Jim leaned back against the rock wall and watched his partner approach him. The appearance of several hot, sunny days in mid-April had come as a shock to the city of Cascade, and the ice cream vendors were doing brisk business all up and down the waterfront.

Blair had met him here after his morning office hours, during Jim's lunch break, so that the two of them could discuss their camping plans. Jim's shift hours this week left him with Thursdays and Fridays off, so they were going to make it a four-day weekend and go to Muir Woods in northern California.

Blair had made excited noises about "returning to the jungle," and "Sentinel in his natural environment"--all Jim knew was that it was a destination, and a place to explore with his Guide.

Blair was a good person for that, he mused, watching Blair coming back toward him in that energetic, irrepressible walk of his, light and bouncing. He had a real love for the outdoors, despite his academic bent, and the two of them usually spent free weekends hiking or camping. One of these days he'd have to teach Blair how to fish, Jim thought, balling up the paper plates that their hot dogs had come with and making a two-point shot to the nearby trash can.

Someone hailed Blair from across the park, and Blair grinned widely and stopped to yell a reply. Not that it was surprising--Blair knew everybody. He knew every single grad student and professor at Rainier, and most of the undergrads. He knew three-quarters of the female population of the Cascade dating scene.

He knew almost every social worker, charity volunteer, or counselor in the city. He knew the New-Agers, friends of his mom and himself, who talked about the Goddess and hung crystals in their window and looked at Jim with sympathy when Jim revealed that he was allergic to sage.

He even knew the pigs. Jim laughed silently to himself, remembering the reaction of that woman--what had she called herself? Snowflake? Snowstorm? Something like that. What she'd said when they'd visited and she found out that Jim was a cop. "Oh Blair, honey, I should *never* have let Naomi give you that GI Joe for Solstice." Even the memory of Blair's face at that zinger was enough to make him grin, a year later.

But it was an impressive accomplishment, how many social levels he traversed with ease--and to a reserved, stoic loner like Jim had been all his life, it was nothing less than stunning. Sometimes Jim wondered just what this social, open man was doing as his partner. The life he'd had before was so different--the *man* was so different...

Why?

Blair was the most contradictory man Jim had ever known, he'd decided long ago. He was short, and broad, and his hair was wild around his shoulders, but underneath the baggy clothes was a body as toned and wiry as could be imagined. His clothing was a bizarre mix of tribal-made and Goodwill, but his sneakers were expensive and cutting-edge.

He listened to an oddly complimentary mix of tribal music, classic jazz, and the latest rock and roll. His room was beautifully decorated in masks, statues, and native-woven rugs, and totally buried in books, clothes, papers, and journals. He was a social butterfly who knew everybody and yet had few close friends, a hippy born and bred, and yet deeply sensitive to the greater culture.

A more unlikely-looking friend of a cop never walked the earth, decided Jim, and yet this was it. Somehow. This was him, this was the man. His friend.

Chief.

He grinned at Blair as the man handed him his ice cream cone, vanilla soft-serve in a sugar cone wrapped in paper. Blair looked startled, and then smiled back--a slow, easy, happy smile.

And Jim fell.

It was a shock--complete and total shock. His hands started shaking, and he almost dropped his cone. For a second, he wondered if it wouldn't have been better to drop it, get a new one and put some space between them, but Blair's big, square hand was wrapping around his, steadying it, and the ice cream cone survived unscathed. He shrugged off Blair's worried glance, glad when it melted into a pensive look. At least Blair wasn't going to be trying to analyze this. God knew, that was the last thing he needed.

He hadn't even known he was on the edge. Hadn't even dreamed he could fall.

Jim nodded his thanks for the quick save, and Blair smiled again slightly, letting go of Jim's hand and licking at his own cone, swirling his tongue around the cool creamy whiteness. It looked delicious, and smelled even better--good old vanilla, never too overwhelming for his senses, always available, always delicious. And this was good ice cream--soft, heavy-rich, and creamy. Nice and distracting.

He's a long-haired hippy freak, he's everything I hated--so when did I fall in love?

He licked at his own cone, and the flavor exploded on his tongue. He watched Blair making painstaking swirl patterns in the malleable surface, and found himself holding his breath, found himself duplicating the sweeps and brushes of that velvety tongue.

Oh, Jimbo, you are definitely in trouble here.

Blair gave Jim a curious look, and Jim started, reminding himself to breathe. No zoning out on the Guide, he reminded himself. No zoning out on your *male* Guide, who may not be as okay with this as you seem to be.

And where the hell did all of this acceptance come from? Jim took a rather bemused lick at his ice cream and twitched in surprise as he felt a spot of sudden cold blossom on his nose. Blair snickered at him, and reached over.

"Here, hold still, man," he said, carefully swiping across Jim's nose with his fingertip and removing the offending smear of ice cream. Absently he licked it off his own finger, and smirked at Jim. "Much better."

Jim stared at him, fighting to keep his jaw. What?! Was that Blair? What did that mean?

Blair blinked, looking blank when Jim eyed him suspiciously, apparently oblivious to Jim's confusion. Had that meant what Jim thought it meant? Was he just too sensitive right now, seeing ghosts in every shadow? Was Blair serious, or just fooling around?

After one more concerned look, Blair turned his attention back to his cone, which was starting to melt. Swiftly he chased small rivulets of ice cream down the mountain of ice cream and onto the sugar cone, licking quickly to prevent it from dripping on his knuckles. Suddenly there was a muffled curse, and Blair looked up, eyes sparkling with amusement and a long dripped path of ice cream across his chin and mouth.

"Your turn," said Blair, half-laughing, and Jim nodded. It was his turn.

He looked around half-instinctively, feeling his heart start to race. He was holding his breath. So was Blair, he noticed absently. Reaching out, he carefully wiped off the cool vanilla from Blair's face. Blair was still, not moving a muscle. He's as uncertain as you are, a small voice told Jim, and he gave in. Okay. Okay. I'll do it.

Please let this be...

He leaned forward, delicately touching Blair's shoulder with his free hand, and licked the ice cream off of Blair's skin, and mouth.

There was a gasp under his mouth, and then Blair's tongue came out, met his, warm and firm and deft. It caressed him, welcomed him. Home.

...*right.*

The sensation of something cold and sticky and wet dripping onto his knuckles broke them apart, and he drew back. There was a long, precarious moment, where he fought for the strength to look into those blue eyes. When it came, he raised his head, at the same time as Blair's wonderful mouth, still sweet with vanilla, moved into a wide grin.

"Glad you figured it out, man," came the voice, resonant with quiet peace and gentle humor.

**************

It wasn't candlelight, when Jim finally realized that he loved Blair, and Blair loved him back.

It wasn't a fancy restaurant.

It wasn't an elaborate dinner.

It was life.

It was the park.

And it was vanilla ice cream.

The End