Blair looked around his room. He had the most unreasonable urge to pick up the clutter, to sort things out, to put things to order. As if he were expecting an important guest. But of course, all he was doing was going to the hospital to pick Jim up.

He took a deep breath. Yes, he could do this. No different than any of the other times he'd picked Jim up from the hospital, right? Yeah right.

Blair pursed his lips and surveyed the room again. Bed made, check. When was the last time he'd made the bed? It wasn't like Jim was coming in here -- well, Jim had walked in here a million times when the bed was unmade, and it'd never bothered him before, but now... Not that they were likely to end up here. No, sir. If things progressed to that stage, he'd definitely make sure they ended up upstairs. He'd had quite plenty of narrow, cramped quarters yesterday, thank you very much.

And, and, would things actually progress? Were they really going to...?

Puffing his cheeks and breathing out a long frustrated sigh, Blair threw himself down onto the bed, snuggling up to the pillow. His bed. His pillow. His blankets. His room. His eyes glanced across the tribal mask on the wall, the pile of laundry in the corner, the stack of books and papers on the desk, the small dresser which held most of his clothes, the bookcase... No way all this would fit upstairs. If there was going to be an upstairs.

God, they'd talked about everything and nothing while waiting to be dug out, but somehow they'd managed to miss this topic. What were they going to do about this room? Would they tell anybody? Well, Simon already knew, he had seen, and, and, Blair had no idea what the man was thinking. He'd just been... Simon... when he met them at the hospital. All gruff and bustling and efficiently in control. And once the hubbub had died down, and Jim was settled in a hospital bed for the night, it'd been Joel waiting to drive him home -- and he'd been too afraid to ask about Simon.

Blair rolled onto his back and buried his face in his hands. Yesterday suddenly seemed a long time ago -- a fading dream, disconnected from reality. They'd been so wrapped up in themselves, in that enclosed space, just the two of them, together. Now, here, back out in the world, in broad daylight... had they really felt those things, thought those thoughts, said those words?

Jim. Jim's weight, pressing into him. His arms, surrounding him, holding him close, shielding him. He would have happily died in those arms. But could he live in those arms? The press of Jim's body against his, the spike of thrill as he felt Jim going for it, that insistent rhythm, rocking against him and through him -- how would it feel with both of them naked, skin on skin? With Jim inside him?

The sharp insistent knock on the loft door jolted Blair right off the bed. In half a daze, he scrambled out of his room. "Hello?" he called out.

"Delivery!" yelled the voice on the other side of the door.

"Uh, okay," Blair muttered. Delivery? What for? They hadn't ordered anything to be delivered, had they? Shit. What if this was yet another wacko criminal? Cautiously, Blair peered through the peephole. An unremarkable guy in a nondescript uniform was standing there, holding something long and stick-like that Blair couldn't quite make out. Well, if that was a rifle, he'd know soon enough.

Blair opened the door.

The guy peered down at his pad. "Ellison-Sandburg?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah," Blair agreed automatically.

"Here, sign this." The guy thrust the pad and a pen at Blair. Blair struggled to balance the pad and scrawl something that at least faintly resembled his signature, and returned the pad. The guy threw a cursory glance at Blair's scrawl, scribbled his own notation somewhere near it, then thrust the object he was holding at Blair.

"Uh... thanks," Blair muttered to a retreating back.

Back inside the loft, Blair finally looked at the object he'd been given. It was indeed long and stick-like. In fact, the part he was holding, which was unwrapped, was a stick -- well some kind of wood, anyway. Just the right thickness to fit comfortably in his hand, like a broom sti...

Blair eyed the other end of the object, covered in plain brown paper. If it didn't bulk out so much, he would, in fact, think this was a broom. Noticing the envelope taped to the wrapping, Blair bent down to detach it. On the front, neat block letters declared: TO JIM AND BLAIR.

Puzzled, Blair flipped the envelope and pulled out the card, a plain tasteful off-white that matched the envelope. Simon's distinctive longhand leapt at him:

I am deeply honored to have you as my friends.
Wishing you the best,
Simon

With trembling hands, Blair ripped apart the wrapping. The smell of cut grass and herbs hit him full in the face. Blair stared incredulously at the broom, obviously handcrafted, of the highest workmanship, decorated with a festive yet tasteful bow and a small wreath of assorted dried herbs and flowers. Not covered with ribbons as had been the one at Brown's cousin's wedding. That one had had a wreath that matched the bride's flowers, and everyone had taken turns wrapping it up in colorful ribbons, and someone had found a dustpan and declared it to be the "gride" to robust cheers of glee and amusement. But the crowd had grown quiet and solemn as the minister got up to explain the history and symbolism of the broom, talking of a time when slaves were not free to marry. Together, the bride and groom had swept a circle in the middle of the dance floor to symbolize the sweeping away of the old for a fresh start, then jumped over the broom to thunderous applause.

Blair blinked hard and furiously wiped his eyes across the back of his hand. With a start, he realized that the clock was showing the time when he was supposed to be at the hospital. He grabbed the bag of Jim's clothes that he'd packed earlier and started toward the door, then realized he was still holding the broom. Peering wildly around the room, he opened the closet, shoved the broom inside, and hurried out the door.

He was halfway to the hospital before it occurred to him that maybe he should call Jim to let him know he was late. But drivers talking on cell phones was catching up to drunk driving as the number one cause of car accidents, and Jim would have his hide if he got into an accident and ended up right in the hospital bed that Jim was about to vacate. Oh hell, who was he kidding? He didn't want to call Jim, wasn't sure what he'd say or do if he heard that voice coming through a phone right now. For that matter, what would he do when he saw Jim?

Blair swung into the hospital parking lot and pulled into the first empty space he found. Grabbing the bag, he jumped out of the car and trotted across the lot. Damn, he wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing he could apparently drive from the loft to the hospital on auto-pilot, but he sure didn't remember how he got here. He kept up a fast pace through the hospital corridor, not allowing himself to stop until he was at Jim's door.

And there Jim was, sitting on the bed, looking at him, and the world righted itself, just like that. There, in that faint smile, was everything Blair ever needed, that deep steady connection, pulsing warmly between them -- and suddenly Blair was calm. The buzz of excitement still hummed through his nerves, but Jim's presence grounded him, focused the energy, drawing Blair inexorably to Jim, and Blair found himself next to the bed and placing the bag of clothes on Jim's lap, and Jim reached out and lightly placed a hand on Blair's arm, and Blair leaned into the familiar feel of Jim's fingers, knowing this touch, knowing he would always respond to it, to those eyes looking gently into his.

"Hey," Jim breathed.

"Hey," Blair breathed back, stolidly resisting the urge to bend down and kiss Jim.

Jim's lips twitched as if he read Blair's mind -- or maybe he was just resisting a similar urge to lean up and kiss Blair. His hand tightened a bit on Blair's arm, then he was shifting, grabbing the bag and swinging his legs out, pushing himself off the bed -- and Jim's hand left Blair's arm only to end up on Blair's shoulder, and they were shuffling side by side toward the bathroom, and Blair found that his hand had gone up and around to rest on Jim's back -- and they had done this a thousand times before, touched each other, held each other casually like this, and it was just the same as all the other times before, only tinged with the knowledge of more, more that was and more to come.

"So," Jim said, stopping in front of the bathroom door, "You wanna run by the nurse's station and tell them to roll out the wheelchair?"

"Paperwork?" Blair asked.

"All done," Jim grinned, as he walked into the bathroom with a parting pat to Blair's shoulder.

"What?" Blair squeaked. "You did the paperwork all by yourself?"

"Hey." Jim paused with one hand on the doorknob. "I used to do my paperwork just fine on my own before you came along."

"Not according to Simon, you didn't."

"Now what would Simon know about that?" Jim shot back with a straight face. "Go, get the chair, Chief. I want out of here."

With that, Jim closed the door, and Blair turned toward the nurse's station. Ten minutes later Jim was being rolled out into the parking lot. Blair was about to trot across the lot to bring the car around, but to his surprise the orderly turned out to be amenable to letting Jim out of the chair to walk to the car.

"Wouldn't they be liable if you collapse in their parking lot?" Blair asked as Jim fell in beside him.

"I dunno, and I don't intend to find out," said Jim, striding easily next to Blair. Their arms brushed, and their hands slid naturally into each other, and there they were, calmly walking hand-in-hand across the parking lot of Cascade General like they did this every day, and somewhere in Blair's mind, he wasn't sure that they didn't.

And Blair knew this was going to work, they were going to be just fine, because hey, this was... and they were... well, they were just so together already, and hey, Simon had even gotten them a broom, and maybe when they got home, they could actually jump the thing. And he started giggling, and Jim looked at him quizzically and asked what was so funny, and he just grinned and said, "Nothing," and went right on giggling.

And Jim strolled right on, hand still holding Blair's, watching him with bemused, indulgent eyes, and they had gotten to the car, and Blair was still sort of hitching occasionally as he fished for the keys, and Jim just leaned down and pressed a swift kiss to Blair's cheek, right there in broad daylight in the middle of the parking lot of Cascade General.

By the time Blair had recovered from the shock, Jim had already circled around to the passenger side and was grinning at him from safely across the hood.

"Prick," Blair mouthed as he opened the door.

"And I love you, too," Jim tossed back.

It was a good thing Blair could drive from the hospital to the loft on auto-pilot, because he sure didn't remember how he got there.