Eyes on the knife in her hands as she carefully, methodically chopped through a mound of fresh organic tomatoes, Naomi Sandburg paid far more attention to her son's increasingly agitated pacing than to the ingredients of the homemade salsa she was making. She doubted she would get to finish her self-appointed task, and didn't really regret it, much as she enjoyed the oddly meditative state that came from the act of creation that cooking was for her. Soon, she knew from experience, Blair's distress would crank up to a breaking point, and he would spin into a whirl of frenetic, almost random activity that would take him out of Jim's loft, likely out of Cascade, probably out of Washington and maybe even out of the country.
Usually he preferred to move on by himself, but this time she was going to trail along, regardless of his protests, at least long enough to nudge him onto a path that led to the retreat where she'd already made reservations. Naomi didn't really understand what drove him, not that it mattered. That didn't stop her from knowing what he needed: peace, quiet, serenity, calm and time to soak it in to a soul-deep level so that he could heal from the emotional and psychic battering he'd taken over the past week or so.
That done, she was positive he would process the entire experience away, call Jim and tell him regretfully but firmly that he could never be a death dealing member of a semi-fascist organization. Oh, she was delighted, truly delighted that her jewel of a child had had so much meaningful, righteous impact on the pigs that they would accept him as a guide to a more spiritual lifestyle. In fact, if Blair had chosen to take them up on their offer of a job, it would have been to work from within to right the wrongs of the establishment, and she had no doubt that he was strong enough to hold tight to his convictions while successfully undermining a corrupt bureaucracy.
There were other, much better choices he could make, though, and he would see that once he'd put away his 'good cop working for truth and justice' fantasies. She studied him from under her lashes, recognizing the signs. Not much longer now; he was muttering under his breath, hands punctuating his words. Placidly she went back to dicing ingredients, idly reminding herself to jot down the instructions for Jim on how to finish it so the food wouldn't go to waste.
To her surprise, she finished with the tomatoes and started on the onions, and Blair hadn't progressed any further toward leaving. If anything, he was winding down, losing both energy and impetus as he retreated inward. It was such an unexpected development that Naomi put down her knife and gave up all pretense of not watching him. It only took a moment for her to realize that Jim was the cause behind Blair's loss of momentum. He gradually, patiently soaked up a portion of it every time Blair paced by his post at the French doors, using a murmured one or two word comment, catching Blair's gaze, or occasionally, carefully touching him on the back or arm.
Fully expecting her son to realize what Jim was doing and brush him off, Naomi had to brace both hands on the kitchen work block when Blair drifted to a stop at Jim's side, sighing as he stared out at the coming night with him. Silently they stood side-by-side, shoulders nearly, but not quite touching, and Naomi had the insane, uncomfortable notion that if she joined them, they would turn as one to her to stare blankly, as if at a stranger. She shook off the ridiculous idea - but picked up her knife and went back to making salsa.
Just as she couldn't bear the distancing, daunting silence a moment longer, Jim stirred, a suggestion of pain in the movement, and Blair's arm went around his waist to support him. Draping an arm over his shoulders, Jim said something quietly that brought a tiny smile to Blair's lips. Deftly they shifted until they were facing each other, still in a loose embrace. Try as she might, Naomi couldn't make out individual words, but the tone and intensity of the conversation told her plainly they were discussing important matters.
It annoyed her to be shut out, though she grudgingly admitted that Blair's innate kindness would put Jim's need for privacy above good manners. He'd tell her everything later, anyway. He always did. In the meantime, since Blair had uncharacteristically decided to break away gently, she should emulate his consideration and think of ways to ease their departure. Maybe she should prepare a few do-ahead meals. Jim was, after all, still recuperating from an injury.
Pleased with herself, she considered her piles, mentally measuring them in terms of vegetarian chili and spaghetti sauce. There was enough, if she relegated green peppers to one dish and jalapenos to another, could find dried beans in the cupboard. Yes, there they were, and she checked the spices as well, taking the freshness and variety for granted because, of course, Blair would have influenced the choices there. Taking down what she wanted, she turned back to the kitchen block, only to freeze mid-step.
Jim hobbled toward the bathroom while Blair darted into his room, coming out with an armload of candles that he set up on the far edges of the coffee table and the floor in front of it, leaving a space for himself. That done, he raced up to Jim's room, back down again with a book in hand, then into the kitchen where he spared a fast smile and hug for her before pouring a tall glass of iced tea and running back to the couch. By that time Jim had begun lighting candles, and Blair left him to it while he put on a CD, closed the curtains, and turned off all the lights save the ones Naomi needed for cooking.
"Blair, sweetie," Naomi called out uncertainly.
Tossing a blinding smile her way, Blair said, "Thought I'd meditate a while, if that's okay with you. I can see you're in the middle of a productive surge, and while I'm looking forward to sharing your efforts, centering myself ahead of time can only help me appreciate the results better."
Bemused, Naomi couldn't stop herself from asking, "Here? Now?"
"Sure, why not?" Blair helped Jim stretch out on the couch, putting the book and tea close to hand, then fussed a minute to make sure Jim's injured leg was propped up comfortably. With mock irritation, Jim swatted him away, and Blair sat cross-legged in the middle of his circle.
"I don't see how you'll manage with all the distractions, inside and out, right now." With an effort, Naomi went back to cooking, working more or less on automatic pilot. Summoning a light laugh, she added, "Generally you need a solid hour of calm and quiet before you can settle down enough to just sit still."
Eyelids drifting down, Blair rolled his shoulders and balanced the backs of his hands on his knees. "Jim's got quiet down to a science, and believe it or not, listening to you putter in the kitchen is very calming. I'm used to the noises in the loft, and the music will drown out the ones outside."
Naomi wanted to debate the point, perhaps prepare him for the lack of success he'd be facing shortly, but he cued up a CD filled with rolling drums and flying pipes, effectively silencing her. With a tiny shake of her head - she'd comfort him when he gave up - she oiled her hands for protection and started on the habaneras. Since he claimed she couldn't disturb him, she made no attempt to soften the clatter of knife, dish or pot. After an unexpectedly loud clash when a pot slipped from her oiled hand, she looked at Blair to smile apologetically.
He didn't see it; didn't need it. He was under, breath coming in long, slow controlled measures.
Totally confused, Naomi studied him, noticing for the first time that Jim was included in Blair's circle of light. In fact, it was almost as if Jim were a segment of the circle because of the placement of the fat pillars; they stopped at the end table at next to his head and started up again at the table at his feet. The light itself seemed to flow up to the boundary he created, to be gently rolled back toward Blair, gracing her son with a softly glowing halo that complimented the tranquility in his expression.
How he could have reached such a state with Jim looming over him like that, Naomi had no clue. A moment later she reluctantly revised the description; he wasn't looming, not exactly. Though he was obviously reading, Jim was just as obviously completely aware of everything going on in the room, as if he were on guard. Even as she came to that conclusion, his eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he sort of smiled at her before going back to his book.
It made no sense, none at all, and she felt a sudden, intense urge to be someplace else, doing anything else. She looked at the half-finished dishes around her, bit her lip, and doggedly went back to mixing and measuring. Thankfully the need to improvise on some of her ingredients quickly absorbed her attention, and by the time she'd found the compromise of wheat lasagna for the spaghetti she'd meant to make, she'd all but forgotten her momentary uneasiness.
When nearly a week's worth of meals was sitting on the counter, including a dish of julienne vegetables for the evening's appetizer, she graduated from cooking to cleaning. She found as much pleasure in bringing order as she had to creating the disorder in the first place, letting over three hours pass without true notice.
And Blair was still meditating.
Again she felt a prick of disquiet. While he hadn't reached his personal best yet, he'd been under far longer than he'd ever managed without serious mental and spiritual preparation days ahead of time. Maybe he was just dozing? It wasn't as if he'd been able to rest well recently, for far too many reasons. In that case, the trip to the retreat was very close to a necessity, and if he didn't cooperate, she was going to have to put her maternal foot down. Maybe she could use that same motherly authority to guilt Jim into agreeing with her and adding his own arguments for Blair to go.
Putting aside her dish cloth, Naomi considered what line of reasoning to use, starting with waking him up, making it obvious that his attempt to meditate had been a waste, and going from there. Before she could take the first step, though, Jim sighed and put his book down on his chest. As he gingerly shifted position, Blair's eyelids fluttered up, and he sighed as well. Blair bent forward from the waist until his head was almost his lap, arms fully extended behind his back, hands locked, stretching out any kinks. He stood with a painless, fluid grace that Naomi bitterly refused to admit she was only capable of pretending these days. By then Jim's eyes were shut. It didn't seem possible, yet there was no arguing that he certainly seemed to have fallen asleep that fast and easily.
Putting out candles as he went, Blair reached for the afghan on the back of the couch and covered Jim with it, tucking in the edges to keep him warm. With a delicate touch Naomi would have never imagined he was capable of, he inspected Jim's injured leg, adjusting the pillows under it with microscopic twitches she couldn't imagine Jim would find useful. Despite it, Blair seemed satisfied with his efforts and he joined her in the kitchen, beaming contentedly.
Half-heartedly slapping at his hand as he snatched a piece of green pepper, Naomi asked more sharply than she intended, "How long have the two of you been lovers?"
With a complete lack of surprise or concern, Blair said so matter-of-factly that she had to believe, "We're not. We've never even kissed."
Glancing over to where Jim slept wrapped in Blair's concern for him, she frowned. To be that connected and not consummate it - that couldn't be healthy, could it? And the lingering regrets when he moved on would weigh him down so badly. Surely Blair wasn't that caught up in his image of being a ladies' man he'd do that to himself? "Oh, sweetie, maybe you should give him another opportunity to approach you, maybe even encourage him a bit. Even if you don't usually swing that way, a little flexibility could at least dissolve any potential for hard feelings between you."
Shaking his head, Blair nibbled at another bite of pepper. "He's never made a pass, though you're right, I wouldn't have taken him up on it if he did."
Insulted on his behalf, or so she told herself firmly, Naomi said, "Never? Why? You're beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, oh, I could go on and on."
"I'm also seriously straight. So is he." Blair meandered toward the refrigerator and took out a beer, leaning on the counter as he opened it.
For the life of her, she didn't know why, but Naomi found herself playing devil's advocate. "And how much of the stress and disharmony between you recently could have been avoided if you'd been able to reach out to each other on an intimate level?" She went to stand in front of him. "Straight, bi, gay - those are only labels, limiting labels, and I can't believe you'd let them control who you share yourself with. If Jim's having trouble seeing beyond them, well, you can be so very persuasive, and it's truly for his benefit."
Her son, the light of her life, the most wonderful thing she'd ever done, slanted a look at her from under his lashes, assessing, considering, evaluating, calculating so quickly that she was reminded all over again just how brilliant he was. And how remote and dispassionate genius could be. He said mildly, "I don't feel comfortable discussing my relationship with Jim with you."
With a gesture toward the cooling food, Blair blatantly changed the subject. "Want me to portion those up and put them in the freezer? Least I could do given the largesse you've shown us already."
"Thank you, sweetie." Not letting him get away with it, Naomi said firmly, "And why ever not? You've always come to me when you needed a sounding board for school, girlfriends, whatever."
Back to her as he removed containers from the bottom cabinets, Blair said mildly, "I've always appreciated that, Naomi. You've got a good ear, and are very easy to talk to."
Preening at the praise, she automatically reached for the spatula and serving spoons they would need. "Not that you ever seemed to need much guidance. You've always been so centered, so sure of where you stood. Remember when you tried to rig the 'Queen of the Prom' vote because you felt it promoted the wrong message to impressionable young women?"
"I never have understood why popularity should be more important than integrity, intelligence, or even just being a great friend," Blair shot back laughingly. "And as I recall, you had more than few good ideas on exactly how to accomplish my goal."
"Well, it was a worthwhile message." Naomi tested the lasagna's temperature, going along with Blair as the conversation wandered off into sharing past memories.
They were nearly done with storing the dinners when she abruptly realized that he was packaging servings for two, for the most part, as if he had every intention of being present when the dishes were served. Not only that, but he had very cleverly, very smoothly steered her away from the topic of his life with Jim, as if it were none of her business! Piqued, or, at least, that's how she mentally described the sinking sensation in her stomach, she abruptly put down the bowl she was rinsing, and turned to face her son, hand on her hip.
"Blair, listen to me. I know you've put a great deal of time and effort into your PhD, your work with the p... c... police department, but with things as they are, isn't it time to take a step back? Give yourself a chance to process the experiences, find clarity on *why* it was all so important to you so you can redirect your energies toward whatever new personal phase is waiting for you? The retreat on the reservation in Arizona would be perfect; dry heat, sweat lodges, isolation, spiritual atmosphere that's so very conducive to insight." Naomi very carefully, very determinedly didn't bring Jim into the discussion. Instincts that had served her very well indeed warned her against it.
Blair finished filling in the label on the container, and apparently gave most of his attention to fitting it just so in the freezer. "I've already started processing. It'll take some time before I can honestly say I'm ready to let it all go, that I've got my head wrapped around everything that's happened, but I'm on the path." He put the last container away and shut the door before turning to Naomi with a happy smile.
"There. Now, my turn to cook. You might not have any appetite for dinner after an afternoon spent in the kitchen, but the smell of all this good stuff has given me an appetite. Let's see, with the veggies already cut - stir-fry? I have tofu."
"Young man, do *not* change the subject on me this time." Naomi moved closer to take him into a hug, but he stepped to one side, putting the kitchen counter between them. Exasperated, she said, "I'm not surprised that you're dealing on your own, but you don't have to, and you can most certainly do better than to snatch an hour for yourself here, thirty minutes there. Come with me to the retreat; immerse yourself in a better environment for the introspection you need."
"Thank you for the invitation, but I have what I need here." Blair reached across the counter and took her hand in his. "Truly, honestly, genuinely. Why on earth would I leave?"
Almost reeling under shock, Naomi shut her eyes, wishing she could shut her mind to the echo of her own words, shouted so long ago in anger, defiance, and triumph at her parents. Blair riding on her hip, not even a year old yet, her pocket psychically heavy with the first of the money she'd inherited from sweet, gentle, terminal Mark who hadn't even cared if Blair was his or not, she had thrown the most hurtful thing she could think of at them. "Why on earth would I stay!"
She gone to live her dream, Mark's dream, of traveling the world, never once going back to the deathly dull, middle-classed morals, beliefs and life that her parents had tried to lock her into. Blair, she had sincerely believed, had benefited from the freedom of living in many cultures, many places, with so many different peoples. His active intelligence was proof of that, as was his choice of professions. It was simply the, the *novelty* of a grounded, rooted lifestyle that held him.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes to reiterate her case for a fast departure, only to have the words clog her throat. Jim stood behind Blair, cupping his shoulders in possessive hands, having come up so silently, despite the limp, that she had had no idea he was there. Like earlier when he had been a part of Blair's meditation circle, he gave the impression that he was somehow bolstering Blair himself, though against what, she was clueless. His expression was odd; Naomi couldn't begin to name the emotion behind it. Nor could she read her son.
One thing she had absolutely no doubt of: Blair was going nowhere. He had made his choice, and if she made an issue of it, he would make another that she would like even less. Automatically and so fast that Naomi could convince herself that there had never been any other thought in her mind, she said, "I hear that. If you feel this is the best place for you, well, that has to be your call."
A sternness she hadn't wanted to acknowledge was there melted from Blair. "Thank you for understanding."
Oddly, Jim's eyes darkened with more of the feeling she couldn't fathom, but that didn't stop him from easing a fraction closer to Blair, as if he were in need of physical backing. "I promise to support his choices completely, no matter what."
"Even if he doesn't become a pig?" Naomi demanded harshly, despite her desperate intention to remain accommodating and upbeat.
"I've already decided against that." Blair turned so that he could smile up at Jim. "Right now we're tossing a few things around, looking for the best way to accomplish the goals we've both set. Good news is that there's no need to rush; we can check out the options from every angle before we make up our mind."
Naomi didn't miss all the 'we' in his reassurances, and surprised herself by thinking bitterly, Clever, clever pig. Hold off, hold back, keep his interest piqued, keep him uncertain of his place with you, until he's entrenched himself in your life and can't back off without giving up what he's already invested in you.
As if reading her mind, Jim's gaze narrowed, and he shook his head, as if she had missed the point. Blair seemed to agree. He patted her hand with a sad, tired look on his face, then willfully cheered up and used his grip to tug her toward the door. "Now that's all settled, can we eat? Maybe at the deli around the corner? They do vegan, and I'm starved."
With a last squeeze to Blair's shoulders, Jim went back into the living room as Blair bustled around to get ready to go out, apparently having no problem to ceding the battleground once he'd won the war. "Bring me back something, will you? I'd like to finish this book tonight."
"Done. Mom, they have this marvelous meatless minestrone, and cook all their vegetarian dishes in pots and pans used for nothing else." Blair all but shoved her out, but not before sharing a last, brilliantly beautiful smile with Jim.
Thinking to herself that she had definitely missed something, and maybe keeping that reservation herself might be the way to go, Naomi followed her child out of his home.
Grumbling to himself that a captain's job shouldn't include babysitting *any* of his detectives, Simon climbed to the fifth floor of the rattiest hotel he'd ever had the displeasure of being in, and knocked on the door to Jim's and Blair's room. With a snap, he put his cigar in his mouth to silence comments he didn't really want Jim to hear. Technically it was *Ellison's* room. He was the one assigned to the gun smuggler's stakeout, primary for the case. But since the whole idea was to get info in a situation where parabolic mikes and cameras were next to useless, it meant relying on Ellison's abilities, which meant Sandburg was there.
That didn't mean Simon had to be happy about it. If the brass found out their official consultant was working before he was actually on the payroll, there would be hell to pay. Before he could knock again, Jim opened the door, and for a moment Simon was shamefully grateful he'd shut himself up. The lines of pain around the man's eyes and mouth said that trying to sort from a distance through the avalanche of noise and light on the floating casino was anything but easy. Despite that, Jim had ID'd the main players and navigated the department's inside men into positions where important fragments of conversation had been recorded.
"Captain?" Jim asked curiously.
"Your relief got caught up in a high speed chase that ended badly," Simon said shortly, pushing past him. "You're drawing a double tonight; there's no one else for backup for our undercover people." The last was the official, legitimate reason Ellison was on duty here.
Jaw muscle jumping, Jim retreated back to the window. "Did they at least catch the sonovabitch?"
"Why yes, both of my men, your co-workers, are doing well, despite totaling their vehicle while trying to keep a completely panicked sixteen-year-old joyrider from killing himself or anyone else. Thank you for your concern." Simon would have leaned in to get in his face, more irate at the stupidity behind H and Rafe's injuries than at Ellison's stoic dismissal of their accident, but glad of an excuse to be aggravated.
Before he could move, Blair said quietly from the big easy chair in the corner, "It'll be twenty-four hours on duty if we stay. We have court tomorrow; the Mueller case, remember?"
It took everything Simon had not to jump and spin, hand on weapon; he hadn't even realized Blair was there, despite knowing intellectually he had to be somewhere nearby. As it was, his body jerked uncomfortably, hand clenching as he aborted his move. "Which is why I'm here. I have a meeting with the Mayor first thing in the morning that I can't miss, but I can at least cover here long enough for you two to get some rest."
"No need, sir. We'll be fine." With a subtle shift of his shoulders that put his back to the room, Jim dismissed the offer.
Unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he was relieved to have a reason to brush away his guilt at sentencing an over-worked, over-stressed man to a nearly sleepless night after a week of double shifts, Simon turned to stomp away. Blair stopped him with a hand on his forearm, pleading for understanding with his eyes. Unable to meet them for long, Simon dropped his gaze, this time chewing on his cigar to censor himself.
"How are H and Rafe?" Blair asked.
Wearily sinking down on the bed, Simon said, "Out of seven crashes, H was the only serious injury, and that was a broken arm. Rafe has a gash on his head, along with a mild concussion from it."
"They were kept overnight for observation?"
"Yeah, and both'll be on desk duty for a while." Thinking through the problems of being short two men in the middle of two key cases, Simon lifted his glasses to pinch at his nose. "Homicide owes me a favor; I'll borrow a man or two from them to cover legwork. Taggart will be back from leave day after tomorrow, and he can pick up a lot of the slack. If we can just get a enough on tape in the next couple of nights, we can drop the manpower onboard and focus on getting proof of the weapons shipment."
A palm holding two aspirin appeared under his nose, a glass of water in the hand beside it. "Take these," Jim said blandly. "And the bed for the first half of the shift. The casino is busiest between now and 2am; I need to be listening. We'll wake you if anything important comes up."
Simon bristled the implied orders out of pure male testosterone, but before he could snarl or snap a hot pad landed on his shoulders, Blair placing it just so. The heavy heat instantly attacked the worse of the tension at the base of his neck, and he couldn't quite stifle a groan of relief. Blair bustled around the small, dingy room, putting out all the lights except one in the bathroom, and turning down the bed. Jim simply stood, patiently waiting in the same position, until Simon flashed him a look of pure ire, but took the pills and water.
Jim didn't move away, but kept waiting, seemingly made of granite. Finally Simon handed back the glass, put his cigar on the plate Blair provided, and toed off his shoes before stretching out on the bed. "Four hours. No more."
"Don't worry. I know I need to be sharp to testify. Mueller's attorney is a shark."
Pummeling the poor excuse for a pillow, Simon muttered, "Aren't they always? A good eight hours wouldn't be enough to dodge those teeth, but this is the best I can give you."
From the quiet dimness he heard Jim whisper, "It'll be enough. Sleep."
Simon unintentionally obeyed and actually felt close to human - groggy and in dire need of coffee, but human - when Jim shook him awake later. Blair came out of the bathroom, damp from a shower and pulling on a sweatshirt. "There's a fresh pot of coffee on the counter by the sink, and pad Thai noodles in the fridge. They're not bad microwaved."
Growling something he didn't understand himself, Simon hauled himself upright and stumbled toward fuel. After freshening up and slurping down a king-sized mug of nectar, he went back into the main room, absently watching Jim and Blair strip down the bed to put fresh sheets on it. Softer, better-scented ones, he'd bet and briefly considered playfully harassing Jim over it.
A closer look at his detective had him dismissing the urge. Jim looked awful. Even as Simon came to that conclusion, Jim stopped mid straightening of a blanket, and went back to his post at the window. Reaching for his cell phone, he sent a beeper message to the undercover officers, using the casino's table designations and thumbnail sketch of who to get close to. The casino's own electronic surveillance prevented wearing wires, but actually issued the beepers themselves to keep track of staff. All the officers had to do was make sure they erased everything and didn't get caught with the miniature tape recorders.
As stakeouts went, it was awkward, but with Jim's shepherding, it was working.
"Come on, come on," Jim muttered, automatically making room for Blair at his side. "Get in place before he changes the subject. That blonde isn't impressed by his big talk and he's going to get that sooner than later." He leaned forward, a dark shadow against the subdued glow of reflected light on the glass, absorbing Blair's smaller presence for the moment. "That's it, that's it; give her a hint about how soon you're going to be not just rich, but important... go for it, go for...yes."
Straightening, Jim flashed a bit of a smile down at Blair. "Soon - very soon. All we need now is some kind of confirmation they're going to move the guns upriver in smaller lots on the sport fishing cruises the casino runs."
"When did you hear that?" Simon asked, mentally rummaging through his file on the case.
With some surprise, Jim answered, "I didn't; it's a working theory based on observation. All the supplies are loaded and unloaded from boat to boat, the crew, staff and customers all ride ferries to the main ship, and excursions for various reasons, like the dinner theater cruise, leave all hours of the day and night. One more boat, one more group of people and crates, would be inconspicuous, to say the least. Makes it harder to catch them if we do set up a bust, too; no way to sneak up on them."
"We wouldn't have even suspected the smuggling if one of the union dock foremen hadn't gotten his nose out of joint about the casino never hiring his workers and done some snooping," Blair put in. He wandered toward the bed, somehow drawing Jim with him, ceremonially handed over the next-to-useless binoculars to Simon. Wrapping the bulk of the blankets around himself, he curled up the side of the bed farthest from the window, mumbling under his breath as he fidgeted to get comfortable.
Aware from camping trips and other stakeouts that he was a restless sleeper, Simon tuned him out and studied the boat through the lenses, not able to make out much because of distance and motion of the ship. The best any observer could do was spot trouble if enough people were dragged into it. Noticing Jim on his cell, he paused to see who his detective was calling, unsurprised it was to leave a 'good job' message for the undercover men. Simon went back to surveillance as Jim took his turn at the bathroom, not really hearing the shower or running water. By the time he thought of him again, Jim was in the bed, fully dressed and only a sheet draped over him.
Shaking his head, Simon settled in for a long, boring watch, sipping at his coffee to stay alert. Eventually the action on the water died down to nearly nothing, the inside men were sent home until the next day's work, but he stayed at it, hoping that the quiet would allow him to pick up something unexpected. To rest his eyes periodically, he would put aside the binoculars and pace around, trying to stay silent for the partners' sake.
When Mother Nature demanded he drain out some of the liquid he'd consumed, he did his best not to bother them, instinctively glancing at them as he came back out of the bathroom to make sure of it. Simon froze in place, not quite willing to believe what he was seeing. Jim was spooned up behind Blair, leaning onto him enough that his mass had to be holding Blair in place. Both of his arms were wrapped around the smaller body, the bottom one acting as a pillow for Blair's head. He had his nose buried in the crown of curls, apparently not bothered at all by the way individual strands floated around his face, disturbed by his soft breaths.
For a moment Simon tried to convince himself that Jim was only trying to hold Blair still so that he wouldn't be awakened by Blair's constant tossing and turning. The only problem with that was that Blair had captured each of Jim's wrists, and was holding them against his chest as if to prevent him from moving away. To add to the impression, he had both of his feet hooked back over Jim's ankles; it was hard to say which was being held prisoner.
Forcing himself back into motion, Simon slowly returned to his chair, gaze on the sleeping men all the way. As he sat, it occurred to him it might be a sense thing. Blair was, after all, Jim's roomie, which meant the sentinel part of Jim had to be used to Blair's scent, sounds, all of it. In this situation, having him so close could have the same effect as a white sound generator: familiar sensory input to block the unfamiliar and potentially irritating stimuli from Jim's surroundings.
He could have convinced himself of that, no problem, and very much wanted to. Not that he was disgusted or angry over the more obvious interpretation. Saddened by it, worried, disheartened, sorrowed, maybe even a trifle envious, but not because it was two men loving each other.
It was obvious to him that was exactly what he was seeing, too. In Jim's arms, Blair slept peacefully, calmly, with whatever demons or experiences that drove him to hide behind constant motion and sound temporarily laid to rest. Even his expression was one of content, as if all he needed in the world was the solid, heated weight of the man behind him as a shield against his woes.
Jim was as tranquil. Usually there was an air of tension about him, even as he slept. The psyche of a solider/cop/sentinel demanded he always be ready for trouble, and it had undoubtedly saved his life - and Simon's - more than once. Yet, having Blair secure beside him somehow allowed him to relax, though Simon had no doubt that he was still as 'on-duty' as ever.
The low rumble of a boat's engine drew him back to the job, but he couldn't stop himself from glancing back at them now and then. Rumors about the pair had circulated from the first, but no one truly thought they were lovers, oddly for as many reasons as there were people who didn't believe the gossip. Simon had always dismissed any suspicions he'd had based on the secrets he shared with them.
And, he realized, as the dark, numbing minutes of the deep night crawled past, because of his trust in the friendship they shared. Despite his rank and authority over them, Simon truly believed Jim and Blair would have come to him if their relationship had become more than what they already had. Was this their way of telling him? Allowing him believable deniability if the brass got on his backside about lovers riding together?
He could see them protecting him like that, and god knew that it could be necessary, given how he and his entire department had been treated when the sentinel thing had been out there. Or they might have been, well, not afraid, but concerned at where he might have felt his duty lay - regulations or friendship. Sparing him from having to make a painful decision like that could have been part of their reasoning, as well.
Mentally chewing all that over, Simon convinced himself just as the sky was beginning to lighten with dawn that he couldn't simply make assumptions or guesses. Much as Jim would hate it, they were going to have a talk. It would be friend to friend, if Jim didn't dodge the conversation, but he would make it captain to detective if necessary.
With that in mind, he bided his time when Jim woke fifteen minutes before he was scheduled to get up, nodding at Simon in greeting before vanishing into the bathroom. He came back out a few minutes later, coffee mug in one hand, pot in the other, gesturing with it in silent offer of topping Simon's cup. Taking him up on it gratefully, Simon waited until he put back the pot and returned to lean on the window frame, taking in any changes that had happened while he rested.
"How long have the two of you been lovers?" Simon asked so only Jim would hear.
Without hesitating in his drink of coffee, Jim swallowed and said evenly, "We're not. We've never even kissed."
It was the truth. Simon could hear it as clearly as he'd heard Jim's low-pitched voice. Nonplussed, he said the first thing that came to mind. "How can you love him so much and *not* be his lover?"
"There's always been too many obstacles, real, potential, and imagined." Jim's tone didn't change, but Simon was willing to swear there was a hint of relief underneath it. After all, who did Jim have to talk to about personal matters besides Blair and this was *about* Blair. "Not the least of which is neither of us have ever been interested in gay sex."
"Does that fall under real, potential or imagined?"
With a snort of laughter, Jim turned to face him. "Seriously, first Blair was trying to stay objective as possible because of his dissertation, and I had learned my lesson the hard way with Carolyn about fraternization. Then there were trust issues, on both sides, in completely different ways, and commitment issues, again in different ways. And he wants kids, Simon, along with the kind of community interconnection that comes from being involved through a large family.
"I can't give him any of that, and wouldn't want to try with some of it. Add in the possibly lethal problems for a gay cop, and our very complicated status with the brass currently, along with a bunch of more minor stuff, and it all becomes a wall neither of us is sure we should breach. Damnit, even the sentinel thing is a problem, in its own weird, unpredictable way."
"Okay, believe it or not, that crossed into too much information." Simon stared down into his cup, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed. "So you're going to do nothing? Just love him from afar, hoping he never meets someone who can give him more? Or worse, knowing that he won't, and deprive him of what he could have had?"
"Aside from the sex, there isn't anything vital we don't give each other." Jim held up a hand to stop Simon's automatic retort. "I'm not saying that it's not important, or that we don't want it. Just that so far we haven't had any motivation to mess with what's working. Particularly now, while we're still recuperating from my idiocy when Blair's dissertation went public."
Jim didn't have to spell out that leaping into bed with each other might seem like a panacea for all the personal problems stemming from that disaster, but wouldn't do anything to fix what caused them in the first place. It was also very likely he'd already worried about the emotional outfall for Blair if Jim fell in the line of duty before they'd moved past their physical impasse. Much as Simon wanted to encourage him, he didn't really have anything to say that could help.
Apparently Jim could read that somehow. He put a hand on Simon's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Just knowing you're in our corner is a help, especially for Blair. He's been worried that a deeper involvement between us would be the straw that broke the camel's back, as far as your tolerance of him is concerned."
"The man talked me into eating tofuturkey. That should be proof positive that I do more than tolerate him."
From the bed Blair said sleepily, "Here I was thinking you'd finally decided to try a healthier life choice."
"It was Daryl's double-dog-dare that really did me in." Simon stood as Blair clambered out of bed, making a beeline for Jim's coffee.
Unabashedly stealing the cup from him, Blair leaned into Jim's side, taking a long drink. "Any more action last night at the casino?"
"No, and none this morning." Jim went back to the window, Blair still snug against him.
Joining them but leaning on the opposite side of the frame, Simon said, "You two do know it's possible something is going to drag the both of you through that very circumstantial wall between you."
"Hopefully a positive something," Blair agreed. "Or one day one of the obstacles simply might dissolve on its own, tumbling down all the rest. Believe it or not, waiting isn't that much of a problem, now that we've admitted that we *are* waiting, and have been for a while." He frowned slightly, focusing on the contents of his mug. "It feels right, at the moment anyway."
Not wanting to get dragged into the sentinel stuff so early, Simon said, motioning at the casino boat. "Well, at least you both get lots of practice waiting, thanks to the job."
Stealing the coffee back from Blair, Jim murmured, echoing his partner, "There is that."
There didn't seem to be anything else that needed said, and the three of them watched the sunrise fill the sky over their city.
Lieutenant Detective Martin Rozinni didn't bother to listen to content of the grumbling coming from his partner of less than three weeks and gave all his attention to his driving. He already knew that Turner would repeat himself endlessly, getting louder and more vitriolic with each rerun of his complaints, until he'd worked himself up to seriously pissed. Weirdly, when he got to that point, he would abruptly find the humor or silver lining, and that would be the end of it until a different set of grievances set him off again.
Besides, Rozinni already knew why the kid was pissed. He would have been, too, if he were still young enough, idealistic enough, and enthused enough to stew over life's injustices. And didn't skinny, lanky Judd Turner just look like exactly what he was: a still mostly wet behind the ears Internal Affairs detective on a mission to make Cascade Police Department as pure as the driven snow. He wore his sandy blond hair in a buzz cut, which made his hazel eyes stand out like a couple of headlights. His fair skin was currently flushed with temper, and Rozinni had decided within two days of meeting him that he would be able to use that pale, pale complexion as a barometer for what was going on with the man.
Rozinni was as opposite from that as he could get, being medium height, medium build, medium looks, medium brown eyes and hair, medium everything. He'd made his unremarkable appearance work for him for almost twenty years now. More than one suspect had walked right into him, not smelling him as the law at all, unless they caught his eye and were street-wise enough to understand that the flat, unemotional gaze was nothing but pure cop. It was that, as much as his impeccable record that had netted him the opening in I.A., which he took to please his wife, more or less. That and he didn't want to be assigned another rookie to bring up, only to retire with the job half-done.
Turner pounded on the dashboard, pulling Rozinni out of his musings, and burst out in a near shout, "Damnit, following those two is a waste of time. So what if Ellison is porking his civilian partner? It's not against the law, not something Internal Affairs needs to be investigating."
"There's the fraternization thing," Rozinni pointed out mildly, parking in the station garage close to Ellison's truck.
"That's administrative - between Ellison and his captain. Half the force has ignored that particular policy at sometime or another, but as long as the job stays the job and the personal life stays personal, the brass doesn't usually give a shit." Biting the nails on his left hand, Turner mumbled, "I don't get why our Captain thinks it's important."
Could the kid really be that naive, Rozinni wondered silently. Of course Jack Carson wants to take down the detective that uncovered more dirty cops in three years, one of them IA, than the captain did in his entire career. Ellison made I.A. look stupid, repeatedly, and the good old boys who believed they should have the last say on what a cop is didn't like that.
Aloud he said, "If Ellison is walking on that side of the street, he's at risk, in the opinion of Captain Carson, the man who's paid to make decisions about what's worth investigating and what isn't."
Turner snorted. "That's so old school, and a part of what got IA so in the wrong a while back. How can he be at risk for blackmail if he doesn't care what anybody thinks about his sexual orientation? He obviously doesn't or he wouldn't be so blatant about his relationship with Sandburg that people speculate. Thinking that maybe he cruises rent boys or does the drug scene to attract pretty faces and bodies, simply because he's gay, is playing into the stereotype."
"Being gay doesn't guarantee a bad cop any more than being a church deacon guarantees a good cop," Rozinni intoned, just to see what shade Turner turned. It was the party line for the force right now, more or less, but much of the old guard only gave it lip service.
Unsurprisingly, Turner nodded, though his cheeks were flushed. "The Captain's walking a thin, thin line here on just cause."
"Which is why he asked us privately to volunteer and not to ask how he explains the overtime. Here comes Sandburg and Ellison now." Bringing up his note pad and making a show of writing in it, as if finishing up notes before leaving the car, Rozinni watched the partners walk toward them. Typically Sandburg's hands were everywhere as he bounced beside Ellison, taking a step-and-a-half for every one Ellison took, and Rozinni couldn't help but wonder what he was talking about so enthusiastically.
"You're sure they're off-duty?" Turner asked.
"So said my source."
Turner started to shrink down in his seat, as if to hide, but a sharp look stopped him. "God, I hope they don't go to a gay bar or something."
"We don't have to go in, just note that they're there."
Once their subjects were in Ellison's truck and on the move, Rozinni put away his notebook, and started his car, following them closely as they left the garage. Before Turner could protest, Rozinni said, "It doesn't look odd; lots of traffic coming and going. If they're heading for home, we can safely parallel them a couple of different ways, so Ellison doesn't spot us. Regardless of what you hear in the IA bullpen, he's a decent cop, or he wouldn't have the solve and convict record he's got."
Head angling to watch both ways, as if he were driving, Turner said, "That's not the way to Prospect Street."
"Next main route is four blocks down, we'll pick them up there." With a little judicious traffic dodging, Rozinni placed himself three cars behind them, nodding in satisfaction. "They're heading for the interstate. Since they're on duty early tomorrow, it's not likely they're leaving town. What other reasons are there to use the interstate if you're not heading home?"
"Shopping." Turner looked surprised at himself for having an answer, and a good one at that. "If they're not going out drinking or, or something."
"Can't see Ellison voluntarily doing a mall, and there are better places for a cop's salary to bend the elbow back the other way, closer to home. Could be visiting friends."
Clearly thinking, Turner offered, "Maybe, but it's a bit late for that. Isn't Old Market a few exits north of here? There are some first-rate shops there, mixed in with the tourist places."
"Good idea." Rozinni accelerated, passed Ellison's truck, and kept him in the rear view until the exit before the Old Market. He got off the interstate and back on again just as Ellison passed the on-ramp, putting him directly behind him with no reason for Ellison to be suspicious. He grinned to himself; he wasn't a half bad cop himself.
Again playing the odds and working on a basic understanding of what a cop needed, Rozinni peeled off to the left of the commercial parking, going up a ramp to a garage with a walkway to the huge interlocked warehouses that had become an indoor farmers/flea/specialty market over the past few years. Below him he could see Ellison and Sandburg going in a small side entrance that was quiet and brightly lit, Sandburg reading off from what had to be a shopping list.
He and Turner arrived at a coffee shop centrally located to the various branches of the market, sitting down as the Major Crime partners walked by. Sandburg was complaining about something - Rozinni could only hear the tone, not the words - and Ellison stopped dead in the corridor, plucking the strip of paper from his partner's fingers.
"Okay," Ellison said, his voice carrying clearly. "Let's split the list." He tore the sheet in half, put both pieces behind his back. "You pick, do the ones on that half and I'll do the ones on the other, regardless of whose chore it is. We'll straighten out the finances when we're done, over dinner. Whoever finishes first gets to pick where we eat and the one coming in last gets to pay."
"Hey!" Sandburg laughed. "What makes you think that'll get it all done faster? If you get the hardware store, you'll get lost in there for hours."
"And if you get the bookstore, I won't see you before next week. This gives us both motivation not to get side-tracked." Ellison passed the pieces of paper from one hand to another as Sandburg thought it over.
Finally Sandburg said, "I really, really want to crash early so I've got extra steam for tomorrow night... okay. I'll take the one on the left."
Ellison promptly handed the paper to him, bringing his own up to read, a slow grin forming as he scanned down it.
"Oh, man," Sandburg muttered, wandering away. "Produce."
Catching Turner's eye, Rozinni asked, "Ellison or Sandburg?"
With surprising honesty, Turner answered, "Sandburg. Ellison will spot me."
"Try to speed up when he gets to the end of the list, so you can get back here first." Rozinni followed Ellison long enough to see which direction he was going, then stopped at a map of the market, picking out the shops he was most likely to visit. It allowed him to criss-cross paths with him as Ellison hit the dry-cleaners, bookstore, a jewelry shop, a new-agey crystals and what-have-you place, and tux rental store. Since Ellison ran his thumb down the paper as he left each shop, Rozinni had a good idea when he was done, and made his way back to same seat in the center of the Market that he'd had before.
Checking his watch as he came, Ellison walked at a fast clip to a table of his own, sat, and turned a magazine to the middle as if he'd been there all along. Only a few minutes later Turner plopped into the chair opposite Rozinni, pushing a small bag toward him for a visual excuse for being gone. Sandburg was unknowingly right on his heels, juggling his load of packages, then letting them drop in front of Ellison.
"Damn," Sandburg said cheerfully, sorting through the bags. "Steak, right? I am never going to get how you can work so hard to keep in shape, then dump carcinogenic, cholesterol-laden charred animal flesh into your stomach." He handed a couple to Ellison, dug out crumpled receipts, and looked through the ones Ellison put in front of him. They compared notes for a few minutes, bickering playfully over the cash and how to split the cost of some of the purchases.
"Thought I was onto something when Sandburg stopped in the drug store," Turner said quietly, pretending vast interest in the assorted toiletries he'd picked up. "But he didn't even look at the, ah, family planning, stuff."
"No condoms or lube, huh?" Rozinni said, just to watch him blush.
Apparently fighting the embarrassment, Turner added, "He went into this herbalist place, too, and I thought, well, scented oil, right? But he bought soap - soap of all things - and shampoo."
A soft whistle and 'allll right' from Sandburg stopped Rozinni from asking where else the kid went. Holding up the sort of box that usually had high-priced jewelry in it, Sandburg added, "This looks even better than I thought it would when I was talking to the designer about it."
"Naomi's going to love it, Chief," Ellison said. "Of course, she would if you'd made it from macaroni and string, but that feather looks so real I expect the owl to land on your shoulder and demand it back."
"Yeah, Paul's *good,* and this is so unique - best birthday present I've thought of in a while." Putting away the box, Sandburg gathered up his burden. "Okay, so Max's Steakhouse for dinner, I'm guessing."
Standing and picking up his own bags, Ellison said, "I won, but I should have included a clause about not criticizing the cuisine. You're going to nag all evening, aren't you?"
"Maybe if you refrain from getting the carnivore special." Sandburg headed off, throwing the comment back over his shoulder.
Rozinni waited until they had their backs to him before rising and leading the way back to the car. He wasn't worried about losing them; he'd eaten a time or two at Max's himself. Thankfully Turner didn't object to a good, rare steak, especially once he'd pointed out it was a legitimate business expense. The dinner, as well as the rest of the evening, was a bust, as far as seeing any evidence of a physical relationship between Ellison and Sandburg.
In fact, Rozinni had to agree with Turner when he muttered hours later, watching the lights at 852 Prospect, #307 go out one by one, "Big brother." Turner squirmed at Rozinni's sharp look, and added, "I've got three of them, and they all treat me like Ellison treats his partner: amused tolerance and playful bullying. And lovers wouldn't compete with each other would they? I mean, not that gays don't act like guys, but you wouldn't treat your significant other like just another guy, would you? And you wouldn't show off an expensive birthday present for your girlfriend." He put his head back on the car seat. "God, am I making any sense at all here?"
"Much as it scares me to admit it, yeah, you do. Add to that I've seen a sketch of their place. Ellison's bedroom is the top one, right there, see?" Rozinni pointed to a dark window. "Sandburg's is there, French doors are to the main room. Light went off first upstairs, then living room, then Sandburg's. They might be doing the deed together, but they're not sharing sleeping quarters, at least, not tonight."
Head on his fist, Turner muttered, "You could be right on that; having sex only once in a while, that is. Maybe they scratch an itch together, sometimes, if they can't get lucky with women. That's not really *gay* so much as it's desperate, and I've heard Sandburg is the king of horny."
Turning on the engine and driving away, Rozinni shrugged. "It's possible, I guess. The Captain wants us to do this for a week or so, which means we've got time to figure those two out."
By Friday, they had nothing more incriminating on Ellison than what Rozinni considered an excessive amount of forbearance for Sandburg's hyperkinetic ways. Personally, he would have had to have tied him down with duct tape, gagged, at least once. The night after shopping, Sandburg dashed home, dashed back out in fifteen minutes, dressed for a night out, and hopped into a car driven by a very lovely young lady. Ellison went to the gym, worked out, swam, and had a late meal in a diner, fork in one hand, case file in another. The next two nights after that they worked so late that both went straight to their own beds, only to be called back out on the same case in the small hours of the morning, or so Rozinni's source said.
Halfway expecting them to turn in early on Friday, Rozinni was mildly surprised when they came back out, both cleaned up for dates. Because their investigation, such as it was, was on Ellison's activities, they followed him, Turner muttering all the way. When Ellison turned into the drive for Cascade's most exclusive country club, though, he sat up straight, practically quivering like a dog on point.
"Maybe we're onto something besides what Ellison likes in the bedroom," Turner said quietly. "If you wanted to set yourself up as a cop beyond reproach, taking down other dirty cops would be a good way to go, especially if your boss was in competition with other bosses."
"You're putting a lot on a single stop at a rich man's watering hole." Rozinni pinned a friendly smile on his face, and held up his badge as he slowed down at the gate after Ellison had gone on through.
He said to the security guard, "Hey, I need to talk to Detective Ellison - the guy who just drove through? It's about an important case and it'll only take a minute. Can you, I don't know, sign me on his guest, or maybe contact him at his table?"
"He's here as a guest of his father," the guard said easily. "So you can't come in on his coattails. And the club dining room policy is strictly no phone calls or interruptions except in emergency." He leaned on his guard shack, apparently more than willing to chat for a while. "The wives insisted on it, I've heard, trying to stop business from interrupting their time with the spouses, not to mention their meals."
"Explains why the Detective hasn't answered his cell phone or radio." Rozinni drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to give the impression he was thinking about all his options. "Damn. Bet he's going to be forever, too."
"Not that long, most likely. The detective has had dinner with his old man, occasionally his brother, too, first Friday of every month since I've had this shift. He's in and out inside of an hour or so most every time, and if you ask me, he doesn't enjoy the visit much, if you go by how pissed he looks when he comes back out." The guard laughed. "Bet he's the black sheep of the family because he's got an honest job that actually means something."
Grinning amiably, Rozinni said, "Wouldn't mind having an inheritance to boost my retirement, myself."
"Oh, the old man's already cut him out cold, not that the cop gives a shit. I heard from the wait staff he just waved a single-finger salute when that was tossed out casually with the salad and asked his brother about fixing him up with the receptionist at his company!" Another car turned into the driveway, and the guard put on his professional face. "Would you like me to inform Detective Ellison that you were looking for him?"
"No, by the time he gets out, my boss will have already chewed a major piece of my backside and worked around the gap in the intel. Thanks, though." Returning the guard's wave, Rozinni made a lazy u-turn in the large driveway, and drove slowly along the fence marking the property line of the country club until he found a good vantage point. He set up the parabolic mike and dug out the binoculars, both of which Carson had insisted they start to use.
"You know," Turner said with uncharacteristic calm, "I'm beginning to really, really hate this surveillance. It's just plain wrong to be poking into a man's private life like this unless you've got compelling evidence that he's dirty."
Inwardly pleased and relieved, Rozinni made himself ask blandly, "You going to argue with the Captain about it?"
Paling so much that he could have become invisible in the moonlight, Turner shook his head. "I can't believe he's letting a grudge cloud his judgment or going after Ellison for personal reasons. Not after the house-cleaning we went through, and not that long ago."
"So you trust that the brass knows something you don't and do the job," Rozinni said, not unkindly. "Or ask to be reassigned. Not much else you can do."
Squirming, Turner picked up the binoculars and stared though them. "Yeah, nothing else to do."
They took turns keeping an eye out for Ellison to leave, and Rozinni was the one to spot him coming out not half an hour later. He walked beside another man who bore barely enough of a resemblance to him that Rozinni was willing to guess he might be the brother. Both looked angry and amused, and when the valet brought the brother's car, they leaned on it for a few minutes, talking.
Carefully juggling the gain, Turner picked up the conversation, mid word. "... think it's going to work?"
"Younger brother?" Turner whispered.
"Shhhh."
"Can't hurt. It's not like either of us enjoy the food when he starts in," Ellison said. "Getting up and walking away will either piss him off enough that he'll stop asking us to join him on Fridays, or he'll stop trying to set us against each other, at least at the table. Which puts the failure of the whole 'rebuilding bridges' thing square on his shoulders, not that he'd admit it."
"I don't get why he's still at it." Through the binoculars Rozinni could see the younger Ellison studying his feet, shoulders slumped.
"Sandburg thinks he doesn't know how to break the habit. Maybe he doesn't even see that comparing our lives to each other, praising what he likes about one while running down what he doesn't about the other, only makes for bad feelings and worse memories." Ellison put his hands in his pocket, taking his own turn at admiring his shoes. "I like my life and think you've done okay with yours, Stevie, not that it's my place to judge one way or the other."
It seemingly took some effort, but the brother stood tall and smiled realistically. "Ditto."
"So you wanna go get a burger?"
"Sounds good. Remember that place down the road? On the right after the stop sign?"
"Burgers this thick? Great onion rings?"
"Yep."
"Meet you there."
The younger Ellison got in his car, and leaned out the window. "You know, even if it doesn't work, seeing his face when we both got up and left after warning him we would if he didn't stop is a sight I'll treasure forever. Tell Blair that if he ever gets tired of working with the cops, I can use him."
Ruffling his brother's perfectly styled hair, Ellison said, "Get your own genius; Sandburg's mine."
With a snort of laughter, the brother drove away, Ellison not far behind him. To Rozinni's relief, he didn't slow and talk to the guard, but waved in acknowledgement and sped off into the night. Since he had directions, of a sort, Rozinni didn't follow right away, giving Turner a chance to put away the equipment and spew his normal escalating ire.
Ellison was right about the quality of the burgers and onion rings, but that was the only useful information they gathered while listening in on the Ellison's conversation. It struck Rozinni that the elder Ellison was more at ease with his partner, definitely chattier, than with his brother. There were several awkward pauses, and they didn't speak of anything more personal than their opinion on who had the best chance in the playoffs. Still, they parted on friendly terms and a date to catch a game in a few weeks.
By the time they'd seen the lights go out in Ellison's bedroom, Turner had gotten oddly quiet and Rozinni was dreading the next day's work. The plan was to treat the weekend like any other workday because Ellison's caseload was likely to cause him to do the same, according to Rozinni's source. Before he could drop Turner at his car, though, the Captain called, asking them to come up to his office.
Captain Carson's greeting was friendly, and he listened to their report on Ellison's movements, a frown growing as they spoke. Finally he said, "You've got nothing?"
Absolutely unwilling to voice even the vaguest opinion, Rozinni looked at his partner, who fidgeted, then blurted, "The working theory is that they're fuck buddies; very casual and not often, probably when women aren't in the picture. Sandburg's got a lady he's serious about, to go by the expensive birthday gift he got her, so there's not much of anything to catch right now."
Not bothering to hide that he didn't like that idea, Carson sat silently for a moment, making Turner twitch even worse. Rozinni wasn't bothered, but did consider pretending he was to keep Carson happy. Even as he dismissed the thought, the captain abruptly opened a deep drawer and took out a plain briefcase: the sort padded to hold electronics.
"We need to get closer, get in where they're comfortable, sure they won't be seen or overheard." Carson pushed the case close to the partners. "You know how to use these, Rozinni?"
Eyeing the listening devices as if they would explode, Rozinni said, "Sure, Captain."
"We need to hear what's going on in Ellison's place; need to know what's in it that might be pertinent to our investigation." Voice carefully, almost painfully, devoid of anything resembling an order or demand, Carson pinned each of them with a look of pure command.
"So far, there isn't anything that a judge would issue paper on." Rozinni made no move toward the case.
"That is my concern, not yours." When nobody moved or spoke for several long minutes, Carson added slowly, "You're close to your twenty, 'Z; you thinking of retiring when you hit it?"
"Thought's crossed my mind; got a few months before I have to decide."
"You have my word that you will never have to worry about losing your rank or pension if you might find yourself in a bit of trouble because of this investigation. On the other hand, I might be less than willing to watch the back of an officer doesn't have the necessary level of commitment to our department." Again, Carson stayed as bland and unemotional as possible.
Softly, not threateningly but sure his expression was conveying his feelings, Rozinni said, "And my partner?"
"Is young and inexperienced, which gives a commander significant leeway in resolving any... issues."
"Hey," Turner blurted, but shut up when both Carson and Rozinni turned on him.
"As long as you understand the priorities here," Rozinni said grudgingly, and picked up the listening equipment. He left without a goodbye, Turner hastily following on his heels.
Once they were in the garage, Rozinni said shortly, "I'll call you when Ellison leaves the station tomorrow and meet you at his place."
Turner only nodded and headed out of the bullpen, leaving Rozinni staring after him suspiciously.
The next morning Rozinni stationed himself around the corner of 852 Prospect, where he could see the partners take off for work, but not be seen himself by anyone exiting the building. As soon as he was sure Ellison was actually at his desk, calling his source to check, he went upstairs, intending to use the burglary skills he'd picked up out of necessity while on the street to let himself into Ellison's apartment. To his great displeasure, Turner was there, red enough to stand in for a stoplight.
"We're partners!" Turner blurted. "We share the risks!"
Looking him over thoroughly, Rozinni said, "What'll you do if I don't go in?"
"Be relieved and try to convince you to take this to the Police Chief," Turner said earnestly. "Even if he's of a like mind as Carson, this is too, too far over the line. One hint of how we got any good info from this, and Ellison's got the ammo to sue the city for enough to set him up like a prince for life. And all he has to do is remember where he talked about whatever we use."
"And if I go in?"
"Would you believe pray?"
Rozinni leaned on the wall, scrubbing at his eyes. "Judd, I'm going to ask you to trust me on this, please. I do have a plan, and I sincerely believe that nothing but good will come from it."
He waited patiently while Turner thought about it, before nodding slowly. Killing the urge to sigh in relief, Rozinni straightened and got right to the business of breaking in. It didn't take long to place the bug and give the place a fast once-over for incriminating evidence of any kind. Unsurprisingly, there was no gay porn, no sex toys, no bedside supplies except what any straight man would have on hand, and no evidence of either man sharing his bed.
They were out and back at work themselves so quickly that they didn't even need to justify being late. That evening they went ahead of their suspects, confident the partners would go straight home. After a take out meal, Ellison and Sandburg settled in to take care of the sort of chores that are part and parcel of simply being alive: laundry, cleaning, planning meals and grocery shopping for the week, paying the bills. A few casual comments during the last told Rozinni clearly that money was a problem for Sandburg, thanks to student loans and medical bills, explaining very credibly why he didn't have his own place.
Relieved beyond belief when the partners went to sleep, Rozinni drove Turner back to the station, already dreading the next night's surveillance. When he got into work Sunday morning, however, a message from the Police Chief was waiting for him, pointedly instructing him to go straight to the conference room on the Major Crimes floor. Once he got there, he found Police Chief Johnson, Mayor Reeves, Captains Banks, Taggart, and Carson already seated at the table. Before he could say a word, Ellison and Sandburg arrived, Turner right behind them.
Smiling genially as he knew how, Rozinni greeted everyone individually as he sat and waited for the show to begin.
Police Chief Johnson started it by taking out an evidence bag containing a bug and putting it in the middle of the table where everyone could see it. "For the record, this and the rest were removed using due diligence with witnesses from multiple departments, and taken to an outside lab for processing. You were careless, Jack. Your prints are on it, and we got DNA off another that looks to be yours, as well." He laid a tape beside it. "In addition, your men were clumsy. Ellison picked up on being followed and had a video camera set up in his home when they went in to place the bugs. I already know there was no warrant, no just cause. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Several hours later, the yelling, insults, threats and incriminations finally died down. The best part, in Rozinni's humble opinion was when Carson tried to dump the entire mess on him. Without a word, but smiling like a fiend, Rozinni took out the tape recorder he had had going in his pocket and played back the conversation that had taken place in Carson's office. That set off a new burst of fury, but he rode it out without losing his composure once.
In the end, it looked like Carson would lose his command, if not face charges, and Rozinni was going to walk away with an official reprimand. It was his first, likely his only, and a quiet word from the Chief gave him the notion that despite it, he might be stepping into Carson's place, at least temporarily. Lord knew he didn't want the command permanently, but it would be good to ride out the remainder of his service time bringing I.A. up to where it needed to be. The other Captains had already let him know, one by one and very confidentially before he had accepted the job in A.I, that they would back him if he could clean house, once and for all.
When the meeting ended, Rozinni stayed behind until only Sandburg and Ellison were left, boldly holding out a hand. "You've a right to be mad," he said. "And a punch wouldn't be out of line, in my opinion. But I never doubted that you would realize you were being followed. I counted on it while Carson threw out enough rope to hang himself with it."
Predictably, Sandburg shook his hand first. "Simon said he trusted you to do right by us when we went to him with our suspicions; thank you for living up to that."
"I'm more inclined to the punch, myself," Ellison ground out, but shook as well. "But I can see where you had to do what you had to do."
"So when *did* you spot me?" Leaning in to speak confidentially, Rozinni added, "I was trying hard to give the impression of knowing and using every trick in the book not to be caught. At the same time, a lot depended on you doing exactly that."
"At the Old Market," Sandburg piped up. "Saw your face too many times within a few hours; first at the station garage, then as we went by a on-ramp. The market made three, and that's enemy action, even if you're just a civilian consultant."
Laughing long and low, Rozinni sent a mock punch their way as they went out, automatically cleaning up a little and shutting off the lights because he was the last one out. He walked down to the door at the far end of the long room, intending to lock it behind him as he left. Joel Taggart was waiting for him in the little cul-de-sac that marked the entrance to the stairs on that side of the building.
Without hesitation he moved into a hug, pounding on the back of the first rookie he had ever trained. It didn't last anywhere long enough, but he didn't protest when Joel moved to stand beside him, one arm draped loosely over his shoulder. Joel said, "I'm never going to be able to thank you enough for going into I.A. to see if we were right about what was festering there."
"I can't believe how easy it was. The rats didn't bother to hide the fact they were gunning for Major Crimes, they were so sure they were all powerful since they survived the first shake up." Rozinni shook his head. "The new civilian, interdepartmental oversight committee will tamp that down for good, I hope. You know, I don't think it ever occurred to Carson or his cronies that going after Ellison and Sandburg and failing would essentially leave the partners bulletproof for a good long time. Hell, Ellison could pistol whip an old-lady and get away with it, simply by having his rep whisper the word, 'harassment' during questioning."
Looking down the gloomy hallway, Joel whispered fervently, "Good."
Instinctively stepping deeper into the shadows, Rozinni followed his line of sight and saw Ellison and Sandburg standing at the far end of the corridor, locked in a tight embrace. It was dark enough on the Sunday quiet floor that they wouldn't have been visible to anyone not right on top of them. It was only a trick of reflection from the window on the far side of the pair that allowed Rozinni to not only pick them out of the dimness, but identify them.
Sandburg had his face buried on Ellison's shoulder, arms tight around his waist, and standing so close that in the uncertain light they nearly merged into one person. Ellison had his arms wrapped around Sandburg's back, head bent to rest his cheek against the smaller man's temple. It was more than a hug for reassurance or even a lover's clench - so much more. As Rozinni watched, Ellison's anger and frustration was transmuted into something strong and pure that Sandburg soaked up and fed back to his partner, dispelling his own fear and disappointment in the process.
"Maybe," Joel sighed, "maybe now Jim will feel that Blair's safe enough, protected by enough friends here and at Rainier, that he'll take the risk you and I couldn't when we were younger."
"It wasn't just the risk," Rozinni protested softly, unable to tear his eyes away. "It was ignorance, too, and the complications to the life we already had in place. We had more lines to cross, more potential for disaster in so many ways. Partners was better, then. Even now... well, I can understand why either would rather hurt with want than see the other take a bullet in the back from 'friendly' fire."
"Yeah, but I can hope for better for them. Especially them, 'Z; they're special." Joel gave him another squeeze and opened the stairwell door.
The sound ricocheted down the corridor, seemingly carried on the light from the stairs, and Ellison moved away from his partner, putting himself between the disturbance and Sandburg. For a moment, just a split second, Rozinni met Ellison's gaze, still unguarded from his communion with his soul mate. The blue went cold and unyielding, but not before Rozinni read that for whatever reason, whatever rationale, Ellison was done with denying what he and Sandburg wanted and needed, and to hell with the whole damn world.
Weirdly certain Ellison had heard every word of his conversation with Joel, Rozinni said contentedly, "I couldn't agree more."