"Wait a minute, wait a minute. He did what?"

Simon shifted uncomfortably on the sidewalk. "He, uh, that is--"

"Simon. Spill."

"He went for a walk."

"Just now."

"Yeah."

"By himself."

"Yeah..."

"What are you, a pod person? He just went ten rounds with Andre the Giant, he's bleeding, he's limping, for Christ's sake, and he has big red circles like this around his eyes," here he paused to demonstrate with his hands, "and you let him take a walk?"

"Sandburg, I don't think you're looking at this like--"

"He can't see! He probably can't hear either--"

"I should be so lucky."

"He's unarmed, he can barely walk, and he's wandering the area wearing a fucking prison uniform! Are you insane?"

Simon swallowed. "He... he..."

"What?"

"He said he wanted to walk out in the open," Simon muttered, avoiding Blair's eyes.

"Did anybody tell you how many blows to the head he took tonight?" He sighed explosively. "Forget it. It must be a trend."

"Now look here--"

"Which way did he go?"

"That way," he said dryly, pointing at the arena's single exit.

"How the hell did you think he was going to get home? The magic carpet in his cell?"

"Sandburg, I admit it was maybe a little..."

"What?"

"Ill-considered."

"Ill-considered? Ill-considered? What do you think the guards are going to think when they see him--"

"Sandburg. The longer you stand here tearing me a new asshole, the better the chances are that we'll find out what the guards are going to think. Get it?"

They stared at each other in synchronized hostility, each man in the classic crossed-armed, spread-legged pose of the unreasonable, unwilling to listen, pissed-off man. Jim was wandering the prison grounds in a daze, and Blair had had it with playing peace-maker. "Are you going to help me find him?"

"Aw, Christ, Sandburg, the man wants to be alone. If we go chasing after him--"

"And find him lying in a ditch somewhere--"

"He can take care of himself."

"Simon, he's a big, cranky guy who can see a license plate from another state. That doesn't mean it won't hurt if you kick him in the nads, all right?"

Simon smirked. "That's an illegal move."

"I'll find him myself. He can take his goddamned personal time after they've cleared up the gangrene." Blair shoved past the Captain and stormed out of the arena.

What kind of half-witted idiot would have let Jim leave in the first place? Blair had turned away for maybe a minute, probably less than that, and by the time his attention was fully focused on his partner again, the man had done a runner. He was like a baby that way. All you had to do was blink and the guy was sticking his fork into somebody's light socket. There was no keeping up with him, and certainly no stopping him. Jim could wax eloquent on Blair's natural energy all he wanted, but he would never understand how much work it was. It was beginning to tell on Blair, and that was a bad sign. No man of his size and temperament could hope to survive talking to Simon Banks as he had, and no sane man would try. And yet... When he could have been calm, reasonable, understanding, he came out with "what are you, a pod person?"

Blair knew Jim well enough to have a rough idea of where his partner might have gone. It went both ways, though. Jim knew Blair well enough to know where to hide. The Curse of the Sneaky Black Ops Guy. Blair knew Jim had lived through worse, and probably would again. And even with innumerable blows to the head, he was still capable of out-sleazing Blair, any day of the week. But Blair took it personally, a fact he had no trouble admitting. Yes, Jim had faced things Blair couldn't even imagine, and yes, he had survived them alone. But now, he didn't have to. That he chose to do it anyway was offensive to Blair.

After cruising the grounds for almost half an hour, he found Jim sitting on the curb next to a bus shelter, his head propped up in his hands. The detective's face was free of expression, almost slack from it, and his eyes were cold. I sure do like them french-fried pertaters. Mm-HM. "Damn it," he muttered. "This isn't funny." He sat down on the curb next to Jim and touched his friend's arm. "Jim. You in there, man?"

Jim didn't respond. "Jim." Blair gently turned Jim's head toward him. There was no sign of recognition, no Jim, no nothing. Deaf, dumb and blind boy, he's in a quiet vibration-land... "Shit!" A snicker escaped him. This is stress, it has to be stress. Jim was a wreck. His face was a ruin; cut, bruised, swollen, and bearing red circles from the mace, he was a living victim of vandalism. Someone would have to die for this.

"Follow my voice, buddy. Listen for me, and follow me back." Blair started squeezing Jim's arm rhythmically, talking all the while. What Jim didn't know, and what Blair would never tell him, was that when the detective was stuck in a particularly bad zone, Blair gave up on saying anything sensible after about fifteen minutes. There were only so many times he could say "Follow me back" before he started feeling like a refugee from Star Wars. Help me, Obi Jim Kenobi, you're my only hope. Jim was like a baby that way, too. As long as the tone was right, Blair could say anything to him and still expect decent results. Jim wasn't listening for Rime of the Ancient Mariner, after all.

"The owl and the pussycat went out to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat," he said, checking his watch. "They took some honey, and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note. The owl looked up to the stars above and sang to his small gitar: what the fuck will we do for food, we're a hell of a long way from Dar's."

Blair stared at Jim. His face was still as slack as before, but his eyes seemed a little more expressive. Ooh, gotta see Wapner. He rolled his eyes. This was getting him nowhere. "Jim, come on. You keep this up, the deli's going to be all out of pastrami by the time we get there. Mm... pastrami. When was the last time you had a good pastrami sandwich, Jim? I bet you never zoned on gruel."

Cars passed them occasionally, usually rubber-necking it, but Blair paid them no attention. "Okay, let's try another one. Uh... One part of love is jealousy, one part of love is pain, one part is the embarrassment of explaining horrific stains. One part of love is steamy sex, one part of love is-- uh, doing the dishes..."

"What the hell happened to 'follow my voice, Jim'?"

"Jim!" Blair gripped his friend's head in both hands, staring into his eyes. "Thank god, man, I was waiting for some cult members to drive up and tell me you'd left your vessel and gone to a happier place."

"Any place you're not talking is a happier place," said Jim. He scowled, glancing around him. "I zoned."

"Yep."

"I wasn't here when it happened."

"Well, that's not that unusual. Your unconscious mind might have directed you here." He looked away. "Of course, it was nowhere to be had when you decided to play Choose Your Own Adventure," he muttered.

"Yeah, yeah. You can read me the riot act later." He unfolded himself from the curb with an agonized groan. "Christ. My eyelashes hurt."

"We'll get you home, cleaned up--"

"Fed," Jim said. "I haven't eaten anything decent in more time than I care to remember."

"I keep telling you, Jim. You gripe and complain about the stuff I feed you, and the minute somebody tries to give you something else, life as you know it is over."

"If you knew what they've been feeding me..." Jim took a step, and stumbled immediately. "Damn it."

"Oookaaay. Now we know," said Blair, quickly sliding under Jim's arm to support him as they walked.

"I can walk," Jim grumbled.

"Jim, you're a telethon waiting to happen, all right? Bite the bullet and bear the shame."

"I need a bath," he said, shuffling down the road.

"You're telling me, buddy."

"Probably some Band-Aids or something," he mumbled.

"I just bought a new box."

"Bed," he sighed dreamily. "My bed."

"If we can get you up the stairs."

"I can make it up the stairs, Sandburg."

"Just a thought."

"Beer," he said. "And pastrami."

Blair froze. "What?"

"If we get to Marathon Deli soon enough, they'll still have that thin-sliced pastrami. And those little pickles."

Blair blinked, and started them walking again. In an eerie parallel to that pod person thing... "I'll even let you get double meat," he finally said.

Jim snorted. "Like you could stop me."

"You haven't even got your shoelaces, Jim. I've got a wallet, I've got my belt--"

"Cut it out. I just had a flashback to my days in Vice."

"Man, I do not want to know."

Jim paused on the threshold of the loft, leaning against the nearest wall. "Jim, you all right?" The detective closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Blair smiled. "You're not going to kiss the floor or anything like that, are you?"

"The way you clean? I don't think so."

"That is so unfair, man. I've been keeping the place spotless for your big homecoming."

Jim opened one eye. "I notice you didn't rush to get me a beer."

"I wanted to wash your feet first," Blair said.

"That reminds me," he said absently, eying the bag in his partner's hand.

"What a dilemma," said Blair. "You're like one of those lab rats who starves to death because he'd rather have a teeny little rodent orgasm than a nice bowl of Rat Chow."

"Nice imagery, Sandburg," he said, snatching the bag from Blair's hand. "I can eat it in the bath." Without sparing Blair another look, Jim took his sandwich and stomped down the hallway to the bathroom.

"Don't come crying to me if you drop it, man," Blair called after him. Jim slammed the bathroom door. "Jerk," Blair muttered. After he had a beer for himself safely in hand, he sat down on the sofa and unwrapped his own sandwich. If Jim had caught him eating in the living room on any other occasion, painful, bloody death would be certain. Today, however, Blair was pretty sure he could take his partner. Ooh, piledriver. Once Jim was hospitalized, Blair could bask in an evening of humility, and hopefully, would never hear 'shorty' again.

"Blair!"

He dropped his sandwich and turned quickly. Never sure of the extent of Jim's abilities, the possibility raced through his mind that Jim had somehow sensed the combination of Blair and seafood sub in the living room, and was already looking for something to beat him with. "Uh... what?"

"Blair!" Jim cried again, and Blair grinned. That was no angry shout. That was the pitiful bleat of a helpless man. Bask in your power, Blair, this day may never come again.

Rising slowly, he trudged down the hallway, half-hoping he'd get a chance to hear Jim beg. When he reached the door, he found it locked. "Jim?"

"What, did you stop to read the paper before you came?"

"What do you need?"

"I need you to get your ass in here, that's what I need," he grumbled.

"Jim," he said reasonably, "the door is locked. I mean, I've always wanted to kick one in, but I thought--" The door swung open to reveal Jim, towel-clad, surrounded by steam. Whatever else had happened there, he hadn't lost his sandwich. He favored his guide with an indignant glare.

"You could have offered to help."

"Jim, lose your arms in a threshing machine and I'll bathe you, all right? Did you want something, or did you just get me down here to piss me off?"

"Jesus, Sandburg, who's been tripping over your bridge?"

He raked his hair. "I'm sorry. I'm a little tense."

Jim smirked. "You're not the one who spent the last week in a federal institution."

"Yeah, well, you're not in prison, and I'm not your girlfriend, all right?" Jim's eyes hardened. "Oh, Christ, Jim, what--" The detective shoved Blair's chest and slammed the door in his face. "Jim, I'm sorry. Come on, I didn't know. Look, I saw 'The Shawshank Redemption,' I know what goes on--"

The door swung open again. "I wasn't somebody's girlfriend, Sandburg," he snarled.

Blair raised his hands in surrender. "All right, okay. Forget I mentioned it."

"I did want something from you," he added.

"Name it," Blair said.

Jim gestured at himself, and Blair had to stifle a snicker. Though he was sure it was unintentional, Jim looked like some kind of XXX game show host, about to say "All this can be yours, if the Price is Right!" But his body had taken even more of a beating than his face had, and he had to be sore... "I can't..." He waved his arms helplessly. "I just can't."

Can I possibly be this insane? ...Possibly. "All right, all right. Let's have a look." Jim leaned against the bathroom counter, the picture of weariness. "Open or closed?" Blair asked.

"Closed," Jim said immediately. "No, open."

"You might get a draft..."

"I'm wearing a towel, Sandburg. A draft is kind of a given."

Blair dug out the first aid kit. "Where's the Ben-Gay?"

"Ohhh, no. No way."

"Way, man. You're not going to be able to walk tomorrow."

"I don't want to walk tomorrow," he declared. "Besides, maybe you would wind up with a lot of lactic acid build-up, but my body is my temple."

Blair smirked. "If your body is your temple, it's a wonder Jesus isn't standing around whining about the money-changers."

"Are you going to help me, or not?"

"I'll help you," he said. "Hold still." Jim hissed when Blair started working on a cut. "Dial it down," he said.

"It's nothing."

"Jim, you don't have to play strong-man with me, all right? I've seen you with bed-head."

The detective smiled. "That's exactly why couples should never live together," he said. "You lose all respect for someone when you see them vulnerable."

Blair made a point of looking Jim up and down. "Actually, I find it kind of reassuring," he said. "Besides, we're not a couple."

"Same principle," said Jim. We live together, we work together, and every time I need you to do something, you're singing 'bed-head, bed-head, I've seen Jim with bed-head.'"

"I don't do it every time."

"Yeah, but you- Shit! Why don't you just pour salt in the fucking thing?"

"Dial it down," Blair said patiently. Once he'd finished with Jim's chest to his satisfaction, he knelt on the floor to get better access to his partner's legs. "How in the name of all that's holy did you manage to get bruises on your feet?"

"How the hell should I know?" he said irritably.

"Bed-head, bed-head..." Jim snickered. Blair faked a heart attack. "You getting a cold or something, man? You know I have another song for when you're sick, don't you?"

"You do not."

"Are you kidding? 'Blair,'" he whined, "'I need more orange juice. Blair, this pillow is too hard. Blair, I can't reach my bonbons.' I have friends who call me Sanderella."

"You do not."

"I do so." He looked up. Blinked. Jim was braced against the counter, gazing down at him. This was nothing new, but it hadn't occurred to Blair when he'd first hit the floor that this situation might look totally different if he was holding a jar of Vaseline instead of a bottle of Ben-Gay. Life was so unfair that way. Jim always dated mysterious women, and Blair always got stuck holding the appropriate pharmaceutical product for whatever stuffing Jim had beaten out of him that week. If he thought about it long enough, he'd probably be able to come up with a decent country music selection for the situation.

Blair cleared his throat. "Uh, turn around, and I'll do your back."

Jim turned and bent over the counter, without a moment's hesitation. What with Jim's protruding ass and the lingering steam, Blair was taken back to the hazy bath-house days of his youth. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Blair flushed. "What's with you?" Jim demanded.

"Nothing," Blair squeaked.

"Uh-huh." Blair started rubbing the Ben-Gay into Jim's shoulders, pointedly not looking in the mirror. Jim arched into his hands, sucking in an ecstatic breath. "Oh, yeah," he moaned. "Christ, Chief, that feels so good..."

Blair swallowed hard. The smell of the liniment was all-pervasive, even to him, but here was Jim, sounding for all the world like Blair was his girlfriend, and what was Blair supposed to do about that? In mere seconds, he'd gone from flaccid to fully, painfully erect, all over a little Ben-Gay misunderstanding, and Jim trusted him, god damn it-

"No, don't stop," Jim gasped. Blair kneaded his back. Jim slid a little on the counter. "Do it harder," he urged. "Yeah, that's it," he mumbled contentedly. "Do it... yeah..."

Blair couldn't help himself. He looked up. Jim's eyes were closed, a huge, satisfied smile on his face. Blair stared at him, watched him as he arched almost rhythmically into his guide's touch. Blair watched his own jaw drop. Jim writhed against him, gasping, and before Blair could summon up something to say that was appropriate to the situation, Jim opened his eyes. Hot, dark, dangerous, they were the answer to the look in Blair's own. Blair released him immediately, staggering badly, eyes wide.

"Looks okay, now," he squeaked, backing toward the door. "Uh, I have a lot of work to do tonight, so I think I'll just..."

"I'm not loose yet," he complained, his voice thick with... what?

"You're loose enough!" .

"Blair, what's--" Jim's hand darted out to grab his guide's arm. Unfortunately, it was the same hand that had been supporting his towel. It fell to the floor, and Blair gaped. He sometimes forgot Jim was even capable of getting an erection, and yet, there it was.

"What the hell is that?" He demanded, pointing accusingly at Jim's cock.

Clearly torn between a rude remark and the need to pick up his towel, Jim opted for both, mumbling something about high school health classes while he scrabbled around on the floor. Blair bolted from the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. "Oh, man," he groaned, leaning against the wall. "This is strange, this is fucking Twilight Zone. This is..." He glanced back at the bathroom door. "Wait a minute." Since when can you get high off a little Ben-Gay? He squinted. I'm turned on, nothing new. Jim is turned on, and maybe it's because he watched too much 'Baywatch' in the klink, but on the other hand, I didn't notice a woody when I picked him up. And I'm freaking out because...

The door opened a crack. "Chief?"

Blair grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door shut again. "Just give me a minute, all right? Jesus." He leaned against the doorjamb, one hand over his mouth. Could have been an involuntary response, could have been, could have... "Bed-head, bed-head, I've seen Jim with bed-head," he muttered. Blair took a deep, calming breath. He turned to the door. "Jim," he said tentatively, "can I ask you a personal question?" He heard the doorknob rattle. "Don't open the door!"

"Come on, Sandburg, I feel stupid talking to you like this."

"You open that door, and I am so gone."

"Fine," Jim sighed. "Ask."

Blair closed his eyes and thought hard. One wrong word and he'd be trolling for sleazy hotel rooms within the hour. "That's a hard-on," he blurted. "You have a hard-on."

"What, you never saw one before?"

"Not yours, man. Not in my personal space."

"What are you asking me, here?"

Blair swallowed. "I-- uh, that is, when you go for massage therapy--"

"Never."

"Right. And, say, your chiropractor--"

"Give me a break."

"Stupid question. Sorry." Blair sighed. "So, just now, you're..."

"Diamond-hard and ready for action?"

"Another sensitive remark from the throwback. Thank-you, Jim, the thing I need most while I'm standing out here tearing my hair out is wanton mockery. That just makes it so much easier." Blair started down the hallway, still tearing at his hair.

"Chief?" Jim called tentatively.

"It doesn't really make you go blind, Jim, I swear."

"I'll bet you conducted tests," he snickered. "You never did say how you wound up with glasses--"

"Well, I bet I know how you ended up with a squint!" he called back. When he got to the living room, he donned his jacket and rewrapped what remained of his sandwich.

"Where are you going?" Jim caught up with him at the door. No matter what Blair could say about Jim, at least he'd had the decency to find his robe before he came after his guide.

"For a drive."

"Don't go," he said quietly. "Please."

"This is too weird, man."

Jim shook his head. "I thought-- the look on your face, I just-- aw, forget it. Go."

Blair opened the door.

"That's it? You're leaving?"

Blair threw up his hands. "Bring back Jim," he said. "I want to talk to Jim."

"Ha ha," Jim said. "Look, I'm sorry, all right? I was into it, and I thought you were into it, and I thought 'at last, it's finally going to happen for us,' and next thing I know, you're outside singing that bed-head song."

Blair glared at him. "What do you mean I was into it?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "What am I, Idiot Boy? You've been mincing around me from day one."

"Mincing?"

"As your friend, I feel it my duty to tell you, Helen Keller could pick up your signals. As far as I go, you might as well stick your hand down my pants."

Blair gaped. "That is so delusional, Jim. You think I spend all my time mooning over you and writing love poetry? What, did somebody find Blair's 'Wonder of Jim' site on this week's Yahoo web picks?"

"You're denying it?" Jim was incredulous.

"When exactly did you hop the trolley to the Land of Make-Believe? Desiree in Records keeps telling me you're a dreamboat, but Desiree only sees LL Bean Boy, talking tough and smiling over the inclusion of Pop Tarts in the new vending machine. I know you, man."

Jim smiled, weakening Blair's resolve. "That's what I like about you," he said. "You know me." Blair meant it as an accusation, but Jim gave the word a world of innuendo.

"That's right. And this is so not you. I mean, all right, okay, you did time. Well, not did time, but did time. Whatever. Now you're out, you're enjoying your freedom, new lease on life, yadda yadda yadda. Great. Go for long walks, eat Grape Nuts, I don't care. But you can't just come running up to me waving your dick around like your real name is Rod Goodbody and expect me to roll over for you, all right?"

The detective scowled. "You think this is some... impulse?"

"No, I think it's at least two, and neither one is good. Jim, where the hell is this coming from? I mean, maybe I'm not always living in the now, but I think I'd notice if you were harboring, like, some forbidden passion for me."

"You're the only one who's forbidding it," he griped. "Simon's been going to PFLAG meetings since you moved in."

"Excuse me?"

"Not everybody is handing out reading glasses to people who can't read them that well, Blair. Not everybody is striking up conversations with total strangers about their childhood experiences."

"What the hell are you trying to say? You've wanted me all along?"

"Blue balls, blue balls, I've seen Jim with blue balls..."

Blair shook his head. "With one minor nude scene, my life has gone from Anne Rice to A.N. Roquelaire."

"Minus the spanking. And the group sex. I have a rule about that."

"Of course you do," he said automatically. "No food in the living room, use only red Tupperware, no rolling around naked on Mazola-covered tarps with complete strangers..."

"Chief, come on," he said gently, wrapping his arms around Blair. "This doesn't have to be so melodramatic."

"At least give me that," Blair cried.

Jim tugged on his guide's hair until they were face-to-face. "Blair, please?"

"No."

"When do I ever ask you for anything?"

"You bastard! I--" Jim kissed him hotly, moaning helplessly into Blair's mouth. It was more than Blair had ever hoped for, and far better than he expected. He'd just assumed he was the superior kisser-- Jim had to be inferior to him somehow-- but here was proof, however pleasant, that there was yet another area at which his partner excelled. Pent-up longing or new lease on life, it made no difference to Blair now. He wanted Jim naked again, wanted to kneel before him again, wanted to make Jim feel good in a way Ben-Gay and pastrami never could.

"Shit, Sandburg," Jim gasped when he could pull away, "I thought you were going to need some convincing."