairs, much more appropriately dressed for a dirty, messy pottery class. Megan made a few appreciative noises over his appearance before her expression changed to one of concern. "You're still getting those headaches?"

Jim sighed. For the most part, he'd managed to hide his ongoing problems with headaches brought on by smells, sounds and lights that were too strong, loud, bright. But Megan Connor seemed to possess a certain sensitivity to people and their problems.

"Yeah," he admitted. "It's fine." The headache was fading, though, after a day of irritating pain. He'd noticed Connor's lack of perfume, hairspray and other products that she normally wore. Out of courtesy for him, no doubt. If they were to spend a great deal of time together, this small gesture would make it vastly easier on him.

"Have you thought about seeing anyone about it?"

He had, even though he'd known what they would say. They couldn't help him because they didn't know what he was: A Sentinel, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell them. His heightened senses had at one time, a long time ago, been under control but were not unpredictable and at times, painful.

He didn't want to discuss this, not with anyone, no matter how understanding she was. The frustration belonged to him alone, his to know and bear no matter how weighty the burden became. This knowledge settled in a knot of loneliness that had taken up a permanent resting place in his stomach. In case Megan could also sense his loneliness, he cleared his throat and grabbed his keys.

"I'm fine, Connor. Ready?"

"Yes, Darling. And remember, it's Megan for tonight."

"I think I've got it," he replied dryly. It wasn't the first time they'd played a married couple. Megan was tough as nails and always got the job done, but unfortunately she also had a fondness for mushy nicknames, sappy romanticism, and worst of all...pouting.

The community center was bustling with activity when they arrived, and he let Connor hook her arm into his own before they entered room 435, the art studio. Thanks to Megan's fashion crusade, they were the last to arrive. The rest of that class was milling around, preparing to work on their current projects.

For a moment, the two detectives stood in the doorway taking in their surroundings. A dozen or so people, ranging from college-aged to middle aged. A familiar scent came out to meet Jim- clay, earth and dust. He inhaled deeply, finding himself unexpectedly moved. He stiffened and forced it away. His past was the past, and normally, it remained buried there.

His gaze swept the room and landed on a young man at the front of the classroom. The teacher, by the looks of him. White linen pants were stained with past projects, tied loosely at the waist with a drawstring. Splattered white socks were visible from inside a pair of comfortable Birkenstocks, and a white t-shirt completed the look. Why on earth would someone working in such a dirty environment wear so much white, he wondered, but had to admit that the look worked for the young man, who was currently standing with an old woman, his hands working in animated formations, gesturing toward her lump of questionable clay.

Suddenly, the young man's head turned and Jim found himself looking into inquisitive blue eyes that blinked, squinted and then focused in as a pair of glasses were donned. Jim coughed and stepped forward, embarrassed at having been caught staring. Megan followed closely at his side and they met the instructor halfway.

"You must be the Millers. I'm Blair Sandburg." He extended a dry, dusty hand while Jim glowered at Megan. The Millers?

"We're so glad that you were able to fit us in at such short notice," Megan purred in a demure tone that he didn't recognize, taking the instructor's hand. "It's a pleasure to be here."

"Well, you haven't missed much." Blair said warmly, gesturing at the class. "They only started their projects two sessions ago, so what you've missed is the boring stuff. I'll give you the basics tonight, and then you should be able to get started as well. Sound good?"

To keep from being interrupted by a million questions from other students, Blair took the couple back to the supply room, where most of the things that he wanted to talk about were located anyhow. After going over the bare bones of what they needed to know, he clapped his hands together and turned incredibly expressive eyes on Jim. "Any questions?"

"I think we're good for now, thanks." Jim had spotted Richards as soon as they'd walked in...well, shortly after noticing the teacher, and wanted to get a seat at his otherwise empty table. Megan had the same idea, and carried the books that Mr. Sandburg had suggested they look through to the exact seat Jim had had his eye on. He nodded, pleased. This was the reason that he didn't mind being partnered with Connor. They thought alike when it came to the big things.

They sat together, browsing the books and their colorful photos of both modern and ancient pottery.

"Look at this one," Megan exclaimed, pointing to what could only be a fertility statue. "Wouldn't this be a lovely conversation piece for the living room?"

A laugh came from beside them. Richards. "So long as you don't use a model," he commented, misting his lump of clay with the water bottle.

"Now, why would I use a model when I have my sweet James around," she teased, sliding a petite hand around his waist. "Megan Miller," she introduced.

"Tobias Richards. I'd shake your hand if I weren't all..." he wiggled muddy fingers. "My friends call me Tobe."

"This is my husband, Jim." The two men exchanged greetings and then Jim wisely returned his attention to the books. He had to give the impression that the sole reason for his presence was love of pottery. Richards wasn't stupid, and he wasn't their friend. Sometimes, this was the hardest part of being undercover. Remembering that no one you came in contact with was a friend. Just part of the game.

A while later, Blair Sandburg approached them again. "Well? Has anything caught your eye yet? Something you think you'd like to try?" Jim noticed for the first time that the young teacher had long, curly hair that was trying to escape from the tie with which he'd tied it back. Hoop earrings, too, which swung and glittered as he spoke. Typical artist, Jim thought idly. The women probably went nuts for him.

Sandburg rocked back on the heels of his feet as he stood and chatted with Megan about some of the different options for her project.

Christ. Through the thin material of Sandburg's white t-shirt, he could make out another piece of jewelry, another gold hoop. No wonder Megan was making such a fuss, using that same breathless little-girl voice that she'd been using since they walked in. She should be more discreet, after all, if she were supposed to be his wife. People were supposed to buy that he'd let his wife fawn all over some lush-lipped neo-hippie punk?

"Um, honey why don't we go get some of the supplies that Mr. Sandburg told us we'd need." He considered taking Megan's hand, but that was too...unlike him. He couldn't even remember the feel of someone else's hand in his own. The thought left him feeling depressed for the second time that evening, and he ended up walking back to the supply room, alone again.

He picked two of everything. Needle tools, fettling knives, sponges, slip bowls, everything that Blair had said they'd need to start off with, and admired the organization of the shelving units as he worked. The art studio was not unlike his own home, the loft, with its high ceilings and bricked walls.

"Mr. Miller?"

Jim startled and lost hold of the rolling pins in his hand.

"Shit!" Blair Sandburg lunged for the items and caught them with a triumphant grin. "Sorry, man. I did not mean to do that. I just..." He took a look at Jim's armload, pausing a second to notice the older man's well-developed biceps as well. "uh, wanted to make sure you had everything you needed," he finished breathlessly. "And it looks like you do."

"Please, call me Jim."

"Okay, Jim. Shall we get started?" Those full lips curved slightly upward, a private smile. It figured, Blair thought wryly, that the one person he felt a spark of attraction with was married to a gorgeous, leggy, charming woman. Which meant hands off, no matter what.

The two men took the supplies back to the table, and Megan dug right in. She retrieved some clay from the large garbage can where it was stored and when they had their stuff spread out, went right to work on the jewelry box that she'd decided on, rolling her clay to the desired thickness.

Blair made his way around the classroom one more time, complimenting and offering advice to students where needed. He seemed to care about the outcome of each piece of art; even one that Jim thought particularly appalling, a country pottery pig being shaped into existence by the same old woman that Blair had been speaking to at the beginning of class. Every person that he came into contact with seemed to brighten under his attention, and Jim found himself waiting for the teacher to return.

"What are you waiting for?" Megan glanced over at his untouched clay. "Didn't you choose anything? Why don't you make a candy bowl for the coffee table?" Before she could make any predictable sexual references to liking sweet things and such, he put his hands on the cool, moist lump of clay.

The tips of his fingers sunk in with just a little pressure, and he let himself slide out of the moment, into another time and place. The sounds of the jungle surrounded him, welcoming him home.

A brown, native hand closed around his shoulder. "Enqueri?" He opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by the life force flowing through his fingertips, the thick, muddy earth, then back again.

The hand squeezed. "Jim?"

A sharp pain in his calf pulled him out of the deep reverie. A shoe-shaped area throbbed in his leg and Megan smiled sweetly. "Pay attention, James."

"Are you all right?" The hand was Blair. Blair's hand, still resting warmly on his shoulder.

"Yes." He blinked, embarrassed again. His hands were covered in clay.

"That's quite a sculpture you've got there." Blair leaned in for a closer look, and the loose material of his pants swished against Jim's hip. The scent of ginger and musk radiated from his hot spots, armpits, neck, groin.

Jim shivered, overwhelmed by the sudden loss of jungle heat and his unexpected reaction to this art teacher. He saw for the first time the form that had taken shape when he'd been...daydreaming, and brought his hand up quickly, smashing it into an amorphous lump once again. Fuck!

He hadn't thought of the jungle since he'd left it five years ago, and this sudden onslaught of images tore at the walls he'd put firmly in place to separate his past from his present.

"Jim, man...why'd you do that?" Blair spoke softly, for his ears only. The reproached was tempered with gentleness. "That looked like a..."

"-It wasn't." He didn't care that he was snapping at the generous teacher, didn't care that Megan was staring at him, worrying that he would blow their cover. "I'm going to make one of those beer mugs," he announced.

Relieved, Megan went back to work but he felt Blair's eyes on him for much, much longer.

***

At five o'clock, Jim took the stairs down to the parking garage. He didn't feel like running into anyone who might stop him for some meaningless chitchat. All he wanted was to get home and change for something that he was actually looking forward to: pottery class. As far as undercover cases went, it wasn't bad. It wasn't even full time, just a couple nights a week, although he suspected that that was about to change. Over the past few classes, he and Megan had grown more friendly with some of the other students and now some of them were contemplating a social get-together.

Fortunately for he and Megan, one of the more engaging people they'd met was Richards himself. Or Tobe, as he preferred to be called. He, Megan, Blair and Tobe had shared many laughs and thoughtful discussions as they worked. It wasn't a secret that Tobe seemed to have his eye on Megan, but Jim swallowed his pride and pretended not to notice, because that was the best thing that could happen. If Megan could get close to the suspected criminal as only a woman could, then she'd have access to the information that they so badly needed.

Despite their success so far, he was stalked by unease that even extended to his dreams. Working with the clay had awakened memories that still hurt after five years.

When he'd crashed in Peru and lost his entire team, it had been a tragedy. He had grieved a long while, but later in the Chopec village that had taken him in, he'd been genuinely happy. The earth was a living, breathing thing and it loved him as the natives had, giving and receiving with joy. It was here in the city that he felt an emptiness.

It was only recently that the emptiness had begun to subside. He'd begun finding brief moments of peace in the art studio...

And that scared him.

He drove home and changed, his thoughts quiet and sober. On a whim, he decided to go into class early. Sandburg had said that there wasn't a class before theirs and that they were all welcome to arrive early to work on their projects.

The peace he'd been hoping to find wasn't present when he walked through the door, but that had been a foolish hope, so he shrugged it off and wandered around the room admiring some of the finished pieces. On a low shelf with some other aged pots, he spotted a vessel adorned with a familiar design, and he reached for it, wanting to touch. To remember. How could he have forgotten so much?

"It's really something, isn't it?"

He'd heard Sandburg approach a few minutes earlier, but feigned surprise for reasons he didn't understand.

"Yes." He ran his fingers over the rim and lifted the pot to his face, scenting deeply.

From behind him, he heard Blair chuckle and the sound went right through him, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I wouldn't recommend licking the inside, if that's what you were gonna do next."

He smiled. "I don't know, Chief, It'd be quite a trip, wouldn't it?" He waited for Blair's small sound of shock and wasn't disappointed.

"You know this piece?" Thrilled excitement suffused the teacher's face with color. It became him, as did the small smudge of clay on his cheek. "That's so cool, man. Wh- I mean, how?"

Jim bowed his head and placed the vessel on the straw mat where he'd found it. Blair's excitement wasn't easily contained, threatening to bubble up in an explosion of words and questions.

"I saw something like this in Peru," he admitted. "I was with the Chopec. The shaman, Incacha, mixed up some..." He shrugged in place of the rest.

"Yeah, I know." Blair stared up at him with shining eyes. "Hallucinogenic drugs. The Desana tribe put them in the gahp! sor that you have there. Did you participate?"

To anyone else, he never would've made the admission but this was someone who seemed to know about the subject and it felt so good to be sharing about this time in his life. It was incredibly freeing, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to sit down with Blair and talk for hours. "I did," he said. "It didn't work the first time, but the second time, Incacha- he. Was holding my hand and guiding me through it. There was a huge gust of wind and it just took me away, to the sky I guess, and I floated with the stars for...eternity. Time went on and on..." he stopped, frustrated with his inability to put his experience into words, which he'd never attempted to do.

Unaccountably shy, he looked to Blair for a reaction. The long curls shook in a motion of disbelief. "Jim. I have chills, here. How in the world did you end up in Peru? I mean, no offense but most drywallers don't get the chance to travel to Peru and interact with a Shaman. Especially not that intimately," he added, acknowledging with an arched eyebrow that he knew full well how a Shaman would have guided him through it.

Jim cringed. He'd told Blair that he did drywall for a living. "I was in the military. Our chopper went down and I was the only one to survive. I got lucky, I guess," he said sarcastically, then softened his tone. "I really did get lucky with the Chopec. They saved my life."

"Did you see anything? I mean, visions?"

This was something new. In the past, when he'd told people about his experience in Peru, they'd gone all horrified and pitying. you poor thing! they'd say, and from that point on would give him long, thoughtful looks as if they could see his trauma plain on his face.

Therefore, he'd never told any of them about his precious time with the Chopec. It was as though...he'd found someone deserving enough to share this with and was lucky enough that that person was actually interested.

He thought about his visions. "Yes. I saw a panther, and a temple. And a wolf, and Incacha." He held his breath, waiting. It sounded embarrassingly ludicrous now that he'd said it out loud, but if anything, Blair's heart raced faster.

"Amazing!"

"Look, Sandburg." He looked the younger man straight in the eyes. "I don't like to talk about that time, especially my time in the military, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to anyone else." The last thing he needed was for Richards to go prying into his background.

"No problem, man. Just...thanks. For telling me, I mean. I'd love to hear more about your time in Peru. No offense, but for someone who doesn't like talking about it, you sure seemed to, well...enjoy talking about it." He grinned sheepishly and swept his hair behind an ear, exposing three silver hoops that tinkled like windchimes. Jim's eyes widened. His senses were at it again, only without the headache to alert him, he hadn't seen it coming.

"I guess that it's a matter of finding the right person to discuss it with," he answered, unconsciously testing the rest of his senses. All heightened, none out of control. Amazing. "You've got to admit, most people would find it pretty strange."

"Not me." Blair glanced at the clock and sighed. "I've got to start getting stuff ready for class but do you think that we could get together sometime for coffee and talk again?"

Richards is the one you're supposed to be getting close to, Jim reminded himself, but that didn't stop him from saying that it sounded like a great idea and then standing grinning like a lunatic for the rest of the evening.

***

"Darling, you'll never finish a set of four at this rate. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you've lost your competitive edge." Megan motioned at his half-finished beer mug. It was true...normally the two detectives were fiercely competitive with one another. However, Megan had already bisque-fired her jewelry box two days ago and was set to glaze it this session.

"Art is never supposed to be competitive." Blair mock-scolded, coming up behind the couple.

Jim gave Megan a smug look just as Blair added, "And it's a good thing that it isn't, because Jim would be way behind."

Megan giggled, a sound that Jim was beginning to grow fond of in spite of himself. This assignment had been more social than anything, and he was starting to think of her as less than a co-worker and more....of a friend.

"I think that this color is what you were talking about, Megan." Blair set down a jar full of dark liquid and a soft, wide brush. "Sang-de-beouf. Ox-blood, that's what the deep, dark red glazes are called."

When Blair spoke, the whole room paid attention. Maybe it was the sensual movements of his mouth and throat (Megan's opinion), or just the rich, silky quality of his voice (Jim's opinion, though he'd kept it to himself). Either way, Jim unconsciously followed Blair around the room during class, paying more attention to Blair's words than his own work.

Two new friends in the same week. Completely unlike him, yet somehow, lately anything seemed possible.

Blair dragged a chair over to Jim, which made an unpleasant sound as it scraped the floor. "Would you like some help with your handle?"

"That's about the best offer I've had all day," Jim smirked, watching Blair's mouth open, then close. A lovely shade of pink appeared along his cheekbones, and he coughed nervously.

As Jim laughed at the result of his jibe, Blair shook his head, playfully elbowing Jim in the ribs. "Funny, man," he grumbled. "Believe me, you need all the help you can get. But if you're not interested..."

"No, no no," Jim protested, lest his friend should leave. "Actually, I'm having trouble getting it to stay on the mug."

"That's the hardest part, sometimes." Blair held up the intricate leather-hard handle, examining the ends. "This is beautiful, Jim. Can I suggest for your next project that you do something less measured, like a sculpture? You...you're really good with your hands."

There was a thread woven into that compliment that warmed Jim in a way that he didn't understand. He looked to Blair for answers, but the expressive eyes were averted, intently stirring more water into the slip bowl. Speaking of hands, Blair's were the finest pair he'd ever seen.

There. That is the kind of thinking that loses friends, Ellison.

But it was true. Strong and solid and usually dirty, they handled a delicate brush every bit as well as a large portion of clay. He watched Blair score his mug with the needle tool, then do the same to the handle, painting the grooves with the slip he'd mixed up. "There. Now press here." He put the handle into Jim's hand and showed him where to press the pieces together. "And here..." The handle moved out of position for an instant until Blair covered Jim's hand with his own slippery fingers and secured it into place, pressing firmly.

The sensation of slick flesh against his own, even if it was only in the name of teaching, roused an awareness that he tried to will away. He stared at the table, his lips suddenly burning, achingly hungry for kisses and sweet flesh to lick and suck and most of all...feel. His lips weren't the only body part demanding things of him, though. Good God, don't you know he's a man?? he demanded of his erection. The heaviness against his zipper only reminded him of how long it had been and how long it would probably be until those needs were sated.

Now was definitely not the time.

Blair went to the sink and washed his hands, plagued by the same wistful thoughts.

***

"Jim," Megan said the next day. They were at lunch, and something in her voice made him put down his fork. "I've gotten close to Richards."

"How close?"

She leaned forward, her expression grim. "Very close. I'm going to arrive early at that party he's throwing this weekend and see what happens."

He frowned, uncertain of what to say. Part of him found the idea of sending a woman into a dangerous situation while he stayed back absolutely repugnant. Yes, she was a strong, capable woman who could get the job done and he didn't mean to be sexist, if that's what this was. But if she were hurt, then where would he be? At a safe distance. Useless.

"Connor..."

"I know, I know. I'd hoped that we could get in there together, but it seems that he's easier to get to as a woman, if you know what I mean. He seems to have quite a thing for me, and that's the only angle we've got right now."

He sighed. At least he'd been invited to the party, too. He'd have a chance to snoop around once he got there. "Be careful. You planning on carrying?"

"No, I hadn't planned on it. Do you think I should?" She seemed shaken, more than she had in the past on assignments much more complicated than this, and Jim's warning bells went off with a vengeance.

"Yes. Absolutely. Connor, are you sure about this? Is there something going on between you and Richards?"

"Isn't that the point?" she shot back.

"Yes, it is, but sometimes it gets hard to keep it professional." He thought of Blair Sandburg and the wildly inappropriate fantasies that he'd been having about the young pottery teacher since they'd met.

"That it does." She stirred a container of cream into her coffee, then added another. "He gave me something yesterday." Her hand slipped into her pocket, retrieving a small vial. "Told me that it would give me the high of my life. I'll take it to the lab when we get back."

"Good news." At least they had something to show for this assignment, even if the party turned up nothing. She remained glum, though, and Jim felt the need to say something more. "It can be hard," he said thoughtfully. "when you're on a case like this, you don't expect the suspect to be so likable. Sometimes you even start to have real feelings for them, and maybe even wonder if you can finish what you're supposed to do."

"So what do you do?" she whispered. She was showing a rare vulnerability, and Jim's instincts to protect tightened even further.

"You do the job."

Her eyes rose to meet his with gratitude and resolve. "I will," she vowed. "I will."

***

Jim knocked on the door of the enormous warehouse, checking the address that Sandburg had given him once again. It figured that someone as unique as Blair would live somewhere this unconventional. He could hear footsteps from inside, pounding down what sounded like a metal staircase.

The door squeaked open and Blair motioned him in.

"Interesting place you've got here, Sandburg." Blair was staring at him for some reason, which made him uneasy. He glanced down at his own clothing. The tight black jeans and t-shirt looked the same as they had at the loft. Maybe it was the black work boots that were wrong. Or, damn it. He'd told Megan that the belt was too flashy, but she'd fingered the studs in fascination and insisted that it was him and that it was just right for a party. In reality, he probably looked like an aging gigolo. Panicking, he tried to direct the attention away from himself.

"You're not ready," he remarked. He was supposed to give Blair a ride to the party since Megan had gone early to work her feminine charms on Richards.

Blair shifted uneasily, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He'd obviously just finished hastily shaving, and bits of shaving cream were still visible, moist and fragrant on his chin, neck and ears. A hand towel hung forgotten over his shoulder. "To be honest, I'm not sure that I'm gonna go, Jim."

"Why not?" Ever since they'd decided to ride together, he'd been looking forward to this evening, and his disappointment was as puzzling as all of his other reactions to Blair Sandburg.

Blair rubbed at his damp face, clearly disturbed about something. "Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm not that crazy about Tobe."

Fear raced through Jim, quick and deep. Having Richards as an enemy was a bad idea, even for someone like Blair.

"What are you talking about. You guys get along great," he argued. "You spent twenty minutes talking to him about the pros and cons of migrant workers yesterday." He should know, he'd waited impatiently the entire time until finally, Blair had broken away and moved on to Jim.

"That was before I knew what a prick he was." The comment was mumbled, but Jim's acute hearing picked it up clearly.

"What happened?" His fists clenched. If Richards had done anything to Blair, he would make that poor bastard suffer, long and painfully.

"I can't- I don't know how to tell you this, Jim." Blair began to pace nervously, and Jim watched him with growing apprehension. "This is definitely none of my business, but..."

"Just say it."

Taking a deep breath, Blair faced him openly, eyes wide with sympathy and fear. Jim understood the emotions a moment later when Blair confessed,

"I walked in on Tobe in the kiln room, Jim. He was with Megan, and they were...together."

The shock that passed across his face wasn't entirely forged. Fuck.

"Kissing? Fucking?"

His blunt question threw Blair for a second. "Uh- Kissing. A little...groping. I-I'm sorry man, I-" Sandburg was babbling now, and Jim silenced him with a raised hand.

"No, it's all right. I appreciate your honesty." He sighed. All he could do was hope that Megan knew what she was doing. They'd agreed that this was the closest way to get in with Richards, but a small part of him protested the humiliation of being cheated on. Or at least, being cheated on in Blair's eyes.

"I mean, you're all my students and I should just- stay out of it but she's your wife and you deserve so much better, Jim."

He cleared his throat, and tried to do the same with his head. "Thank you."

"So you see why I don't want to go to that asshole's party. You're my friend, Jim, a really great guy and he just goes and- and...just because he has all that money, he thinks that oh, you're just a guy who does drywall so he can take your wife- Oh God. I didn't mean, I mean, I'm sure this doesn't mean that Megan is going to leave you."

"Take it easy, Chief, I know what you mean." If Sandburg could see his thoughts right now, he'd swear that Jim was a lunatic. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this optimistic, this content. He had a good friend in Blair, a good man. And earlier today, he'd decided that when this assignment was over, he would ask Megan to be his full-time partner, which had already been cleared with Simon.

Somehow, he managed a look of distress. "I'd still like you to come to the party. Especially now. I really don't want to go alone."

"No problem, man." Blair remembered the towel on his shoulder and wiped down his face as he turned toward the stairs. "Hey, at least we know there'll be a pretty spectacular bar, huh?"

Jim returned the halfhearted smile and watched his new friend trotting off to get ready. This could be fun.

***

"Are you sure that this isn't too weird for you?"

Blair had already asked that question twice in the car and once on the way up the long, winding driveway. Jim was beginning to feel guilty because clearly, Blair was agonizing over what he'd seen and subsequently confessed to Jim.

"I'm sure. Now stop worrying and have a good time, okay?" He ordered, pushing Blair toward the bar. As predicted, it was fully stocked with not only every kind of liquor imaginable, but three bartenders.

It was a small, informal gathering and Jim felt his entire body relaxing. He'd wait a bit to go look around. Blair challenged him to a game of pool and he agreed, pleased. There was a strange feeling in the air. He felt sexy tonight; a swagger to his step as he and Blair stepped around one another at the pool table. Intoxicated, only not from liquor.

"You're beating the pants off of me," Blair grumbled, leaning down to take a dismally impossible shot. Jim's eyes went to said pants and moved away quickly. Friends, Ellison, he reminded himself. You've got a good one here, so you'd best keep your mind off his ass.

Blair missed the shot and looked up at Jim with laughing eyes. "It's a good thing I didn't put any money on this game."

"You said it, Chief."

"Although, my money would've been on you anyhow." The admission seemed to embarrass the young man and he motioned with his head. "Your turn, go on and get it over with."

He couldn't help showing off a bit on his last shot, which paid off because the way that Blair was looking at him when he finished was indescribable. Admiring, mirthful and fascinated as hell. No one was that interested in Jim Ellison, and no one had been in a long time. Not even his own family. Being around Blair had a way of making his skin tingle with an awareness of being really seen, and he knew deep down that he was looking back in the same way.

"You seem to know everyone here," Jim commented later, at the bar. "I thought that artists were supposed to be reclusive."

"Ah, but I'm not an artist." Blair said slyly. "I'm an Anthropologist."

"You...what?"

"I'm working on my doctorate in Anthropology at Rainier, Jim. I have a teaching fellowship, but as you can imagine, the money isn't great. So I teach pottery part-time at night."

"But I've never heard you mention it before. Why didn't you tell me?" Jim didn't know what to make of this discovery. It thrilled him to find these new layers of Blair's, but part of him was bothered by the fact that he knew so little about someone who was beginning to mean so much to him.

"You never asked." Before Jim could protest, he continued with a raised hand. "I know, I know. That's not the best answer but seriously. My pottery students always seem kind of disappointed when they find out that the sun doesn't rise and set on Pottery alone, so I just kind of stopped telling people."

"That's how you know so much about the Chopec," he realized.

"Partially," Blair hedged. "It's sort of a pet project of mine, my interest in the Chopec. They're just one of several tribes that hold special interest for me." The enthusiasm with which Blair spoke about the subject spoke for itself.

Jim listened to his friend talk, and wanted so badly to share his own passion: Police work. But as far as Blair was concerned, Jim was a contractor who put up drywall for a living. Blair also thought that he was married. For a moment, he let his mind wander. If Blair knew that he and Megan weren't a couple, would he act differently? He looked at their hands lying just inches apart on the smooth, black bar. Would their fingertips brush softly, and if they did, would Blair pull away?

Something told him that no, he wouldn't. The beautiful young man would look him bravely in the eyes and accept whatever it was that he found.

and what is it that he'd find, Ellison?

His conflicting thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound; picked up from across the house. Richards.

"And this concludes the tour that you so badly wanted. Are you satisfied now?"

The eager intimacy of his tone made it obvious that he was with a woman.

"Oh, I don't know. Do you have any more of that prezzie that you gave me last week?" Megan, finding out where he kept his supply. Smart.

"In a minute. But first...have I ever told you how beautiful you are? How much I want you?"

Clothes rustled and bedsprings squeaked as the couple kissed.

"I believe you've mentioned it in passing." He heard the strain in her voice, heard the conflicted desire that she was battling.

A series of unfamiliar noises confused him, escalating into a tangle of indecipherable and alarming sounds.

"What's this!?"

Megan's heartbeat, thundering wildly.

"Tobe, wait!"

"A gun, son of a bitch!-

"A cop-"

"No!"

Pleading, panicked accusations and sounds of struggling bodies all culminated in a single, deafening blast of gunfire.

"Jim!"

He blinked rapidly against the sting in his eyes. Blair. The bar. Megan.

"You yelled, you're sweating. Are you all right?" Blair was clearly shaken.

Jim opened his cell phone, dialed for the backup that he feared would come too late. Blindly, he ran toward his unknown destination, trying to think through his fear and guilt. The bedroom. Bedrooms were upstairs. He would find Megan and help her; be a partner. With a scream of rage, he ripped the door open, nearly tearing it from its hinges because from the hall, he had smelled blood.

"I didn't mean to...I didn't mean it." Richards stood over Megan's pale body, in shock.

Jim was halfway to shock, himself. Her blood had spilled out onto the bedspread...so much for the few short minutes that he'd taken to find her. It was as though someone had taken a brush and painted a crimson ring to surround her small body. God, why had he never noticed how tiny she was?

"Oh my God." Blair, behind him in the doorway.

"Blair, get downstairs!" he barked hoarsely. He wanted Blair as far away from this scene as possible. Too much that the kid didn't need to see: death, blood...Jim breaking down.

"What did you do!?" he demanded shakily of Richards, hearing himself and knowing that it was insane. It was obvious what had been done, yet in typical human fashion he searched for a way out, a way for this to not be true. His eyes went back again to the color surrounding his partner's body. Red so deep...almost brown now, or black.

Ox-blood, Blair had called it. Sang-de-boeuf.

With a steadiness that thankfully did nothing to betray his trembling guts, Jim took the gun from Richard's sticky hand and pushed the distraught man against the wall. There he held him with one hand while the other jabbed the barrel of Megan's 9mm into the back of his neck.

He could feel the frantic rush of blood through the killer's veins, which enflamed him. How wrong that he should have that lifeblood when Megan's had been emptied so pointlessly onto an expensive silk bedspread that was no doubt paid for with drug money, blood money. Blood, always back to the blood that was torturing his senses even now.

Jim could feel the pulse increase satisfyingly under his hand when the unmistakable click broke the silence in the room. The sound of the next bullet being chambered.

"Jim, No!"

"Tobias Richards," he growled, pushing the barrel until the wretched man whimpered. His control strained and stretched, aching to break. Please, not in front of Blair, he prayed. "you are under arrest for the murder of Inspector Megan Connor. You have the right to remain silent...."

Blair watched, his face an indecipherable mass of disappointment, confusion and hurt. Before Jim could accurately read his reaction, he was pushed aside by a team of paramedics and Simon Banks. More cops followed. Garnering a pair of handcuffs from another officer, Jim slapped them on Richards. He rubbed away the indentions in his fingers caused by the death grip he'd had on the gun.

Megan's skirt had ridden up in her apparent struggle, and damning police procedure to hell, Jim leaned over and gently tugged it down over her thighs. His last gift, the only thing he could give her now; a sense of dignity.

The need to escape overruled everything else, and he pushed his way through the people, out into the hall where he was stopped by an iron grip.

"Jim. Where are you going?"

"Out...I've got to get out of here, Simon."

"Not until we've got your statement."

"I heard a struggle, I heard a shot, I came in the room and Megan was dead. That's my statement," he spat out, pulling away with a jerk.

"Easy, Ellison. All of us are broken up about what we found in there, but we have a job to do."

Jim remained silent. He was screaming inside, falling apart, and he just wanted to be home. He didn't want to see anyone else's grief, or to have to talk about what had happened. He couldn't.

Simon sighed, taking off his glasses to rub at watery eyes. "I'll tell you what. Go on. Go down to the station and write up your report; I'll catch up with you there."

"Thank you, sir."

***

Jim stared at the blank television screen. There was no point in turning it on, it was always filled with pointless crap that mocked Connor's senseless death by its very existence. Everything did.

Even his own selfish thoughts were an insult to the fact that his partner had been shot and killed. He grunted in disgust, causing a splash of beer to jump onto his shirt. Jim unbuttoned the wet garment, taking it to the hamper. He could get another shirt from upstairs, but why bother? It was pointless.

It was all pointless.

He could still see Megan's smiling face, her freckles, and hear her charming accent, everything that made her so uniquely dear. It wasn't the first time that he'd lost someone, but the process was the same. He didn't want her to be gone, he wanted her back, damn it! That was what it came down to, and the fact that he could do nothing to change it was driving him slowly insane.

He should have known better. This was what friendship brought. Friendship was a tempting jewel that inevitably left you sitting on your couch in the middle of the day with only your thoughts and a wrenching pain in your chest.

He closed his eyes against that pain and bowed his head, covering his mouth with both hands. Crying alone in the dark, now that was what could destroy a man. The sob only made it as far as his throat before he stifled it, an action that served only to increase the crushing pressure around his heart.

"DAMN IT!" he screamed, overturning the coffee table, but the pain didn't budge.

The door buzzed, and he ignored it. There was no one he wanted to speak with. But it buzzed again, and wanting someone to yell at, to really break this tension, he undid the chain and pulled the door open.

He stepped back, completely undone. He'd expected annoying neighbors, meddling co-workers, maybe even some truly irksome salesperson, but not the oasis of gentleness that he found in Blair Sandburg's uncertain, sympathetic face.

"I...they told me that you live here." Blair said, when Jim said nothing. He stepped in and closed the door. "I just wanted to see you."

Jim stared, searching for his anger. He needed that anger, it was the only thing between him and an abyss of grieving.

"I brought something for you." Blair's voice was a caress, loosening something inside him as well as any embrace ever could. "It's dark in here, were you napping? I'm sorry, I won't stay long."

"Good," Jim heard himself say. "I'm kind of busy."

"I was worried about you, man." Blair took a step toward Jim and frowned when his friend retreated. "Is there anything I can do? How are you holding up?" His nervousness was plain, but not completely unwarranted. Jim wasn't saying anything, just standing in the stygian darkness of his loft. Abandoning attempts at verbal comfort, Blair unzipped his bag and held out an object for Jim's approval.

Holding the square jewelry box with both hands, he said, "I fired this yesterday. You should have it."

Jim staggered in the absence of his defenses. Even in the dark he could see every plane and angle covered in that sang-de-beouf, and he flashed on Megan's long, lovely fingers painting over the surface, Megan's fingers coated in the stuff. He gasped for breath.

"Why," he said slowly, "the hell would I want that thing?" He wanted to break it, smash it to pieces for being the sick reminder that it was.

"Because she was your wife, and she-"

"She wasn't my wife, Chief! God, don't you know? She was a Detective just like me, and we were partners. Not married. We were just trying to bust Richards but it all went to hell because I was too busy-" He stopped abruptly. "Well, you saw how it turned out. So no, I don't want that damn thing. Thank you for coming."

"You...weren't married?"

"No."

"You aren't married?"

"No."

Blair placed the heavy piece on the kitchen counter. "I wasn't sure. I mean, I saw you arrest Tobe but I couldn't get any answers from anyone at the station, not even when I gave my statement. I think that you should have it anyhow," he murmured, brushing off dust with his thumb.

"Why?"

"Because you loved her, Jim. Married or not, I could tell that the two of you were good friends."

We were, Jim wanted to say, but suddenly didn't trust himself to speak. The sob was still lurking in his throat, waiting for a weak moment to emerge, and he wasn't ready for that yet.

"And Jim?" Blair took off his coat, chuckling at Jim's wide, suspicious eyes. "I don't think that you should be alone right now."

"Yes, I-"

"No, Jim. Come on. You're sitting in the dark, drinking beer and probably getting even more depressed." He flicked on a lamp and sat on the couch, motioning for Jim to join him. He knew that he was taking a lot of liberties, but he and Jim had shared a special bond since they'd met and somehow, he knew it was all right.

They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again, using a whisper as a shield against the day outside. "Are you blaming yourself?"

Jim didn't reply, and Blair moved down to the end of the couch where his friend was slumped. "Because I think that you are," he added, touching Jim's cheek with his fingers.

And that was what did it. The tenderness in that single touch and the knowledge that Blair could not possibly know what it meant for him to be touched...how long it had been since he'd been touched... was his complete undoing.

"I told her to carry that night," he gasped out, feeling his face contort with anguish. "She wasn't going to, but I s-said that she should..." the tears burned their way out from behind his shut eyelids and down his face, and he could do nothing to stop them. "H-he shot her with her- her own weapon!" he cried out, and when Blair reached for him, he didn't resist. Blair's body was strong against his own shaking torso, and he stopped trying to speak, just held on and immersed himself in another mistake, another friendship that he hadn't fought against hard enough.

It felt good, he couldn't deny that. Blair's scent was already familiar, and the long curls in which his face was buried were full of ginger and honey. Warm breath whispered comfort against his cheek and he had to give Blair credit, the younger man wasn't put off by Jim's shirtless state. He simply rested his hands on the smooth skin of Jim's back and every now and then rubbed a circle of encouragement. "She was doing her job, same as you," Blair whispered after Jim was finally still. "And she was ready to accept the consequences as you would have been."

"But she was a woman," he blurted, unthinking.

"Jim."

"Well, she was. And I should've been there. She was so small," he mourned against Blair's shoulder. "Did you see how small she was?"

"Yeah, I saw."

Blair was unlike everyone else who'd come by, because he knew exactly what to say: nothing. It was as though he knew that his presence was enough, and he simply held Jim, providing a familiar, much needed strength.

Finally, Jim, who felt that he might be overstepping the bounds of this new friendship, pulled back wearily. "Thanks," he croaked.

Leaving Blair's arms left him lonely and chilled, but what was he supposed to do, stay there all day? Yes, God yes. He wanted that. He already knew Blair Sandburg's enticing scent and had learned to revel in the vibrations of the young man's voice. Why wouldn't he want more of him?

Blair closed that empty space between them by placing his hand on Jim's leg, and said sincerely, "I was so worried about you, Jim. I didn't know if you had anyone to be with you." The statement was a question, and he waited patiently for an answer.

Jim's jaw clenched as he looked around the loft, anywhere but at the concerned man on his couch. Sure, there were people who worried about his welfare, co-workers and casual buddies. Hell, even his family would care in a crisis. But he knew what Blair was talking about, and the truth was that he didn't have anyone like that. Someone to hold him the way that Blair just had.

"I don't need..." The automatic response tasted bitter and untrue. He stopped and closed his eyes. "I don't have anyone to...be with me."

He hadn't wanted Blair to see him like this. It had been easy for Blair to befriend the man that he had pretended to be. A man who would take a pottery class for fun, a man with a loving wife. Not a lonely, broken man.

"What? Am I invisible, here?" Blair asked, taking an offended tone.

"Blair, you don't have to..." To what? How could he voice what had no name. He had no idea what Blair's reasons were for being here.

"I want to. Jim, you have no idea how hard I had to work to track down your address."

"Why?"

"I..." Now it was Blair's turn to look away. His hand slid from Jim's leg onto the couch cushion. "I don't know. I had to be here," he gestured at Jim. "For this."

"It's all right. I'm glad you're here. I'm going to get dressed." Jim stood abruptly and tried to flee the uncomfortable conversation. Blair stopped him halfway up the stairs.

"Why don't you lie down? I'll make something to eat and bring it up to you."

His stomach rumbled and he agreed, suddenly exhausted. He made it up the stairs and was asleep within minutes.

***

"Jim. Jim?"

It was a different kind of dark now. There were a few lights on in the loft, but outside night had fallen. He smelled soup.

"Blair," he remembered, sitting up groggily. "What time is it?"

"It's after eight." Blair sat the tray down on the bed, making a spot for himself on the edge. "You were out so quick that I decided to let you sleep first."

"Chicken noodle soup?"

"I know, I know it's a cliché, but..."

"Thanks."

Blair watched Jim as he ate, and wished that his friend's ailment was as simple as a cold. He also wished that his own motivations were as simple as wanting to care for a friend, but sitting there watching the motions of that naked, muscular torso as Jim raised the spoon to his lips, he acknowledged how deep he was in it. All the way.

"I couldn't stand her when we first met," he said suddenly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What?"

"Connor. Megan." He shook his head and gave a brave smile. "We fought like crazy, I thought she was just the most obnoxious person I'd ever met."

"And you've met a lot of obnoxious people in your line of work," Blair pointed out.

"Right. Plus, she had this weird, fluffy pink coat. It was...she didn't fit in. But when it came to the job, she did. She was kind."

"She was funny," Blair remembered.

Jim put aside his soup bowl. "I was going to ask her to be my partner. After this case."

"Aw, Jim."

"No, I'm okay, Chief. Just...God, I'm so tired." He stretched and groaned when his muscles protested the movement.

"If you want..."

"What?"

"I was just going to say that you're really tense. And that if you lie down, I could give you a backrub. If you want." He was blushing now, having just pushed even his own wide definitions of propriety.

"I..."

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to...I worked a summer as a masseuse with my mom's friend Wanda, and a good massage does a world of good."

"No, no." Jim put all his dishes on the dresser, and turned back to Blair. "Sounds good. I haven't gotten to the gym since this happened and I'm pretty sore."

"Oh. Okay."

"On or off, Chief?"

Blair looked at Jim's hands, resting on the zipper of his jeans, and said,

"Whatever you're comfortable with. I'll be right back."

Blair disappeared down the stairs and Jim immediately unfastened his pants, sliding them over his hips with a wiggle. After thinking for a second, he disposed of his boxers as well. Yes, they both needed this pretense, but to himself he was willing to admit the truth of what he wanted to happen.

He arranged himself face down on the bed, wondering if he should pull the blanket over the lower half of his body. No, Blair had done this before professionally, a little bare skin wouldn't bother him...it certainly hadn't kept him from being a friend on the couch downstairs.

Eyes closed, he waited for Blair, who hesitated a moment when he reached the top step.

"Do you want a towel or something?" He asked with uncertainty.

"I'm fine." Jim smiled into his pillow at Blair's anxious tone.

"I found some almond oil in the medicine cabinet. Is that all right? We used to use it sometimes at Wanda's place."

"It's fine." Better than fine.

It seemed to take forever, but finally the bed was dipping with Blair's weight. There was an extended period of rustling around as he searched for the perfect position to reach Jim comfortably until he ended up straddling Jim right below his buttocks.

"This isn't too uncomfortable, is it? It's really the best way, technically speaking."

"I don't think that a man about to get a backrub should complain about anything."

"I see your point, man." Warm, oiled hands settled onto Jim's shoulders, pushing him into the bed.

"Oohgh," he groaned. After that, he couldn't speak at all. He hadn't been prepared for what it would really feel like to have strong fingers working the flesh of his back, hadn't taken his reaction into consideration. It was heady, like a drug, the tactile comfort given with such affection.

He imagined himself as a big slab of clay being shaped and molded by the artists loving hands. Blair worked his thumbs smoothly into the contours of his muscles the same way that he handled the sculpture that Jim had seen him working on last week. At the time, Jim had watched and envied the clay but now he was the one on the receiving end of Blair's expert touch. As he came into a rhythm, pushing and gliding across the smooth, smooth skin, Blair began to rock ever so slightly in place on Jim's thighs.

Which meant, against Jim's ass. He sucked in a great breath, melting into every hard stroke across his back. Back and forth now, up and down, not missing a spot. At the edge, where his ribs began, there was a light touch and he shivered, goosebumps breaking out all over his oiled skin.

Seemingly fascinated by the more sensitive skin there on the sides and Jim's reaction, Blair passed over again with the pads of his fingers, skimming all the way down to his waist on either side.

"Mmmm," Jim hummed in approval, and when Blair ground a flat palm into the small of his back, he groaned at the jolts of sensation that spread from that particular hot spot of his and through the middle of his back, buttocks, and groin.

"Like that?"

"Yes," he managed to say without whimpering.

Blair panted a bit with the exertion of giving a hard, thorough backrub. "That's a big pleasure point for a lot of people. I'll concentrate on it some more in a minute."

And he did, rubbing in hard, languorous circles on the small of Jim's back, the heel of his hand pressing against the bone, sending seismic waves of heat rolling through Jim's entire body. He didn't even have to rub himself against the blanket because Blair was kneading with such a powerful, constant rhythm...Oh God. He was so aroused, and in so many ways. It wasn't just that Blair had such an amazing touch, it wasn't that he had cared for him so tenderly downstairs. It wasn't even the fact that he had a lush mouth that was made to be kissed and curious, inviting eyes.

It was all of those things and more, and he might die if something didn't happen soon. That was why they were here, wasn't it? Surely Blair wasn't in a man's bedroom, on the bed on top of said naked man, without intending for something to happen?

Maybe Blair had seriously been offering only a massage.

Eventually, he noticed that the hands had stilled and that Blair's hands rested on his lower back, the thumbs sweeping firmly up and down, each time venturing across the beginnings of his ass, and occasionally close...so close to exploring the dividing cleft. It was as though he was...waiting. For permission? Jim had taken off all of his clothes and was letting the younger man sit on top of him. What more permission could he need than that?

All movement stopped and for a few long seconds there was only the sound of their harsh breathing in the room.

"Jim?" Blair whispered.

"Yeah?"

Again, silence.

Instead of replying, Blair trailed both hands down over Jim's ass and kneaded the same way he'd been doing the rest of his body. The same, but different because the hands conveyed nothing but seductive deliberation. A warm, slick thumb slid in between the perfectly formed cheeks, opening him up briefly as it slid all the way down and then up again. He shivered when the tip passed over his opening, and whispered, "Blair..." The needy quality to his voice was unfamiliar to him, as were the turbulent feelings that he was finding so difficult to suppress.

Again, Blair placed his hands at the top of his shoulders, working his way down but the difference was striking. Jim could tell that the unhurried caresses were a prelude to great pleasure, and he moved his hips slightly, trying to ease his pent-up lust. Blair responded with a chuckle, and his own small thrust, letting Jim feel the solid proof of his arousal. The movement tore apart the vestiges of Jim's restraint and he rose up, turning over and toppling Blair in the process.

What he must look like to Blair, he thought. He could see the frantic movements of his chest to get enough air, as well as his engorged erection, which loomed needily over his stomach. What embarrassed him most, though, was his face, and the lack of control he had over its appearance. No carefully constructed indifference, no walls to keep him safe. His eyes prickled with tears and the effort to pull his emotion-contorted features into submission was fruitless.

"Good idea." Blair nodded as though Jim had made a brilliant suggestion and slicked his hands up again with the fragrant oil. "For a lot of people, frontal massages aren't that pleasurable, but for you..." He sat back a moment and admired what lay before him, then put his hands on Jim's pectorals and finished, "You've got really developed muscles that will definitely benefit from a rubdown."

Yeah, thought Jim. One in particular. He couldn't tell whether or not Blair was teasing. His solemnity seemed to have an underlying laughter to it, but it was impossible to tell with all that was going on. Jim hadn't known that he'd feel so exposed in this position. Blair's hands squeezed and stroked at his breast, taking special time to rub his nipples into hard, bewildered nubs that always wanted just a bit more than they were getting.

He moaned, but Blair, whose face was bright red now, slack from the erotic fascination he found with Jim's body, didn't care. His abs twitched and rippled under the especially light touch that Blair gave them, and he wantonly threw his right leg to the side, opening up for anything else that Blair wanted to give him.

The permission to explore galvanized Blair into a more aggressive state of mind, and he moved between the widely spread legs and rubbed Jim's thighs hard, testing the muscle's resistance and finding almost none.

Blair's potter's hands were cupping his balls, massaging like he owned them. Jim cried out and never got a chance to recover because the finger at his asshole was teasing him, torturing by tracing and touching, never penetrating.

"Yes, Blair please! Please, you too," he cried, suddenly gripped by the fear that this could stop at any moment. "You, I want you," and it was true. He'd wanted Blair almost from the beginning, but something had been keeping them from acknowledging the attraction.

"Me too!" Blair pulled at his own clothes, removing his shirt with haste, and then starting on his pants. "God, Jim I wanted you. When I saw you in class, I would look at you and just wish, because you and Megan seemed so happy together. When I found out about her and Richards and it just killed me, Jim." He kicked off his pants and returned to his spot between Jim's legs.

"Because you were so perfect. Smart and gorgeous and so amazing to talk to...and it seemed wasted on her. Every time I'd seen you, I'd felt something between us...had you?"

Jim nodded wordlessly, and Blair seemed to run out of words because he covered Jim's body with his own and hovered inches away from his mouth.

"Is this okay?" Blair's tongue flickered between his lips, leaving a sheen of moisture behind that Jim couldn't believe was all for him.

"Yes," he rasped, and then their mouths were pressed together, opening and tasting one another as they'd wanted to for so long.

Blair's mouth was like therapy, soothing and healing all of his hurts while inflaming his passions even further. He loved Jim like it was his only purpose in life, something he'd been practicing day and night his entire life, a skill that Jim received gratefully. Blair's belly was the perfect combination of pliant and firm for his cock to rub against, and he took advantage of it with enthusiasm.

He could smell them both now, mixed in with the almond; Blair's arousal and his own, more familiar musk. "Now," he begged, and felt the lustful groan that tore out of Blair's throat in response to his request.

His neck was lavished with attention from Blair's swollen, wet lips even as the younger man fumbled for the oil. Then the finger was back, prodding and sliding into his opening. It didn't stay long, though. Blair had gauged his arousal and need correctly. He slicked up both of their cocks, driving Jim crazy in the process. He could feel how swollen his own cock was and barely had a chance to register the fact that Blair's bare fingers were on him before they were gone.

Thank God, Blair's hands were shaking as he slowly fed his cock into Jim's hungry hole, dropping his head and panting when he was halfway in. "I never thought," he moaned quietly and Jim didn't know exactly what he meant, but he didn't care.

Because he was filled by Blair which was amazing in the simple fact that sometime in the recent past he'd decided that only Blair could truly fill him in this way. He'd been right. Blair always gave to him, whether it be attention, instruction or the gift of his smile. And now he was giving again.

Jim took.

With his mouth, his ass and every square inch of skin of his body that was being touched by Blair's, he took comfort and pleasure. Blair knew exactly the right way to stroke into him, holding there for an almost-too-intense millisecond and then stroking out with the same sweet perfection.

"Kiss me," he demanded, and shuddered when Blair leaned down, a bead of sweat dripping into the hollow of his throat. Of all the conversations they'd had, this was what had gone unsaid every time, and Jim didn't know how he'd ever managed to ignore these feelings. He would not do it again. He would make Blair his.

The bed was almost moving now with their frantic thrusting and when Blair began to tongue-kiss his mouth sloppily, he heard himself keening, straining and then breaking with gushes of white-hot ecstasy surging into his groin and onto his stomach. "Blair," he whimpered, holding on to the lean, hairy body above him and watching the other man as he found his own release.

Blair's eyes squeezed shut as he thrust a few more erratic strokes into Jim until his mouth fell open, sighing "oh, oh," over and over as he emptied himself into Jim. It was so beautiful, Jim was shaken by the beauty of it. Blair's head fell onto his shoulder and Jim buried his face into the sweaty curls, hiding from the swell of emotions that were trying to break him. Little by little, Blair relaxed until his entire weight was resting in the security of his embrace, and they both slept, content in the knowledge that for once, they'd both gotten what they'd wanted.

***

Jim stood in the doorway of the art studio, telling himself that the apprehension he was feeling was unnecessary. It was the first time he'd been here without Megan and he was afraid of what he might feel but when he finally stepped inside, the feelings were more bittersweet than painful. He'd dropped out of the pottery classes but there was still a reason to come here...a very good reason.

He smiled and watched his lover, completely immersed in the pot that he was throwing on the wheel. It was impossible to watch Blair work with clay and not think about sex; the way that the young man went about both tasks was too similar to discount.

"Why is it that every time I see you, you have a hard-on?" Blair had become aware of his presence and was now grinning up at him, his work forgotten for the moment.

"Because every time I smell you, I can't help myself," he growled. He walked over and took a kiss from lips that were upraised for his taking.

"Yeah..." Blair stood and wiped his hands on his apron. "Speaking of smelling things...I have something to show you, something that you might be interested in."

Intrigued, Jim followed him to the cluttered desk, staying in his lover's space the entire time. Even filthy, he wanted to touch Blair all over.

Blair removed a heavy item from a box on his desk and placed it on the table directly in front of Jim, whose expression immediately turned suspicious.

"What's this?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know."

"Really? Because, your first night in class you shaped your clay into this exact totem."

"I..."

"Do you want to know what it is?"

"No."

"Would it help if I told you what I'm writing my doctoral thesis about?"

"I doubt it." Jim crossed his arms, feeling defensive, ambushed, but Blair put his arms around his waist and leaned up, whispering,

"Sentinels."

"Oh." He didn't know what to think, but Blair's arms tightened, telling him not to worry. "Then, I'd say it looks a lot like the totem of a Sentinel."

"And how do you know that?" Blair beamed, his body humming with anticipation and excitement that no one would be able to sense, but he could, of course.

"Because I used to have one just like it," he admitted, covering his pleasure by burying his face in a wild mass of curls.

"Bam," whispered Blair, his voice catching with emotion. "Holy Grail time."

The End

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Many thanks to Lisa, who may or may not have come up with this story idea, but definitely encouraged me to write it, and Elaine, fastest beta in the west.