"Jim, are you OK?"

The soft voice was barely audible over the hum of the elevator's motor, but it pulled Ellison out of his thoughts. He turned to find Blair watching him expectantly. He took in the concern that was clearly visible in his friend's eyes, and managed a small smile, despite his inner turmoil. "Yeah Chief," he lied, "I'm fine."

The rest of the elevator ride was taken in silence, with Blair studying his partner and the object of his attention lost in thought. The door shuddered open with an exhausted-sounding chime, and Blair politely tapped his partner on the shoulder.

The sentinel looked up in surprise, and stepped forward just as the doors were closing again. He held the ancient gate open as Blair slipped out under his arm. The young man was fumbling in his pocket for his keys to the loft. Jim let him search for a few moments longer, then deftly produced his own key and unlocked the door.

Once inside, Blair made a beeline for his room. He had to get out of his jacket and tie. He hated dressing up for formal events, and hated funerals even more. As he stripped off the offending garments, Blair remembered feeling so alone at the cemetery, honoring a man he had never known. It was so strange not to have Jim beside him, since the funeral was for the detective's former partner. But Jim had chosen to watch Jack Pendergast being laid to rest from a distance.

Blair had watched his friend from behind his dark glasses, missing most of the priest's words. Jim seemed to be finding comfort in talking with Jack's old flame. The redhead had remained up on the hill with his partner for a long time after the rest f the mourners had dispersed. Then they parted, with Jim the recipient of a chaste peck on the cheek. The woman did not look back as she walked away.

Sounds from the kitchen drew Blair out of his memories and out of his room. He paused in the doorway, staring at Jim's jacket on the couch. It was very unusual for the sentinel to disobey his own house rules. He glanced from the rumpled piece of clothing to the big man that was moving listlessly around the kitchen. Making a decision, Blair crossed the room and plucked up the jacket, then moved to drape it over the railing leading up to Jim's room.

"Jim," he began, coming into the kitchen, "Here, man. You go sit down. I'll take care of dinner." He slipped the spaghetti pot from Ellison's hands and gave the cop a gentle shove toward the living room. The fact that Jim obeyed him without so much as a protest deepened the feeling of unease that was growing inside Blair's chest. His friend was hurting.

Sinking down into the warmth of the couch, Jim once again counted his blessings. Especially the one young, sweet, curly-haired blessing that was currently making him dinner. Leaning back into the soft cushions, he angled himself so he could watch his roommate cook. Graceful hands chopped onions and peppers, then swept them into the pot of sauce on the stove. Then a handful of fresh oregano was expertly crumbled and dusted into the mix, the earthy aroma teasing Jim's nose and making his mouth water.

He suddenly realized he was starving, and recalled Blair trying in vain to get him to eat a few days ago. That salad, prepared so lovingly and set before him in a humble offering, had touched him more than he'd been able to show at that moment. He'd been too deeply enmeshed in trying to solve his partner's murder...and his innocence.

Jim leaned back and closed his eyes, reaching up to rub at his temples, and the ache that had made itself known there. Less than thirty seconds passed before there was a touch to his arm. He uncovered his aching eyes to find Blair beside him, holding out a glass of water. He took the drink, and obediently opened his palm as Blair held out two aspirin tablets. The anthropologist didn't go back to his cooking until Jim had swallowed the pills and drank down the water. He was rewarded with a sweet smile, and a pat to his shoulder.

"It'll be OK, buddy," Blair said under his breath as he re-entered the kitchen and took the bubbling pot off the stove. He served up two plates of steaming spaghetti, and moved toward the table. Jim looked up at him, and he made a show of moving the big man's plate around, bobbing his eyebrows, trying to tempt him. It worked. Jim chuckled as he pushed himself off the couch and came to the table.

Dinner was a quiet affair, with furtive glances passed back and forth. Forks clinking on plates, beers sloshing in their bottles, and the rasp of paper napkins on stubble-covered chins were the only sounds. As the meal ended, Jim began to clear the plates, only to be stopped by Blair's hand on his arm.

"No, Jim," the young man said softly, "It's OK, I'll take care of it. Why don't you turn in, man? You look exhausted." He was surprised when his friend didn't give any resistance to his offer to clean up; the big man was a firm believer in fairness. One cooks, the other cleans, was Jim's motto in regard to meals. But tonight it seemed the sentinel was in the mood to be indulged.

Blair watched his partner wander aimlessly around the loft, silently urging the big man to go upstairs and get some desperately-needed sleep. Instead, Jim moved to the balcony doors and just stood there, gazing out at the city across the bay. With a shrug, Sandburg turned and began to wash the dishes.

Jim gazed out at the lights flickering across the surface of the bay, finding a small measure of delight in the tiny rainbows that were cast into his eyes. This was the main reason he'd bought this place. This view had soothed many a troubled evening. It was a good way to spend the money he had nearly given his life for three years ago. Unfortunately, the demons he fought tonight were not going to be banished by looking at the water.

Reflected in the dark glass before his face, he could see the kitchen behind him. He watched Blair work at the sink, knowing the young man did not realize he was under scrutiny. The sentinel grinned as he saw the blue eyes shift to look at him every few minutes. /Watching the watcher,/ he thought fondly. He knew he was worrying his young loft mate with his silent, withdrawn behavior, and felt a twinge of remorse.

For some reason, Blair always seemed to take it as a personal failure when Jim refused to open up to him. The kid was an open book most of the time, willing to speak his mind at the drop of a hat. It had to be hard for somebody like Sandburg to deal with someone...like himself, Ellison thought.

"Jim, are you all right?"

Ellison jumped. He'd been so lost in thought, he'd missed Blair's approach. Now the kid would want him to talk, tell about his feelings. He'd been loathing this moment ever since they had found Jack's car in the river. He knew it was inevitable; Blair was like a pitbull when it came to getting someone to talk to him.

He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released it in a long sigh. "Blair," he said, at the tail end of the exhalation, "I don't want to talk about it now...OK?" He watched Blair's reflection, heart aching a bit when a brief look of hurt passed over the young face. "It's not you Chief," Jim added quickly, "I just don't feel like talking to anyone tonight. Please?" He tacked the magic word onto the end of the phrase, hoping it would convince his Guide to let the matter drop, for now. It seemed to work. Blair just nodded a little and patted him lightly on the back.

"Sure, big guy," Blair murmured quietly. "I understand." He turned away, and moved to sit on the couch, picking up one of his texts en route. From the figure at the window, he heard the faintest reply.

"I know you do Blair. It's what makes you so special."

Sandburg actually felt a faint tremor of pleasure ripple through his body. Such heartfelt, meaningful praise was rare from his stoic partner. So unusual was Jim's reply, that he was almost too distracted to notice when the big man hung his head in despair. A shuddery sigh followed, pulling the young man out of his reverie. He looked over at Jim, and quickly got to his feet as the sentinel leaned forward, one hand reaching up to lay against the glass, the other rubbing over his face.

"Jim?" Sandburg breathed, wary of reproach. His friend had already told him he didn't want to talk. He knew he was courting danger by pressing the issue. Sure enough, the hand on the window pulled back to wave him off. He paused at the gesture, torn between following his partner's wishes and giving into the need to comfort. As Jim folded his arms and hugged himself, Blair made his decision.

Ellison tilted his head back, slowly rocking back and forth on his boot heels. He gripped his own elbows, tightening his arms across his chest, trying to crush the guilt that ate at his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut against the memories. His body tangled together with hers...the answering machine...missing the call that could have saved Jack's life.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft hand on his back. Sandburg. Obviously the kid was not taking the hints he was so obviously throwing out. Perhaps a more passive approach would work. Squaring his shoulders against the soothing touch that stroked between his shoulder blades, Jim straightened. He tightened his arms around his chest, giving off an unmistakable aura of 'leave me alone'.

The hand left his back, and he sighed in relief, thinking he'd won. Then, he heard Blair moving behind him and a moment later, soft, curly hair touched the underside of his left arm. Without changing his pose, he glanced down to see Blair in a slight crouch beside him, the top of his head pressed into the curve between Jim's elbow and chest. The sentinel watched, amused, as Blair began to gently twist his neck back and forth, pressing his head up more insistently against his arm.

Ellison gave a little, loosening his arms ever so slightly. He grinned slightly as Blair took advantage of the leeway, burrowing his head up between Jim's arm and chest like a baby struggling to be born. A few more moments of subtle wriggling and Blair's left arm broke through the barrier between Ellison's arms and chest. Soon, after much squirming and squeezing, coupled with a little give on Jim's part, Blair was nestled against his chest and hugging him like he'd never let go.

It was well worth the battle, Blair decided as he felt the big arms loosen to let him in, then close and hold him tight. He knew Jim Ellison would never just give in to something as spontaneous and vulnerable as a hug. One had to sneak it onto him, bit by bit, so that he didn't realize what was going on until it was too late. He wallowed in his success, closing his eyes and soaking up the big man's warmth. The strong hands gently caressed his back and scalp, and a soft chuckle rumbled the chest against his cheek.

"Persistent little thing, aren't you?"

Blair tilted his head to look up at his room mate, keeping his cheek pressed against Jim's shirtfront. Sparkling blue eyes smiled down at him, and he returned the look tenfold, tightening his arms around the sentinel. The hand on his scalp moved, cupping his skull and gently guiding his head to rest more tightly against the broad chest. Blair snuggled closer still as he felt the faintest brush of lips across his crown. And again.

Jim touched his lips twice to his Guide's curls, them smoothing the spots with his fingertips. He lowered his face, and lay his cheek against the top of Blair's head, nuzzling against the fragrant, silky strands. He could feel the smaller body in his arms drawing the pain and guilt out like a poultice, and he willingly gave himself over to it. He never imagined that being held, or holding someone, could be so very comforting.

For a long, long time Sentinel and Guide clung to each other, drawing and giving strength, sharing comfort, and revealing hearts. There were no witnesses, no outsiders looking in. Only the very special pair holding tight to each other, bathed in the evening lights of Cascade in a quiet loft apartment at eight fifty-two Prospect.

THE END