The banquet was conveniently being held in one of the hotel's conference rooms, so all they had to do was go downstairs and locate it. At the door a chipper hostess-type examined their IDs, checked their names off the list on a clipboard, and gave them name tags. "Terrific," grumbled Jim. "Reminds me of the time I had to go undercover at a speed dating event. I wish they'd just done the last name--there are people out there I don't want calling me by my first name."

"Funny thing about the use of names," said Spencer as they walked into the room. "Depending on whether you use given or surnames, and the current era, you could easily either insult, or show respect. Take the domestic situation."

"Marriage?" said Jim.

"I think he means domestic as in servants," said Blair. "You know, maids and such."

"Either one, actually," said Spencer. "Up till the last few generations it wasn't all that uncommon for married people to refer to each other as Mister and Missus, even in private. And with servants there was a duality. The employer could refuse to use either the first, or the last names--both indicated the social inferiority of the the servant."

"I remember something from that British miniseries," said Jim. "The lady of the house thought that the maid's name was too refined, so she just told her that they'd call her Sarah."

"Jim!" said Blair. "You watched Upstairs, Downstairs?"

"What? You think I never take it off ESPN?" They'd reached the tables now, and were peering around. "Well, thank God they didn't do place cards. We can sit together." Spencer blinked at him. "Unless you don't want to?"

"No. I just figured you'd probably have some friends you wanted to sit with," said Spencer.

"I haven't spotted anyone I know," said Blair, "but I classify you as a friend, Spencer. Or you can make that a pre-friend, if you want."

"Thank you. I've never enjoyed eating alone."

"But you wouldn't be alone. All these tables seat at least six."

"Metaphorically speaking. It's entirely possible to be alone in a crowd."

"Yes, it is."

"I'm pretty used to it, but it doesn't mean I enjoy it." He took a seat.

Jim and Blair sat at his right, with Blair taking the seat next to him. He reflected that Spencer's last remark had been a sad commentary on the life of someone thrust into higher education at an early age. College at the average age was stressful enough, and if you weren't a gregarious sort you tended to end up isolated. Blair hadn't had that problem, but he'd known plenty of others who had. In fact, he'd taken the challenge of socializing more than one fellow academic (and not all of them through the method of seduction.)

There was a small brouchure laid out before each seat, and Jim picked it up. "Welcome Associates. I guess that since we're FBI, local police, and military police--officers, administrators, agents, CSIs, and forensic techs they couldn't come up with another single term for us all." He opened the thin booklet. "Here's the schedule of events, seminars, and lectures. Damn. They really covered most of the next two days. You'd have to have a clone to attend even half of these. Which ones are you going to, Spencer?"

"The only ones I know for sure are my own and the talk you two will be giving," said Spencer.

"What are you speaking on?" asked Blair.

"Spiritual and religious indicators in the investigation of serial murders."

"Lots of that, isn't there?" said Blair.

"Religion and spirituality play a larger part in the world than many people realize. We've caught some killers through being aware of the influences, and they later expressed surprise, saying that they were athiests. It didn't occure to them that was a spiritual belief."

Jim was scanning the schedule. "I don't see you listed here."

"I was a last minute substitute. In fact, I don't think JJ arranged to send anyone until just a few days before this event. Let me see." He opened his own brouchure and immediately touched the page. "Here. 'Quantico Representative--subject to be announced.'"

"Where--? Oh, there it is. I missed that on the first scan," said Jim. "How did you find it so quickly?"

"If you know where to look..." began Blair.

"I read 20,000 words a minute," said Spencer.

Blair gaped, but Jim said, "That must have come in handy in school."

"I never had to resort to Cliff Notes. Hm. You two will have to be up early tomorrow--you're the second scheduled presentation."

"Yeah," said Blair. "They wanted us to be first, but I'm not getting up before six for anything except fishing or," he wiggled his eyebrows at Jim, "some other pleasant form of exertion."

Spencer looked between the two men, and he just knew. There was no suspicion, no gradually dawning awareness. He simply knew that Jim Ellison and Blair sandburg were lovers. He'd speculated about that even before he'd met the men--ever since he and the rest of the world had first become aware of the actuality of Sentinels and Guides. Nothing was explicitly stated, but the level of bonding in such a situation clearly indicated that intimacy on all levels would be the most logical relationship.

Far from being shocked or disgusted by the knowledge, Spencer was... tittilated. *And that's just wrong,* he berated himself. *They're being kind by giving you shelter, and you're speculating about their love life. If I believed in extra-sensory powers I might think that fantasy in the shower meant I was getting in touch with my inner psychic. Maybe I ought to check with the desk again to see if there's been a cancellation. After all, they'll want privacy.* He took another look, noticing Jim's large, but agile, hands, and the curve of Blair's lips when he smiled. *But then again maybe I'll get lucky and they'll make out if they think I'm asleep.*

"Usually at these shindigs they have some sort of menu card to let you know what you're getting into," said Jim. "I just hope they actually feed us. I'm going to be ticked off if I have to hit the mini bar or call room service when we get back to the room."

The room had filled up as they sat talking, and there were very few empty seats. A man in late middle age, holding a microphone, stood up in front of the room. "Exuse me, gentlemen," he bowed, "and ladies. I can remember the day when I wouldn't have had to use two genders in that greeting unless someone had brought a date." There were a few chuckles. "And I'm delighted that those days are gone. In any case, welcome to the fifty-fifth annual Interdepartmental Law Enforcement Providers Conference. This is a record setting year. Besides our American, Canadian, and Mexican representatives, we have attendees from England, Russia, France, Germany, Italy, Belgium, South Africa, Paraguay, Sweden, Australia, and..." He smiled. "Since you're all looking pretty hungry, I'll let those interested read the entire list in the brouchure." A number of waiters and waitresses entered, carrying heavily laden trays, and began to distribute plates of food. "Service is family style, so just sit back, take your time, and enjoy. We've arranged for drink specials in the Tempest Lounge, but I have to warn you..." he grinned, "I believe that tonight is karaoke night."

There was general laughter as he sat down. Jim leaned over to survey the full platter that had been placed on their table. "What in the name of pluperfect hell is that?"

Blair examined the plate. It held neat rows of anchovies, chopped roast beef, onions, chopped hard boiled eggs and garnishes. "My guess would be some sort of appetizer, considering it's placement in the meal order. It's not antipasto."

"Salmagundi," said Spencer.

"Beg pardon?" said Jim.

"Salmagundi is a dish of chopped meat, fish, eggs, and onions. From the French salmigondis, and the older versions salmigoundin and salmigondin," as he spoke Spencer was spooning some of each item onto his plate. "Most likely from the name of the noblewoman who first concocted it for Henri the IV, or possibly VI--there are two versions of the story. If it was all mixed together it might be considered a chopped salad, but given its arrangement--salmagundi. I like the cherry tomatos down the center. It's a nice touch." He picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it over the plate, then reached for two small shaker bottles. "Garnished with lemon juice, oil, and vinegar." He shook the liquids liberally over the food, then set it aside and reached toward the other condiments. "I'd recommend pepper, too."

Jim and Blair watched as he speared a cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. He misinterpretted why they were staring at him. When he swallowed he said, "You should try it. I know it looks like the dog's dinner, but it's surprisingly good."

"Good enough for me," declared Blair. He and Jim both took hearty helpings, but Blair refused the anchovies, saying, "I am not eating a hairy fish."

Jim keeping his eyes fixed carefully on his plate, muttered, "I could say something about hairy things and eating right now, but..."

"But you won't," said Blair warningly. *Because Spencer almost choked on a cracker. I think he's a little more aware than we suspected.* He looked at Spencer and said, "He insists on getting them on our pizzas, and I keep telling him that even if he orders them on one half, their very presence in the room contaminates the rest."

"Really?" Spencer gestured with his fork. "I'd have expected that more of him. The sense of taste is so dependent on scent, and since both of his are enhanced... Oh. You were teasing." Blair and Jim smiled. "I get it. I get these things, but it sometimes takes me a few seconds."

"Having your brain work at warp speed can be a bit of a disadvantage," said Blair, "Sometimes it's hard to keep from leaping ahead a few steps, then everyone thinks you're behind, instead of realizing that you're actually ahead."

Jim had started eating. "This is pretty good. Now that I think about it, I have heard this term before, but isn't it used for something other than food?"

"Yes. It can also mean any mixture or assortment. Synonyms are potpourri, melange, medley, miscellany... Why are you two laughing? That's a legitimate definition."

Blair wiped his eyes. "Personal joke, man. I think we'll probably tell you about it before the conference is over."** Blair looked at the serving plate, then looked at Jim's plate. "Jim, you hog--you took the last of the cherry tomatoes. I only got one."

"You snooze, you lose," said Jim.

"Ha ha." Blair's hand darted, and before Jim could block him he'd speared a tomato and popped it in his mouth.

Jim growled. "You're lucky we're in public." He finished the food on his plate. "That was pretty good. Now, if they just refrain from that delicate nouvelle cuisine."

"Julia Child," said Spencer, "said that the trouble she had with nouvelle cuisine was that it was just so beautiful and perfectly arranged that you just knew that someone back in the kitchen had had their hands all over it. Are you all right?" Blair had been taking a sip of water. He didn't spray, but he choked a little. Spenser patted him on the back. "I don't know why I'm doing this. It doesn't really help. I guess it's more of a supportive and comforting gesture."

Blair's voice was breathy. "Whatever, it's appreciated."

They all enjoyed the rest of the meal (which was not either nouvelle cuisine, or the infamous 'rubber chicken' so common to public banquets). Jim came to the conclusion that Spencer wasn't as clueless as they'd first thought--and his social awkwardness was mostly surface. Like most profilers he was very aware of human nature--he just hadn't had experience in a wide range of social situations. Plus there was a bit of common expectations fulfillment at work. People took in his appearance, learned of his high IQ, and expected him to be a certain way. It was stereotyping, but if enough people expect something from you for long enough, it's hard to avoid conforming, even if you're conscious of what's happening.

Before they'd reached dessert Jim and Blair had come to similar conclusions--they both wanted very much to get Dr. Spencer Reid in the sack and attempt to wear him out. He was exactly what they'd decided they wanted on the way to the conference. He was sharp, and cute in a slightly nerdish way. All signs pointed to him being sexually aware without being crude, and he'd subtly indicated that he wouldn't be adverse to a little attention. It was possible that had been mostly unconscious, but Jim and Blair viewed it in the 'Freudian slip' category.

The dessert was triple chocolate layer cake--chocolate cake, chocolate icing, and chocolate mousse filling, decorated with dribbles of chocolate sauce, and curls of dark and white chocolate. Spencer sat looking at his, fork in hand, for a full minute. "What's wrong?" asked Jim. "Are you a vanilla person?" Blair pinched his leg under the tablecloth for the double entendre.

Spencer said, "No. I'm just thinking that if I eat this the way I want to eat it my nerd factor will go way up."

"I'd say that as long as you aren't going to lower your face into the plate like you're at a pie eating contest, or grab a bare handful--go for it," said Blair.

"I think I will." Spencer proceeded to neatly eat the cake from between the filling and icing.

Jim and Blair (who had been eating their own cake in a very prosaic manner), watched in amused disbelief. Finally when all there was left was an icing skeleton with a mousse rib, Jim said, "Spencer, if you don't want that..."

Spencer put his hand in front of it, like a shield. "I want it, all right. I like cake, but I love the icing. My mother used to increase the ingredients when she made icing so that there'd be some left in the bowl for me."

"You mean to tell me that your mother baked--and iced with something that didn't come out of a can or box?" said Blair.

"Your mother didn't?"

"My mother considered making S'mores to be cooking from scratch." They continued watching as Spencer finished his treat. He didn't lick his fork clean, but he slipped the tines into his mouth and sucked them for a couple of seconds to get every last sugary bit. Then he licked a chocolate smear off his bottom lip. It took him two tries. *Son of a bitch,* thought Blair. *I'm getting hard. That's it. It's Kismet. He's going to say yes. If he doesn't, the Universe is seriously out of line.*

After Spencer finished his cake he drank a little water. Then he picked up the lemon wedge that he'd kept on his plate after the salmagundi dish had been taken away. He bit the lemon, sucking it for a moment, then took another drink. He noticed Jim and Blair staring, and said, "Natural breath freshener. I had anchovies, pickled onions, and garlic with the pork roast. I don't want to asphyxiate anyone who gets close to me. I may have to ride the elevator with someone."

Jim gave Blair a look that conveyed 'time to get a little more open', and said, "Do you have a girlfriend, Spencer?"

"Jim!" This time Blair did punch him on the arm.

"What? He's nice looking, personable..." Spencer was blinking, obviously trying to decide if Jim was sincere, or bullshitting him, "intelligent, and considerate. Wouldn't that make him good boyfriend material?"

Blair playfully punched him on the arm again. "Like you should worry about that! Please answer him, Spence. Otherwise he'll drive you away with pestering you."

"He's only saying that because that way he'll know, too, but he can pretend that he wasn't just as curious as me."

Spencer looked down at his plate, mashing a few crumbs with his fork. "No girlfriend." He repeated the same move he'd done with the last bit of icing on the fork. While he did this, he came to a decision. When he put down his fork he said, "No boyfriend, either."

Almost in unison, Jim and Blair relaxed back into their chairs. During their time as swingers they'd gotten very good at judging when someone had decided that they were interested in playing. They had a feeling that Dr. Spencer Reid was a little like a child who'd just been offered his first 'grown up' bicycle--knowing that he might have a few bumps and scrapes, but very, very eager for the experience.