by Pares

Well, I broke even in Joel's poker game.

Simon drops me at the curb and I watch his taillights glare as he pulls away before I start for the stairs. I had two beers, the cigar smoke is *still* fogging me up and I could use some shuteye, but I don't even have to dial up to know that Sandburg isn't home yet.

If I had to describe it, I'd say it's like the molecules of air in the apartment don't bounce around as much when he's not here. It could just be me being sentimental; it's probably more like the fact that when he's not home, he doesn't have the thermostat set at Steam Bath.

I let myself in and stretch out on the couch, stare at the ceiling. It's after one. Sandburg's been seeing Lindsay Conkle for a couple of weeks now and this is only his second night not coming home. It bothers me, and that's new.

She's the first woman he's shown in an interest in since he drowned.

For a while, I thought he had a thing for Megan, and that would have been okay, but he never seemed to lose any sleep over it.

But now he's out with a nice girl, and I'm here in an empty apartment, thinking about him.

Okay. Fine. Missing him.

I have a funny hollow feeling in my chest, and it's not like the one I had when he was dead. It's... dread, I guess. I feel like my heart is drying up or something when he's not here.

He's not gonna stay forever. Sandburg'll leave me for a nice girl and a normal life. And he should have that.

It kills me that I could be such an utter bastard. That I'd rather have him here with me and getting along then somewhere else and *happy*.

* * *

I'm sure my eyes are as red as the numbers on Lindsay's digital alarm clock, but I haven't really been able to sleep in her bed. It's a quarter to five, and I figure it'll still count as spending the night if I leave now.

I slip out of the bed and move Lindsay's long, cool hair aside so I can kiss one silky shoulder before making sure she's nice and toasty under the covers.

She turns her head and blinks at me, gives me a sleepy smile. I can see it even though I'm not a Sentinel, even though it's nearly an hour 'til sunrise, because her face catches the light from the window and gives it back.

"Blair, if you just brought an overnight bag, you could stay in bed longer," she murmurs. Her voice is *perfect* when it's husky like that, and a part of me, yes, *that* part, would like to stay and take advantage of her kind offer... but most of me just wants to get home and catch another two hours of sleep in my own bed.

"Oh, hey, you know me, Mr. Early Riser. Up with the sun. I have some tinkering to do-- I get my best work done before class." I smooch her cheek, and she giggles because my stubble tickles, as she has told me more than once. Then I kiss her pretty mouth, and she sighs my name, curling her little fingers in my hair.

"Stay," she suggests. "Your class isn't until ten..."

Again, my dick is far more interested than my brain, and maybe my dick has a point-- she's so soft and so nice and so warm, and so right *there*-- but my chest is getting tight, and I know if I stay any longer I'm going to have a panic attack, and that wouldn't exactly flatter the woman.

//Sorry, Lindsay, I have to go. You're fun in bed, and it's only been two weeks, but if I'm forced to spend prolonged amounts of time with you, my palms get sweaty, and *not* in a good way...//

So I kiss her forehead, promise I'll see her tonight and slink out like the rat that I am.

When I get home, I'm too guilty to even try and sleep, so instead I just take a deep calming breath of my own familiar bedroom air and prop up Samuel White's 1866 edition of _Great Basin of the Nile_ on my knees to do the research I told her I was going to, and huh, would you look at that? That could be--

Holy shit! Do you know what this could mean? This is *amazing*! Now, all I have to do is find the right equipment... and I'll definitely need to go back to the library and follow up on this.

Jim is going to be knocked *out!*

* * *

He's boiling barley in a stew pot I haven't seen since Carolyn volunteered to make lobster bisque for her parent's wedding anniversary.

In fact, I think that was the only other time I'd seen it. My ex-wife was, still is, a bright and talented lady, but she can't cook worth a damn.

"Is that the lentil stew you made for the pot luck?" I sniff and the smell is weirdly familiar, but before I can put my finger on it, I catch sigh of at least a dozen yellow jars, a mottled cake of yeast about the size of my palm, a bunch of beakers and droppers and something that looks a little like an industrial stapler. "You wanna tell me what you're up to here, Chief?"

He claps his hands together like there's nothing he'd rather do. I snag a bunch of the greenery he's laid out on the counter and take a whiff, trying to place the scent.

Sandburg sneaks it out of my hand and points at me with it. I manage to resist the impulse to yank on his ponytail and snatch the plant back.

"*This* is a rhizome, " and he showcases it like it's a prize on a gameshow. "I figured if we grew some, we could really make it from scratch next time."

"Make *what* from scratch next time?"

"Beer, Jim," and you wouldn't have to be a Sentinel to hear him roll his eyes. He continues, with exaggerated patience. "I'm brewing beer." He holds up the hops again and waves them around like any fool would recognize them. They look like the strawberry runners that used to grow wild in my dad's backyard, or maybe more like ivy.

"So that's what hops look like. I always figured they were some kind of grain."

"Well, more like the dried cones of female flowers--" he interrupts himself. "This variety is called 'Cascade', actually. I thought that was kind of cool. Of course, the Ancient Egyptians didn't *use* hops in their beer. This is just for next time."

I nod a little. I hadn't known beer was so complicated, and I'm kind of impressed that Sandburg has decided to venture into the wonderful world of home brewing.

"So how much did all this gear set you back, Sam Adams?"

He clears his throat and tucks his chin before he mutters, "About eighty bucks."

I give a low whistle.

"Jesus, Sandburg, I could have picked you up a six of Guinness for about seven- fifty at the Safe-T-Mart."

"I *know* that, man, but I did some reading on river basin civilizations, and I found a reference to Sentinels in Egyptian mythology." He presses his palms against the countertop and hoists himself backwards until he's sitting on it before continuing. "It turns out the priests of Amen-Ra used to brew a beer prepared with a sacred yeast that would then give them 'the eye of Ra', which I think may have been a way to experience Sentinel senses."

"Magic beer," I say, and Sandburg deflects my skepticism with a grin and a shrug.

"Hey, I know it's a long shot... but think about it, Jim! If it works, and I *do* achieve some level of heightened sensory awareness, think of the insight I could have into what *you* have to deal with! I could develop a whole new program to exercise and fine tune your senses... I think it's a whole new aspect to the Sentinel/Guide relationship. I mean, as your Shaman, it's my responsibility to *know* first hand what you go through and hopefully figure out new ways to help you out in the field." His eyes are solemn, but he sounds excited by the idea, as only a true intellectual can be.

"And if it doesn't work?"

He's all smiles, showing off those little shiny teeth.

"Well, then we lay into it and get plastered. I'd need to finish off the whole batch to be *really* sure."

"All in the name of science, huh, Chief?"

"Exactly. Heightened senses or no heightened senses, at least we'll have ourselves some perfectly drinkable alcohol."

I chuck him under the chin and grin at him.

"I'll leave you to toil and trouble, there, Sandburg. I'm gonna grab a shower."

"Don't use all the hot water, big guy. I have a date with Lindsay tonight." And he waggles his eyebrows at me.

By the time I get out of the shower, the water's colder than a witch's tit, but if Sandburg notices, he doesn't say a thing.

* * *

Jim must have had knots the size of matzo balls in his shoulders to run the water that long. I wonder if he pulled his arm working out again? I'll have to remember to pick up some Tiger Balm, even though Jim says he hates the smell.

Maybe in the morning. Right now, I have to meet Lindsay. Spend some *quality* time...

I knock on the apartment door she's painted a cheery shade of ocean blue and hear her pad towards me. Lindsay's not quite a Jim-level cleanfreak-- I mean, who could be?-- but with a baby who's starting to crawl, she says it's easier to ditch shoes at the door.

Even after a fast, frosty shower, I don't feel as energetic as I should be. I'm not sure how much longer I can do this, or even if I should.

The fact is, I like Lindsay. I *really* like her. She's *bright*, first in her class at Rainier over in the Physics department, before she quit to have Tyler. It's surprising, really, that I hadn't run into her before. She's *nice*, and she knows *lots* of funny sorority stories, and I really dig her son. He's easy to love, and it's hard to understand why anyone would refuse to take at least half the credit for him just *being*.

But it's not working out, and she's beginning to notice.

It's more than just my not being able to spend a full eight hours in her cozy little bed.

I worry about Jim all the time lately. I have this creepy sensation, like a premonition he's gonna fall down a well or something, a feeling (and it's arrogant, I know that) like Jim would shrivel up and blow away without me at his side 24 hours a day.

Which is a crock.

Yeah, I won't discount the fact that he *does* need me when he's out running down crooks, but the guy is perfectly capable of spending a few evenings on his own. Seriously. If Jim knew I was wringing my hands like this about him, he'd smack me upside the head and escort me to the door, along with plenty of assurances that he's fine and dandy, thanks, Sandburg, you run along and play. I can practically see him leaning in the doorway, those Mr. Universe arms folded across his chest.

I hug Lindsay when she opens the door and give her my best smile.

"Hope you're hungry. There's this new Vietnamese place I want to show you--"

"Blair," and her eyes are kind. I like the way she uses almost no make up except for a little eyeliner, and sometimes lipgloss... but there's something in her voice that makes me hold my breath. "We have to talk."

The high-tension wire that's been singing in my belly snaps like a guitar string, and it's about all I can do to keep from sliding down the doorjamb in obvious relief.

Thank god.

She's going to break up with me first.

* * *

It's a kind of muffled sizzle, or maybe a fast boil. Somewhere between the fizz of soap bubbles melting in the sink and a kid with a mouth full of PopRocks.

What the hell *is* it?

Weird enough to wake me up out of an admittedly shitty night's sleep at 2 AM, anyway.

As I stalk down the stairs to the basement, tuning in on it, letting it guide me, I wonder if Foster in 302 had another 'wine tasting' party. The whole stairwell stinks like... like... fermented *something*.

I dial the combination, unlock the storage door and shove it open, and there it is, on the floor next to Blair's old bike: a big old-fashioned water bottle, wavy glass, full of something that looks a little like cloudy corn syrup.

It's seething and bubbling like a science experiment, and jesus, it smells like a moonshiner's shack down here.

There's a white 3x5 card taped to the spigot, and it reads:

I can feel a dopey smile paste itself on my face. The kid's making provisions for me for me in case he wasn't around when I found this.

I think about it some more, and realize I shouldn't be so crazy about it his being more thoughtful about stuff like this, lately. If Blair is making provisions for when he's not around, that can only mean he's leaving.

And soon.

* * *

I don't get in 'til after four.

Lindsay had a lot to say, and I was glad to listen. We'll stay friends, and I know she'll send me pictures of Tyler as he grows up, and I also know that in a small way, I'll always regret missing out on his childhood.

But when I rinse and spit the last of the toothpaste into the sink, I can hear Jim shifting around in his bed upstairs, and it makes me smile. Makes me feel like I'm exactly where I need to be.

Home.

* * *

II Two Weeks Later

"...according to the Saite Recension of the _Book of the Dead_, the forms of the magical names of Amen-Ra are not Egyptian in origin..."

I don't think I'm gonna find out any more about the religious rituals of the Priests of Ra than I already have.

It took me a lot of song and dance to get the figure of Amen-Ra from Fredrick Bower in Antiquities. I'm not gonna tell him that I'm going to paint it blue. The paint I'm using is water based, so hopefully, it'll come off without hurting anything. My friend Angie promised to bring the lotus blossoms by in the morning. That only leaves bottling the beer and deciding which incantation I should use.

I've been spending some late nights at the library, trying to find any other information that might help this whole thing along. I'd rather be at home, but Jim's been a little testy lately, anyway, and even my most ingratiating Needy Student looks aren't bending Mrs. "Old Hickory" Hoek to my will.

'Special Collections are *not* to leave the fourth floor, *Mr.* Sandburg.'

Therefore, Mr. Sandburg can't leave the fourth floor, either.

Which isn't so bad. Delilah Hoek may not trust me outside of Special Collections, but my friend Fitch does. And he has his own set of keys to the library. It doesn't hurt that I have a pretty good rapport with Cesar, the night watchman, either.

I crack a yawn and glance at my watch. It's just a little past midnight. Plenty of time to close up here and get some serious bed time before I have to wake up to bathe in the sun's first light and anoint myself with almond oil.

* * *

If she doesn't shut her trap in the next sixty seconds...

She cocks her head and those beady little eyes bore into me. They're as round and black as the holes in a bowling ball, and the nasty look she's giving me reminds me of those birds Sandburg was telling me about, the ones who stick beetles on thorns-- a whattaya call it... *shrike*. That sounds about right.

"Listen sister, your lawyer's on his way, so why don't you lay off the civil disobedience crap and wait for your guy to show, okay?"

"I am *not* your sister," she hisses.

"Thank god for small favors," I snap, which earns me a witchy glare.

I can hear Simon glide up behind me.

"Detective? A moment?"

Brown shows up to keep an eye on her, and she starts yammering as soon as the Captain's door closes behind me.

"Jim, is everything all right? Is there something going on with your senses I should know about?"

"No. Nothing like that. Why?"

"Because, frankly, you've been off your game. I haven't seen you this edgy since Alex Barnes blew into town--" He stops to bunch up his eyebrows and look at me over the tops of his glasses. When I shake my head, his cheeks puff out with relief. "Well, have you been sleeping okay then?"

Sleeping? I wish. I've been pacing the floors like a teenager's mom, waiting for Sandburg to show. I find that I can't really *rest* unless he's actually on the premises somewhere. I've tried light exercise, beating off, warm showers, hot milk, even that nasty sleep tea that Sandburg uses. Nothing helps, and the fact that my desperate jerk-off sessions are now starring a fully clothed Sandburg who watches me come with an air of intellectual curiosity is another fun little detail Simon *won't* be hearing from me.

"I've had a few rough nights, now that you mention it, but I'm fine, really. It's just that *devil* woman out there. I swear to you Simon, every time she opens her mouth it's like a spike being hammered into my forehead." I'm rubbing the numb spot between my eyebrows as I hear her screeching at Brown for coffee and listing the civil liberties I've been abusing since I picked her up at TeluDyne this morning. "Can't you shut her *up*?"

"Is she our embezzler?"

"Yup. She's been skimming off the top at TeluDyne for years. I still can't believe she knocked Conner down two flights of stairs. I mean, she can't be more than four feet tall! How's Conner doing, anyway?"

"A few cracked ribs and some nasty bruises, but nothing too serious."

"Well, you tell her it was a good collar. That paper trail would have had me tearing my hair out."

"What hair?"

Simon seems to be convinced of my overall mental health, and I give him my "what a wiseguy" smile.

"Tell you what, Jim, lunch is on me. What do you say?"

"I say you'd better bring all your cash, sir. I'm *starving*."

And then I get back to the bull pen, where Brown informs me that Olivia Gavidi's lawyer has shown up and escorted her to the interview room, which is, happily, soundproofed. I could still hear her if I dialed up... but why the hell would I want to do that?

* * *

It's only been two weeks, but I couldn't find any references to how long the priests aged it, and even though the beer is still cloudy, it should be nice and alcoholic by now. Besides, tonight's the full moon.

I finished bottling the first batch of beer, and now that I've got the flatbread cooling on the veranda, I'm cleaning.

In fact, I'm cleaning like I've never cleaned before.

Window sills, behind the fridge, on *top* of the fridge, the grates, the vents, the sink, I've done the toilet twice already and I broke down and got some seriously scary chemicals to use on the shower-- not that we have mildew or anything, thanks to the fact that I share an apartment with the living incarnation of Mr. Clean, but I figured I'd make sure.

As soon as I'm done here, it'll be time for another shower and a fresh change of socks. The cotton ones; wool is a no-no according to Binion's _Adoration of Ra_. One sponge bath on the veranda and three showers are gonna have to do for the purification rites, because there's no way I'm shaving off all my body hair, man, that's just not gonna happen, and that part seems to be optional anyway.

I was up on a stepladder to do the ceiling fan, and now I'm standing on the counter to get at the cabinets when Jim comes three hours early, looking like someone pissed in his beer.

Not a good sign.

* * *

My eyes are tearing by the time I get the door open.

The air is acrid and scouring my throat; it's like I swallowed a Brillo pad. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, cough a few times. Jesus Christ, is this Sandburg's idea of chemical warfare? Exactly what I wanted to come home to after a long, shitty day.

While I was interviewing a witness to a recent hotel fire, some smart-ass kid let the air out all four of my truck's tires, so I was stuck waiting for the tow truck. It took the chump an hour to show, and all that waiting gave me a case of indigestion, which did nothing to sweeten my temper. Then the jerk tow truck driver wouldn't take a check, and he ended up driving me to an ATM machine before even *thinking* of giving my Ford a lift on the flatbed. Now I've caught Sandburg in the midst of spring cleaning with something that smells weirdly like formaldehyde and flat cream soda, with an undertone of PineSol.

He's probably having Lindsay over later. Why else would he be cleaning? Usually, he sticks to washing the dishes and wiping down the bathroom every few days, lets me 'keep the dust bunnies at bay'. This is definitely not like him.

It makes me suspicious; more than that, it pisses me off.

"Are you trying to dryclean my *lungs* or something?"

"Uh, no, man. Just sprucing up. I mean, I thought the place could use it--"

"That some kinda crack on my housekeeping abilities, Sandburg?"

He looks confused.

"No. Not at all. I just felt like helping out. Pitching in a little. Sorry about all the chemicals, big guy. I figured the smell would be gone by the time you got home. I wasn't expecting you so early."

"Oh." I feel like a grade 'A' heel, and it must show, because Blair suddenly looks sympathetic. Which makes me bristle again. "Don't forget to wipe the counters," I warn.

"No problem, Jim," he says easily. "Wouldn't want any toe jam on the toast, right?"

It looks like he's done with the cabinets, because he steps onto the straight-backed chair he's nudged up to the counter and then hops down to the shining linoleum; he did a heck of a job, all right. I look around and see a pile of my folded laundry on the dining room table. Hell, he dusted the *lightbulbs*. Now, instead of me catching the occasional whiff of dust toasting in the heat, it'll be the gluey scent of baking Murphy's Oil Soap.

"Look, why don't you take a walk, and I'll open the windows and air this place out. By the time you get back, the smell should be gone, and I'll have finished up here, okay?"

"Okay. You need anything while I'm out? Humboldt's Grocery is probably still having a special on those, uh, Asian pears." Jesus, I'm a step away from groveling, here.

"That would be cool, Jim. Thanks." And he gives me an especially warm smile as I head for the door.

* * *

Okay, I've got the lotus blossoms floating in a punch bowl, Jim's dinner is simmering nicely, and it's still an hour until sunset. Time for that shower.

Even if the beer doesn't work, it'll be nice to spend an evening with the big guy for a change. I've been meaning to ask him if he's getting enough sleep; he looks a little frayed around the edges these days. And I'm not the only one who's noticing.

I got a weird call from Simon this afternoon. Seems he's worried about Jim's behavior lately. I'll have to pull a Spanish Inquisition and get Jim to admit what's bugging him.

I wonder if plying him with alcohol will soften him up at all. I mean, I've never seen him *really* hammered. Not that I'm planning on getting him drunk. But the beer should pack a nice punch, and some spirited libations might loosen that tongue.

***

By the time I get back home, my arms ache from doing chin ups on the jungle gym at the park. I'm tired, if I'm not exactly relaxed, and I find Sandburg using the stew pot again.

This time I recognize the smell.

"Paella?"

"Yup."

I close my eyes and drift a little in the humid breeze of simmering saffron rice and seafood. Let's see, pork, shrimp, mussels... Jeez. This spread must have set the kid back a fortune.

I lean against the counter and prop one eye open to check him out for signs of stress. He doesn't *look* upset, and his heart rate is bouncing along at its usual speed. His hair's wet, making the shoulders of his gray T-shirt dark with run-off.

"You having Lindsay over later?" He smells like he might be using some new kind of aftershave or maybe a hair tonic, but he's only wearing sweats, so a date seems unlikely.

"Nope."

I cock my head a minute, running down the new fragrance. Not peanut oil: flatter, sweeter than that...

"Why do you smell like... almonds?"

He just smiles into the stew pot and shrugs a little. The less he says, the more I worry.

"You coming down with something?"

"Uh uh." He stirs the jumble in the pot, and I test his forehead with the back of my hand.

"You sure?"

He smiles and nudges my hand away.

"I'm *fine*," he asserts, and then I can tell he's *excited*, so chock full of anticipation his voice is just about vibrating with it.

"Well, usually you talk a lot more when you're 'fine'," I explain. "Did you win the lottery or what?"

His big blue eyes widen.

"No. Why?"

"You seem pretty jazzed about *something*."

That earns me a full-fledged grin.

"Tonight's the night, man," he yammers. "I made some flat bread and got some dates and stuff, but authentic ancient Egyptian cuisine isn't necessarily that tasty, and I haven't made paella in a while, and I know you dig it, and since this is a special occasion--" He's digging through the utility drawer when the full realization of what he's just said hits me.

"Special occasion?" My heart is suddenly hammering; God, did he ask her to marry him? Is he moving in with her? Is he trying to break it to me gently, padding the blow with clean socks and tasty Cuban food? "This is about Lindsay, isn't it?"

He gives me this look like I just sprouted an extra leg.

"What are you talking about, man?" He holds up his left hand and I notice he's holding a sweating, unlabeled beer bottle. "It's *Beer* Night. I bottled it this morning," he explains, popping the crimped cap off with the churchkey he's been scrounging for. "And now, my brother, it's Miller Time. Grab a plate. I'll meet you in the living room."

And he pads off, the beer still untasted.

I realize something.

"So *that's* why you were cleaning the loft."

He blinks, surprised that I caught on, and he nods.

"Yeah. I got this place as squeaky clean as I could. I didn't want this to work and then spend the whole experience wigging out about dust mites and mold spores."

"I'm a Sentinel, Chief, not a *microscope*."

He grins at me.

"Well, I don't know how long it will last or if it will affect just my sight or what. I want a mellow exploratory experience, not a sensory slap in the face, right?"

By the time I've dished up some dinner, he's settled cross-legged on the rug by the coffee table with his back to the couch. He lights candles and waves a stick of incense until the tip glows cherry red and it's giving off a long white ribbon of fragrant smoke.

The table is crowded with bowls. Pears and dates, a basket stacked with sweet smelling flat bread and a little dish filled with tiny translucent red berries. They look more like those little polished garnets you can buy at the Mineral Shop at the mall than food. There's also a punchbowl with a bunch of white, waxy flowers with big spoon-shaped petals floating in it. Right next to that, in the exact center of the table, is a little blue statue of a guy in a bird mask.

The food, the flowers, the beer, Blair-- it's a lot of sensory input, and I think I maybe zone a little, standing there with my dinner plate hot on my hand.

"Get the lights, " Sandburg orders, and I blink, shaking it off. I hit the switch with my elbow before I set my plate down and arrange myself on the couch next to him.

"What's the deal," I say, pointing to the candles and the smoke with my chin before filling my face with a savory mouthful of Sandburg's damned fine paella.

"Frankincense. The Egyptians used it to make kohl." At my lifted eyebrows, he explains. "Atmosphere, Jim," he informs me as he samples some bread and nods, impressed with his own cooking.

"No paella for you?" I say, noticing he's sticking to the bread.

"I can't have any. According to Aboudi's _Guide Book to the Antiquities of Upper Egypt_, that's a food associated with peasant life." I fix him with a mock glare and he grins at me, but continues with his explanation. "I can't eat fish or wear wool, and luckily, I've already been circumcised." He shakes his head when I give him a skeptical glance. He swallows another mouthful of bread and then continues.

"The Priests of Ra weren't fooling around. They took their job *seriously*." He gestures emphatically, the bread flapping in his hand. "Of course, I'm not actually sure what they *did*, really. I managed to find the recipe for the beer, and a few notes on how to prepare the sacred yeast, some tips here and there on the more well known priestly rites, but... well, their rituals were known only to the priests themselves, and they kept a pretty tight lid on the actual do and say, you know?"

"So you don't know what you're doing?"

He swaps the bread for some fruit and gives me a rueful grin by way of answer.

"At least you got beer out of this," I remind him, which makes him nod behind his mouthful of pear.

I'm well into my second plate of rice and seafood when Sandburg takes his first sip.

"So? How is it?"

"It's a little sweet," he admits. "Actually, it's a *lot* sweet. But not too bad. If it doesn't work by, " and he seems to do some mental calculations, "8:45, say, you can try some if you want. I mean, if it *does* give me," and he twitches the air with his fingers to make quote marks, "'Heightened Senses', then it might give *you* X-Ray vision or something, and then no woman would be safe."

I don't say anything to that; I'm too busy trying *not* to imagine my partner, my *guy* partner, naked.

For a while he just sips his beer and I shove rice around on my plate. When he finishes the bottle, he clears the dishes and I help him scoop the paella into various Tupperware containers.

He grabs a second beer and we hit the couch for some serious T.V. time. We catch the last half an hour of Heat, and we argue for a while about whether DeNiro or Pacino is the better actor, Sandburg backing DeNiro, me fighting for Pacino.

"Pacino's over the top about everything, man. In Scent of a Woman he kept yelling like a moose with sinus trouble. Now Taxi Driver, *there's* a movie, existential angst, the alienation of the blue collar workforce, the brazilification of the U.S. as shown by the widening rift between--"

"He's an ugly bastard. That's what made him so credible in Serpico," I point out.

He's flushed, and sweating a little. He smells like the beer he's just finishing his third bottle of.

"So, you feel anything?"

He takes a deep, shuddery breath, considering. His look of concentration is slightly exaggerated, so I guess he's a little drunk.

"Yes. No. Maybe." He sighs, takes the final swallow of his beer. "No. I do have quite a buzz on, though." He studies the empty bottle, as if searching for the ingredients. "Well, it was a noble experiment, anyway. You want some?"

"Sure."

And it's surprisingly smooth. Full bodied, almost syrupy to my Sentinel senses, but with a nice round honey aftertaste.

"I like it," I say, surprised. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was and I kill the first bottle in about three swallows. Sandburg uncaps a second one for me.

By the time I'm through beer number two, he's already handing me a third one, and then I ask him about Lindsay.

"So, you two getting serious?"

He glances down and shakes his head.

"We broke up, actually. Her dad is getting transferred to a federal prison in Oregon. She has an aunt who lives in Salem. Lindsay's moving in with her and going back to school. I've been helping her pack."

* * *

I try to keep my sigh to myself while I reach for the spoon and the honey jar. The bread is still warm under the towel I covered it with. Jim snags a piece, too, and makes his "hey, not bad" face.

We're quiet for a while, and I know Jim is trying to think of something tactful and big-brotherly to say about the latest crash and burn in my personal life.

Blondes with kids. I know it earned me a few weird looks from Jim, who seems to figure me for the original party guy, some sort of Anti-Family man.

Which I'm not.

In fact, I've always kind of liked the idea of settling down with a woman and her kid. Sort of an instant family. I'd get to skip the whole awkward pregnancy bit and get to look like the good guy, taking up the slack for the bastard who mistreated them, or blew them off.

And does it have anything to do with the fact I never knew my own father, that I could never get Naomi to spill the beans on my paternity one way or the other?

Well, who's to say?

The fact that both Katie and Lindsay also happen to be exceptionally easy on the eyes for single mothers has as much to do with it as anything. Let's face it, altruism isn't my sole motivation.

A feeling of security, a place-- a family-- to call my own. That's kind of what I was counting on one day. I figured I'd finally be liquid enough to take care of the financial responsibilities of the wife and kid thing if I ever got my act together enough to earn tenure.

I don't think much about that anymore.

Mostly because it's hard to earn tenure without a doctorate.

I don't know how my committee is going to take it when I withdraw my dissertation. I've actually been working on pulling the old switcheroo, showing them the dummy diss I've been cribbing off and on since I realized that I could never really publish the one that's become the cornerstone of my whole life.

There is no way I could hand them the stuff I've compiled about Jim without it raising a few eyebrows, and even if I changed the names... Well, they could certainly put two and two together. I've missed one class too many due to gunshots and worse for them to think that my subject was anyone but Jim Ellison. And heck, academics are notorious gossips-- there's no such thing as a secret on a University campus. If I handed in my thesis, I might as well get Jim a T-shirt with a bull's eye on it.

His life would never be his own again, and how could I do that to him? Shove him in that spotlight, leave him open to all kinds of scary shit-- I mean, just think of all the spooks who'd want to get their hands on him, poke him and prod him and maybe even cut him up-- no *way* am I gonna let that happen.

Which leaves me... pretty much nowhere. Living in the moment, that's for sure.

I don't look forward to the future as much as I used to, because all I can see is the inevitable breakup of my partnership with Jim.

And who'd look forward to that?

* * *

So, Sandburg broke up with Lindsay Conkle. Pretty. Blonde. Bright. Tough, too, raising a tyke on her own like that. He reports the details of their breakup and I try to look sympathetic.

I wonder sometimes about Sandburg's taste in women.

Lindsay's not the first single mom he's taken a shine to. He dated Katie Johnson for six weeks, before they both decided it would be better if she went back into the witness protection program. They'd agreed that she and her daughter would never really be safe as long as her ex-husband kept breathing.

I'll admit that the ones with kids make me more nervous than the average garden variety cutie-pie.

They mean that he's looking for more than a fling, and that means that he's eventually gonna find someone with the brains to hang on to him.

And that's just not a day I'm looking forward to.

Hell, I don't even like to think about how we're gonna talk Simon into talking the brass into keeping Sandburg around once he's gotten his Ph.D.

Of course, that assumes the kid will *want* to keep tagging around after me. I mean, he'll have more to do on campus, because of course they'll hire him on as faculty, and then he'll be able to afford his own place no sweat, and then it'll be dinner alone every night, and no one to listen to...

I must be daydreaming a little, because Sandburg digs me in the ribs.

"Watch where you stick those things, Chief."

"I will if you at least *pretend* to pay attention to me. Really, listen up, here." He has that pensive little frown he gets when he's remembered something that bugs him.

"Yeah?"

"You never checked on Tyler, did you? I mean, after that whole knock out gas thing?"

Busted.

I had hoped he was too groggy to remember that. But of course, *I'm* the one who forgot. I checked the guy on the floor only because I practically tripped over him-- Sandburg had been my main focus since I sniffed the sleeping gas.

Did I check the baby first? I should have. God knows a dose of gas that could KO an adult could easily be fatal for an infant.

But Blair, who was just a little bit dead on me not so long ago, wasn't moving, and with the smell of the gas and the guy playing speed bump and the dry mouth panic that hit me, I couldn't tell if his heart was still beating.

So I dropped the ball in a big way, and unless I miss my guess, Blair's gonna want to know why.

* * *

Jim flinches a little, and I realize that he looks... guilty.

"You gonna tell me what happened there, big guy? Was it the gas?" Maybe it had affected him without his even knowing it, made him slip up a little.

"No, it wasn't the gas," Jim reports, and his shoulders hunch up.

"Then why--"

He takes the time to crank up a really good glare.

"Because I was worried about *you*. So worried that I forgot about the kid. It was stupid. I screwed up."

He looks like he's gonna break out the scourges and flay himself alive once this conversation's over, and that's not really how I'd like to see him spend an evening.

"Hey, it's understandable. And I'm sure you would have gotten to it if Lindsay hadn't gotten in first--"

"We're lucky she's not suing us. Her son got kidnapped *twice* under police protection--"

"Jeez, Jim, don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, it was *my* watch, and the only thing I saw was the inside of my own eyelids. If anyone was to blame there, it was me. I should have been more on my toes--"

As I'd planned, he ditches his self-flagellation to take a turn at shoring me up.

"What, you're supposed to be psychic now? You did the best anyone could have in the same situation--"

"You would have smelled the gas," I point out. He nods, fidgeting with beer bottle number three.

"Well, the kid's safe, his mom and her dad are reconciled, and we've got one less scumbag to worry about. What do you say we call it even, huh, Chief?"

"Deal, man."

"Hey, Sandburg... can I ask *you* something?"

"Sure."

"You said once that when you date a woman with a kid, you're not number one anymore. That you're second, that you're okay with that. What I want to know is: why? I mean, wouldn't you want your girlfriend's full attention?"

"Well, yeah. But you know, Naomi and me-- I know how hard it was for her, and I respect that. I'd be completely willing to support a mother's focus on her kid. When you don't have a two-parent household, it's like you need more from the parent you do have, and a woman only has so much time and energy, right? And it wouldn't be fair to horn in on the time that the kid has always traditionally had with his or her mom, right? I mean, that's just a recipe for family
dysfunction: the kid will hate your guts, the mom will be divided, and the family unit will be trashed, big time."

"Huh. I never thought about it that way," he says, and he sounds a little... disappointed, like that wasn't the answer he'd expected to hear.

"Yeah, well, I never thought about it that way, either. Until about two minutes ago, when you asked me."

He shoots me a peevish look and I grin at him.

"There's another, more practical reason for my generosity of spirit, man. If I'm not her main focus, she doesn't have to be mine."

He blinks at me.

I sigh.

"Look, Jim, *this* partnership is always going to be my first priority. I mean, if I'm not with you 110 percent, something could go wrong, and you could get hurt. Physically damaged, I mean. If I miss a few dinners or whatever, all I have to do is make it up to her next time. It's a little harder to make up for a sucking chest wound if you zone on something and I'm not there to bring you back."

I stare at my hands. "And it's not like this is a one way street, right? I mean... 'Chief'."

He's *staring* at me, and I can feel my ears getting red, but I keep going.

"You call me Chief. And maybe you mean it more than you know. I mean, the definition of Chief pretty much states how much I... How important it is for me to stay with you."

He's already waving any hidden importance away.

"It's just a nickname, Ch-- Sandburg."

"'Accorded highest rank or office, of greatest importance or influence, leader, the principal or most valuable part'," I recite.

Jim looks shocked. He runs a hand through his cropped hair and then leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, bowing his head in this totally "aw, shucks, ma'am" kind of gesture that just *kills* me. He throws a glance my way.

"Well..."

"So, if I'm the most important thing in your life, it's only fair that you should be the most important thing in mine, right?"

"Right," and his voice is suspiciously husky, but his eyes are clear, laser blue.

"Okay then." And I let my breath out in a relieved whoosh.

He treats me to one of his rare JimSmiles, the wide, sweet one he gives the people he loves when he's especially proud of them, and cuffs my temple with the back of his hand before popping a few pomegranate seeds in his mouth.

* * *

I worry that I'll say something sentimental if I try to tell him how much he means to me, so I just keep an eye on him between handfuls of what Sandburg informed me were pomegranate seeds.

He's quiet for a while, probably brooding about Lindsay. When he tips his chin up to take a swallow of his beer, his hair piles up on the couch cushion.

The last time we sat like this, me on the couch, him on the floor, a friend of his had died. It reminds me how sympathetic I *wasn't*, and also how badly I had wanted to stroke his hair. I shift my arm a little, Joe Casual, stretching my fingers so I can touch the springy strands. They remind me of the way really fine-grained softwoods will be silky when you shave them into curls. I can sense his heat against my leg: I figure he's around the same temperature as the oatmeal I had for breakfast, and as he'd probably like to know that, I tell him.

He gives me an odd look, like he doesn't know whether to grin or kick me in the shins, but before he says anything, I sidetrack him with a question about the beer.

"It's pretty good stuff," I say, holding up the bottle. "Any idea why it didn't work?"

Sandburg sighs and settles back against the couch, his own bottle of beer hanging precariously from his fingertips. It takes a lot for me not to lean forward and snatch it out of his hand before he drops it.

"I dunno. Maybe I screwed up the incantation. Could be the sun wasn't quite down when I started drinking it. Can't drink this during the day; the Priests never dared to rival ol' Amen-Ra's Eye, so they were careful to limit their tippling to the time after sunset and before moonrise."

I nod like I understand him, and he rambles some more. His head is bobbing a little, like it's getting too heavy for his neck. Three beers in half an hour; they must be hitting him pretty hard.

"Probably the priests themselves were so devout and so open to the experience that they managed to achieve a heightened state through a kind of religious ecstasy--"

"Ecstasy?"

Blair nods, chewing on a piece of honeycomb that was in the jar next to the bread.

I can see the pulse beat in the hollow of his throat; it's making the string necklace he's wearing bounce a little.

He's licking his lips and I can't help thinking that they must be sticky from the honey. His cheeks are rosy from the beer, and I can smell it in his sweat. I wonder if his sweat is... I could probably taste it on the leather thong around his neck, taste it glazing the three turquoise beads hanging on it--

* * *

It looks like the only sense this stuff is gonna enhance is my sense of humor.

It's already effortlessly boosted my blood alcohol level. Oh, yeah, and my testosterone. Let's not forget *that*.

Spanish Fly has nothing on sacred yeast, apparently. Blair Sandburg, bottler of the world's first truly aphrodisiac beer.

This stuff must be *some* kind of stimulant. Hell, Jim's huffing like a freight train on the couch, and for some reason I'm finding it sexy as hell, and *that's* good for a chuckle or two.

I can't laugh *too* hard, because Jim's hot, heavy hand is anchoring my hair to the couch cushion, but you have to admit, it's pretty funny.

Me and Jim. Right.

Oh, *man*.

Me and *Jim*. *Right!*

I felt guilty for leaving him alone all those nights-- because it felt like I was *cheating* on him. Everything is beginning to make a surprising amount of sense, considering the amount of alcohol involved. Before I can even think of mentioning this to Jim, his eyes go wide and he knots a hand in my shirt.

* * *

Christ, when did it get so hot in here? The air is so thick and humid, it's like soup in my lungs. I tug at the collar of my shirt and try not to panic.

Could this be some kind of Golden flashback? Blair's mouth is moving, but his voice is cutting in and out. A hazy kind of glow is shining out of him, but he's rippling and bulging like someone's trying to make a balloon animal out of his face.

What the hell is going *on* with me?

* * *

"Chief."

Jim sounds hoarse, worried.

"Jim? You okay? Man, you're not allergic to bee pollen, are you?"

"Hell, I don't know, but--" He lurches to his feet and staggers a few steps. I scramble to my feet to stand next to him, shore him up. His hands clutch at my shoulders.

"Jesus-- my senses-- I'm all over the place, Sandburg. What the hell is *in* that stuff!?"

"Nothing. Nothing weird. Same stuff you'd find in beer or wine, maybe a little stronger than-- Oh, man."

"What, what? 'Oh man' what?!"

"It's just that, well, beer is normally about 12 or 15 percent alcohol by volume... Jim, I used about 18 pounds of raw honey, man. The more sugar you use, the higher the buzz content. That's *plenty* alcoholic." I try to smile. "I mean, it could be as much as 40 percent--"

"That's 80 proof! Christ, is that why my senses are screwy?"

"Well, I think so. I mean, think about it: you don't drink much at all, and here you've just downed a big gulp of high octane hooch. Every time you've been exposed to a high percentage of alcohol, you've had problems. The night you thought you'd been poisoned at the restaurant with Carolyn? You told me you'd been hitting the Scotch. And the time on the train, NyQuil has some really serious alcohol content, along with all the decongestants--"

"The walls are throbbing, here, Sandburg! Help me out, okay?"

"Sure, Jim. Is it just your eyes? Or everything?"

"It's... mostly my eyes, and my sense of touch is just off the chart-- sound is fading in and out--" His fingers dig into my shoulders and he sounds a little panicky.

I lean over and blow the candles out.

"Is that any better?" Of course, as far as I'm concerned, the loft is pitch black, but Jim's breathing is already smoothing out.

"Yeah. Better." He murmurs, and I realize he's buried his face in my hair, breathing on my neck, and his hands aren't bruising me anymore, but he sure isn't showing any signs of letting go any time soon.

In fact... he's-- he's--

"What-- what are you doing, Jim?"

He doesn't answer me, just keeps tugging on my necklace with his teeth... he's--- he's *chewing* it... and-- Christ, his tongue scrapes against my throat. It's like he's trying to lick the beads--

Oh this is *not* good, it's *too* good, I go hard in about twenty seconds and hope Jim is too blitzed to notice.

"Tastes like you. Blair. Honey."

Oh man, did he just call me *honey*!?

Jim's kneading my shoulders now, and he bumps his nose against my mouth a few times like he's scenting my breath. This is a pretty compromising position, here, and I'm not sure Jim even realizes that he's rubbing against my-- holy shit oh shit Jim's hard, I can feel him against my thigh and what if he's zoned on sensation now and this isn't what I'd planned for the evening, and if this is only the beer talking, how am I supposed to look him in the eye in the morning?

And then Jim seems to come back to himself and lets me loose.

"Oh God, Blair, I'm sorry--"

"Hey, don't worry about it. Nothing to be sorry about. Let's just get you settled down, all right?"

I just hope he can't hear my heart pounding like a set of bongo drums.

* * *

The kid's heaving like starlet on a pirate ship, and his heart is doing the hippety-hop.

I must have spooked him pretty bad-- but then I smell it, it's like... it's like a fire that's been rained on. Subtle, but you can scent the smoke.

Blair's *hot*.

I realize I'm still practically in his pocket, thigh to thigh with him, and he's gone still.

And then something weird happens-- well, weirder than my already whacked senses.

I can't really explain it-- it's a little like I get hit with a shrink ray.

I feel myself getting distant, and there's nothing left but the red-hot crown of my leaking dick nudging Sandburg's solid thigh.

Sandburg himself, Jesus, he looks like a linebacker for the 49ers all of a sudden. Just the whorls of his fingerprints feel like wide wale corduroy, the hairs on his arms are like baling wire--

He's smoothing his hands up and down my arms, speaking in his softest, lowest voice, and it's only making it worse. I'm about ten seconds away from tugging him to the floorboards and dry-humping him. I try to shrug him off, but he clings like a limpet.

I can see the light from the street tangle in his hair, and every time he exhales I feel like I might pass out, the moist rush against my skin is just tripping all my triggers, and I can't help it, I can't, and I jerk my hips against his again and nearly come in my pants.

"Wait-- wait-- Blair, I need to cool down and I can't-- let *go* of me, dammit--"

"You're wide open, Jim," he says, "Dial it down. Back it off... yeah, that's right... easy... there you go..." and he's whispering in my ear, his lips grazing my skin now and again, but his voice doesn't sound like the hollow rush of a tap anymore, it's his own, familiar voice, and his regular, warm breath.

"That was... weird," I try to explain, but he waits for me to tell him what happened, so I do, skipping the part about how I felt like I was gonna shoot in my jeans.

"Whoa. Sounds pretty intense."

"That's one word for it," I reply, still a little shaken up. Hell, still shaking.

"Jim, what is *up* with you?"

"I don't know." I'm not sharp enough to come up with a better answer at the moment.

"It's not just the beer, is it? You've been tweaked for weeks now. You wanna talk about it?"

I don't have a whole hell of a lot to say, so I let my body do my talking for me.

* * *

One of Jim's hands curls around my neck, his thumb brushing my throat.

"Blair," he says, the way he said it when he wants me to pass him the popcorn, or surrender the remote.

"Yeah?" And I'm amazed that I can speak at all, but I surprise myself with sounding as normal as he does.

And then he leans forward and... it's like he's trying to drink my breath. Or taste my voice. That sounds weird as hell, but-- it isn't. His lips brush mine, but I really think it's incidental, because when he *does* lay one on me, about three seconds later, he *means* it.

It's the sweetest kiss I've had since the eighth grade.

Jim's mouth is gentle, almost hesitant, and then I cup his jaw and take the wheel for a while.

Careful, breathe through your nose, remember that there *is* such a thing as too much tongue...

Finally, he pulls away enough to lean his forehead against mine.

"I don't want you to get married," he says.

I can't help it, I burst out laughing.

"Jim."

"I miss you when you're not here, okay?" he admits, and he sounds pissed off and shy at the same time, and it breaks my heart a little.

"Look, I don't--"

"I mean, I want you to *stay*. Stay with me."

"I know." But I don't know how the hell I'm gonna talk us out of this, how I can explain that I don't want the first time to be some horny alcoholic gropefest.

"It's not the beer," he whispers, as if I did explain it, and he hauls me close to him.

I can barely make him out in the dark. This time, he's a little wild when he kisses me, and I can feel his erection dig into my belly.

"Oh, man, I'm gonna *lose* it if you don't stop kissing me like that--"

"That's kinda the idea, Sandburg," he growls, and then he grinds against me and lets out a choking little gasp. He's got his tongue in my ear, and I'm halfway between giggling like a cheerleader and blowing my wad like a kid. I split the difference, bite my lip and moan.

"Down," he orders, and he so sounds urgent I half expect a bullet to whistle past my ear. "Down!" he repeats, and he must be kneeling now, because his hands are on my hips and I can feel his heat in front of me, he's a brick oven, practically. He's tugging on my hips, his fingers are curling in my belt loops, and I lose the lock in my knees and he says *oof!* as I fold into his lap.

Luckily my hair cushions my skull when Jim presses me back against the floorboards and drags me up across his splayed thighs, wrapping my legs around his waist. My head feels heavy and precarious when I lift it up to try to see what he's doing.

He jerks my sweats down and wraps a hand around me, no hesitation, like he's done this a thousand times before, like he knows exactly what he wants.

And it's pretty clear, isn't it?

He wants *me*.

* * *

Oh God, he tastes... He tastes like everything. He tastes exactly like he should. When I closed my eyes it used to be dark and quiet, but now there are big loud swirls of light, colors are splashing all over the place and I can't breathe, and jesus I wish I didn't have to--

Blair is groaning and bucking in my hands, but before I black out, he's got his hands clapped over my ears, he's tugging my head up, saying, "Jim, take it easy, it's okay, you don't have to do it all at once, shh, hey, it's all good, it's all right, come up here, kiss me, okay?"

So I climb up and taste his mouth again, my hips and my sticky jeans chafing against his naked, tender skin.

I lick his teeth, behind the wet pocket of his lower lip. I know I'm shaking, but he's hot, I'm hot, and panting, and he sucks on my tongue. He's frying my nerves. I'm gonna be numb, maybe dead by the time he's done with me.

I'm okay with that.

"Blair, god, god oh god, Blair," and I can't make any sense, and I can hardly stand to breathe when I could be tasting him instead. I don't even mind the curse of his earwax. *That* doesn't happen everyday.

He's still juicy from the pear. His chin is sticky with honey. He smells like the bread he's been eating. And sweat, and faintly of almonds, and finally, I'm finally doing this.

* * *

After a while, Jim kind of chugs to a halt, and rears back. He's backlit by the streetlights; I can't really see his face, but he's outlined in sodium orange.

"I was starting to really dislike her, Chief," he says suddenly. He's got his hands running up and down my stomach, underneath my shirt, and he sounds like he's talking to himself. "I kept thinking about how you were probably touching her, and how she was getting to know what you tasted like. I'm sorry about that."

He's shoving my shirt up now so he can get a look at me, and I wish like hell *I* had Sentinel vision, that the stupid beer had actually *worked*, because I'd really like to see his face while he looks at me.

His hands slip down to squeeze my thighs, and then curl around the caps of my knees.

"God, you look good like this," he says softly. "You look good. I like the way your hair is all spread out, and the color in your cheeks, your mouth, Chief, god, it's so red..."

And he leans over to kiss me again, and I tug at his shirt and wiggle a little.

"Jim," and he lets go, rests his weight on his hands, face all anxious, from what I can make out.

"Nobody told you to *stop*," I say, and I heave against him, reaching for my throbbing, leaking dick and he pushes my hands away.

"That baby's *mine*, Sandburg," and he closes that massive hand of his around my shaft and *stokes* me.

I have no idea how I *kept* from coming in his mouth; I don't even bother to try to hang on to it now that I'm fucking his slick, squeezing fist.

"Jimjimjimjimjimjimjimjim *JIM*!"

* * *

I feel him spurt, the warm, wet spatter against my skin through my shirt, and I pant into his hair while his groping hand tugs at my zipper. Reaching in, he makes a ring with his thumb and forefinger around the head of my cock, and squeezes gently.

"Feel that?" he whispers, and I nod against his hair. I rest my weight on my side, sort of propped up on him, careful not to squash him, and he pets my cheek with his right hand while his left is... is...

"Like that?" And all I can do is nod again, before I snap my hips and pulse in his hand.

He leans up to wipe his hand on the sleeve of my shirt, and then he cups my face and kisses me.

"That means we can do it again soon, right?"

"Hell, yeah," I croak.

* * *

I laugh again, and Jim folds me against him. His lips pressed are against the skin under my ear, and his breath tickles. Snug around my middle is his rock hard arm. The floor doesn't seem anywhere near as hard as it should be, but that's probably because my bones are basically silly putty at the moment.

"Hey, Jim? You love me, don't you?"

"What, you think I'm some kinda flim-flam man?" Boy, does he sounds *irritated*. Which only makes me laugh again. "Of course I do, you chuckle head. You know that. Hell, I've *told* you that."

"Well, yeah, but the circumstances were pretty different at the time." Simon was there, for one. If ever there was a manly declaration of platonic love, Jim did the manly declaring.

"I still meant it," he says simply, and he strokes my hair.

"Even then? Like you mean it *now*?" My eyes are popping; in a minute they'll be rolling around the floor like marbles.

"Well, yes and no. I've always *loved* you, Sandburg," and he yanks on my hair like you would pull a girl's pigtail. "The sex part is only since you... uh... since you started seeing Lindsay," he admits, and his voice is so small I can hardly hear the last word. "I feel like a real shit about that."

"Well, it explains a lot."

"Like what?" And he sounds a little testy already. Man, I've got to teach him not to mess with the afterglow.

"Well, all the cold showers I've been taking lately, for one."

"Oh. Yeah. I'm sorry about that, too."

I roll over to face him.

"Jeez, man. Enough with the repentance already, Jim. You're like an apologizing *fool*. We are *definitely* not letting *you* get tanked again any time soon, that's for sure."

I can tell he's smiling when he answers me.

"What about you, Chief?"

"Hey, *somebody* has to finish all that beer."

* * *

I could probably drift off to sleep with an armful of Blair Sandburg, but my back would hate me for it in the morning. I lick my lips, and realize I could use a glass of water.

"Hey, Blair?"

"Did you call me 'honey' before?" he demands suddenly.

"What?"

He pokes me in the sternum to emphasize every word.

"Did. You. Call. Me. Honey?"

"I'd never call you 'honey', sweetheart."

He chuckles at that and kisses my chin.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Not to break the mood or anything, but would it offend you if I wanted to get up now?"

"Jesus, I thought you'd never ask. I'm getting a cramp. What do you say to taking this party upstairs?"

His eyes actually *twinkle* when he's being a smart ass.

"Hey, *my* bed's right inside. Is this some kind of a size thing?"

"You're an arrogant little prick, you know that?" I say fondly.

"So it *is* a size thing," he grins. "And I'm pretty big, as far as arrogant pricks go," he informs me.

I blow a raspberry against his neck and he squirms around, giggling. No doubt about it, Sandburg's a lot of fun when he's had a few.

"Look, Chief, I need some water and then some sleep. I just don't want to wake up with your elbow in my ear, that's all."

"You wanna sleep with me, is that it?"

I close my teeth on his earlobe, chew a little.

"C'mon man," he wheedles. "Wouldn't you rather take a shower with me instead?"

And, well, yeah, I would.

He gets to his feet and offers me a hand. Sandburg's curls are all rucked up, his lips are still red, and his cheeks are all pink from beard burn. And I'm going to get to see him naked. The Full Monty.

"You can have all the water you want, Jim."

I'm one lucky bastard, and I know it.

I stand up and let him tow me toward the bathroom, the two of us grinning every step of the way.

END

Alert Reader Kit Mason has this important note:

"I love the story. There's just one little tiny technical difficulty: you can't have beer with that high a proof.

Alcohol kills yeast. By the time it's about 20 percent alcohol, the yeast has gone bye-bye. You'd probably only get up to 20 percent by using really premium special yeast. So unless you've got something else in the beer, some kind of spice or herb that throws Jim off, it won't work."

The moral of the story?

Don't try this at home!

Let's leave the Magic Beer to the fictional professionals, shall we?