ROUGH TRADE

Standing in the kitchen, Detective James Ellison, Major Crimes, Cascade P.D., noted the noise of activity coming from his partner's room. The native, Blair Sandburg, was a little less than energized this morning. Ellison adjusted the gas on the stove, then spooned a gob of butter into the skillet. Yellow spattered against the heat creating a pleasant little spitz! He lifted the pan, swirling the butter about until the surface was sufficiently coated. The resulting aroma was blatantly sensual, a perfect beacon.

Blair emerged within the next heartbeat, pulling an over-sized, faded red flannel shirt over a pale gray t-shirt. Cascade's ever present humidity had styled his shoulder length curls, transforming them into a restless cloud. He lurched into the kitchen, smoky blue eyes at half mast, padding along in sock-clad feet.

"Just let me get to the coffee," Blair groaned. "And no one gets hurt."

"I guess you could trip and kill yourself at that." Jim poured a mixture of eggs and milk into the skillet. "What time did you get to bed last night?"

"I didn't get to bed, I got to couch." Blair took a mug from the cabinet and filled it. "I had to finish grading Mr. Hester's term papers. Then I thought I'd wind down, go over some sentinel notes. Had the headphones on, didn't hear the alarm. Next thing I know, the sun is up and I've got all the lyrics to the latest Hunt CD pounding through my skull."

"Hunt?"

"The Hunt," Blair emphasized. He took a grateful sip of coffee. "They're a kind of blues-rock, ultra sound combining classic material with traditional tribal rhythms ... like the trance music of the Master Musicians of Jajouka in Morocco."

"Like Led Zeppelin."

"What?"

"William Burroughs said Zeppelin used Moroccan trance rhythms in their concerts." Jim added a handful of chives to the eggs. "It was supposed to generate a kind of psychic hygiene. If you believe in that kind of stuff."

"Hello, stranger." Blair stopped dead in his tracks. "Who are you and what have you done with the real James Ellison?"

"What's the problem, chief? Don't tell me you don't like Zeppelin?"

"Zeppelin's great. Are you telling me you've read Burroughs?"

"No. Used to read Liner Notes, though."

"An underground '70s rock-zine. Right." Blair nodded.

"Right. A guy in our unit used to contribute." Jim flipped the egg-mixture a final time. "Dave Eggleston. He was a total Zep freak."

"I might've guessed." Blair smiled over the rim of his mug. "Don't ever change, Jim."

Ellison shot him a glance. "Who is this Burroughs guy anyway?"

Blair took in a deep breath, preparing to launch into lecture mode — then paused. "Do you really want to know or are you just jerking my chain?"

Jim focused in on the eggs. He didn't bother to hide the grin. "Would I do that?"

"Every chance you get, smart ass." Blair punched his arm, not too lightly. "Just wait."

"Is that a threat, Sandburg?"

"What - do I suddenly look suicidal to you?"

Yawning, Blair set the mug down and began to remove items from the refrigerator. He took a bowl out of the cabinet. Jim watched him spoon out yogurt, raspberries and granola and mix them together. Those were the ingredients he recognized.

"Do you have to do that now?" Jim asked. A pained expression crossed classically handsome features.

"Just repeat after me, 'Nutrition is a good thing. Vitamins are our friends.'" This was another take on an ancient conversation. Blair lifted a spoonful of the yogurt mixture towards his partner. "And it tastes good, too."

"No." Ellison ducked the spoon. "I not swallowing anything that looks like goat vomit."

Blair swallowed the spoonful himself. "How did you ever survive eighteen months in Peru without a Big Mac?"

"I went with the tribal version - Big Yak. It wasn't too bad." Jim took two plates out of the oven. He spooned up eggs in equal portions, piling them beside turkey sausage and stoneground, seven-grain toast. James Ellison waged no personal vendetta against nutrition - just against food he couldn't identify in a glance. Or even a second glance. Personal observations had led him to understand that Blair's concoctions required a forensic specialist to unravel the contents.

Blair gathered strawberry preserves, peanut butter, juice, glasses, yogurt mixture and other oddments onto a tray and followed Jim to the table. They set up and sat down, breakfasting in easy silence. Ellison listened to the radio news and looked through the newspaper. Blair put on his glasses and leafed through notes scribbled on a worn legal pad.

Eventually, Jim put his paper aside to concentrate on breakfast. The newscaster's drone gave way to a soft jazz piece. The station was a compromise between Ellison's rock classics and Sandburg's alternative anything. Jim sat back and watched Blair scan his notes. The spectacles created an aesthetic counterpoint to the scholar's youthful features, enhancing wide blue eyes rather than hiding them. Jim thought about leaning over and sliding them off his face — or kissing him and watching his expression as they fogged up.

Blair checked off an item on his list and flipped the page over. "You're thinking kind of loud over there," he observed.

"I am?" Jim took a sip of coffee and finished off the last slice of toast.

"Yeah, man, you are." He smiled without looking up, then snaked a foot over beneath the table to snag Ellison's ankle. "I know what you're like in the morning."

"You should've come to bed with me last night."

"Ha! Like either of us would have got any sleep that way."

Jim shifted closer, enjoying the electric spark that burned between them. The fine hair lifted along his leg, the heat of contact flowing all the way up to his groin, then to the spine where it lanced out along the nerves of his body. He wondered if Blair felt it the same way. Then shrugged the thought off. He was still getting used to the way enhanced senses effected him. If Sandburg had noted anything unusual, he would have begun a new volume on the thesis by now. For some, Ellison supposed, a kiss was still just a kiss.

Not that that was anything to complain about.

"Simon says your consultant's check should be in today," Jim said.

"Really?" Blair looked up, his face dimpled with excitement. "Whoa - moola, at last! The department finally came through!"

"Actually, it was Simon who came through. We both figured it was time you were compensated for your efforts. But he's the one who made it happen."

"Thank you, Simon Banks." Blair raised his eyes and arms skyward in an attitude of benediction. "This is great. When do you think it'll be ready?"

"This afternoon." Ellison drained the last of his c offee. "I figure you can take me to dinner tonight."

"Okay, sure. Where do you want to go?"

"How about the Aberdeen Barn?"

"Oh, yum. Dead cow and roughage with hot rolls." Blair made a face. "I don't think so."

"Show a little respect, Sandburg," Ellison growled. He pushed to his feet and began gathering breakfast debris. "Aged Black Angus prime rib is not your typical dead cow."

"Absolutely." Blair took off his glasses, put them away. "It's an expensive dead cow. How about Nawab's?"

"We've eaten curry - or curry variations - three times this week. The refrigerator smells like a shrine."

"But Nawab's has the really good stuff. And they've still got tandoori chicken - or steak - whatever you want."

"Let me think about it," Jim said, stacking dishes in the sink. "No."

"We could hit Kelly's." Blair trailed him, carrying the remains of his yogurt mixture. "They've got the big hamburgers you like. I could get a salad."

"We can do Kelly's any time." Jim divided the last of the coffee into his mug and Blair's. "We haven't had Italian in a while."

"Not since lunch yesterday." Blair raised his hand when Jim began a protest. "It's true. You told me you went to Bellini's with Simon. That's Italian."

"You weren't there," Jim said. "Besides, we had pizza."

"I repeat — that's Italian." Blair finished the last bite of yogurt-mix. A plump, red raspberry disappeared into his mouth. Caught, Jim watched the movement of lips and teeth, the line of Blair's freshly shaved jaw. His throat.

Noting the silence, Blair looked up.

"I can always do Italian," Jim finished a beat later, grinning.

"I'm not Italian," Blair told him, grinning back.

"Nope. You're a neo-hippie punk witch doctor with delusions of grandeur."

Blair laughed softly. "You're still an arrogant shmuck."

"Well, you told me not to change."

There was a small spot of yogurt at the corner of his mouth. Jim took Blair's chin in his hand, lowered his mouth to his and kissed it away. He lingered, savoring the taste of sharp vanilla, fruit, coffee and Blair. Their lips came together slowly, sensuously, with the ease of familiar ritual. The hunger was only partly sexual, built on a stronger, more constant need.

It's about friendship, Blair had told him once. I just didn't get it before.

Friendship, Ellison had agreed. He felt no need for further explanations. Everything he needed to say was contained in that one word.

And Blair had understood. Well, he'd smiled to himself, happy. Not every man's a talker.

Which worked out pretty well, all things considered.

Fixing his hands at Blair's waist, Jim lifted him easily and set him on the counter. That put Blair a half-head taller, gazing down at his partner/lover/friend eye-to-eye, smoke-blue to ice. Blair parted his knees, hooked his sock-clad feet around Jim's thighs and pulled him in.

As Jim found his mouth again, Blair ran his hands through short dark hair - thick, soft and clean, like an animal's pelt. He ran his hands down the muscle of Jim's neck to wide, strong shoulders.

It was still hard to believe Jim was actually his. Blair hadn't intended for this to happen, despite all the evidence he'd uncovered about the Sentinel-Guide relationships. This just wasn't the way he'd planned to go. James Ellison, Sentinel, was his focus — a case to be studied and reported on. The trick was to get inside yet maintain emotional distance. Be objective. Stick to hard science and report the results.

Getting inside was hard. The man was like a damn armadillo. Ellison lived by his own code of honor; he lived for his work, "To serve and protect." End of story.

Jim had married late in life and divorced almost immediately. He saw his family only rarely - like when he couldn't avoid them any longer. Jim's relationship with his brother, Steven, was still strained. Progress went slow. Jim had few friends. Most people were put off by the man's simple but rigid code of ethics. They couldn't live up to the standards he set - or were too intimidated to try.

But once you became Ellison's friend, once he let you inside, there were no limits to what he would do for that friendship. None.

Blair had never experienced that depth of commitment before. He couldn't deny the longing for it, for comfort and compassion — things James Ellison offered freely with no strings attached once he accepted you into his circle.

Into his heart.

The perspective changed. Actually, it performed a complete 180-turn. He couldn't remember when it began to matter more what Ellison thought of him, how Blair Sandburg fit into the detective's game plan, but it did. Blair kept silent when his feelings ran deeper. (When they became positively berserk, actually.) He wouldn't risk what they had by asking for more than what Jim could give.

But all that had changed, too.

Blair returned the smile in Jim's eyes, locking his arms loosely around his partner's neck. "Italian...." He arched a brow. "Do you think lasagna could be better than sex?"

"Not if the sex is with you," Jim told him, frankly.

"Right answer, tough guy. You catch on fast for a goyim."

"Thanks, Gecko. Care to shtuph me tonight after dinner?"

"God, you are some hot date." Blair laughed. "Do you think you can wait that long?"

"No," Ellison admitted. "But we're going to have to, chief. I'm going to be late for work, you're going to be late for —"

"Mr. Hester! I've got to get those term papers to him before class." Blair leapt off the counter and dashed towards his room. Then slid into a quick about-face, catching himself on the door frame. "What about Forbidden City? Supposed to be great Chinese, man. And they've got these booths with the curtains and pillows. We can close them off. It can be real private."

"Just what have you got in mind, Sandburg?" Ellison's face locked onto it's Army Ranger expression although blue eyes glittered with pleasure.

"Dim sum." Blair grinned. "You can feed me ... I can feed you - orange chicken, walnut shrimp...."

"As long as you're buying." Ellison waved him off. "Get your shoes. We've got to move. Now."

A fast ten minutes later, they were outside and moving towards their vehicles. Another wet spring day blossomed around them. Buoyed by his usual enthusiasm, Blair kept pace beside Jim, taking almost two steps for every one of his partner's, maintaining a steady stream of chatter.

"...So we finish up and meet Bill and Betty at the pub." Hugging a stack of term papers to his chest, Blair shrugged, shifting the weight of his back pack. "They'd been drinking Coronas. Nancy wants to try and Bill shows her how to put the lime in the bottle. He puts his hand over the neck and s-l-o-w-l-y tilts it over - then back. Right. So Nancy goes, 'Oh, I get it,' grabs her's, shoves the lime down the neck and covers the top." He laughed. "Only she shakes it up like she's got a can of Reddi Whip in her hand. Man, I swear, she hosed half the table! She totally nailed the dean."

Jim took out his keys. "So what did you do, chief?"

"Ducked." Blair laughed again. "I've gotten real good at that, you know."

Jim's response stopped in his throat. He turned, caught by a combination of sound and motion. Something flashed from the street, spurring out from the traffic — definitely not part of the a.m. flow. It wasn't a weapon -at least not a weapon he was familiar with.

Blair dropped into silence at the first sign of caution on Jim's face, watching his partner, tracking his movements. A small silver ball drop-rolled to the ground at their feet. It was bigger than a golf ball and perfectly smooth.

"Check it." Blair half-smiled, curious. "The aliens have landed."

Sunlight ricocheted off chrome driving daggers of light into Jim's eyes. Sudden agony. He grimaced, drawing back, shielding his face.

Blair followed, reaching for him. "Jim —"

Ellison shook his head, catching the hiss-hum of minute gears shifting into place. In the next instant, his fists closed on Blair's arms, lifting him, dragging him away. "Move!" — it was all he had time to shout.

The grenade itself barely made a sound going off. The air around them detonated with a crash of imploding thunder. The force lifted them both, hurling them across the sidewalk as if a giant's hand had abruptly scooped them up, then tossed them down like a pair of dice.

They fell in a heap, Ellison's fingers still digging into the sleeve of Blair's jacket. Blair lay a scant foot away from his partner, sprawled face-down like a discarded toy. Neither man moved.

A dark blue van pulled up and rolled to a stop, effectively blocking the scene from the street. The side-door slammed open and a tall, dark-haired man stepped out to stand and survey the results of his work.

A second, smaller man with short, gray-washed red curls scrambled out behind him. He knelt between the two bodies, feeling for a pulse. Looked up. "They're not dead," he said.

"They're not supposed to be." The voice sounded mildly amused. "Get him in the van."

The smaller man struggled with Ellison's dead weight. "I still don't get it," he gasped, locking his arms around Jim's upper body, dragging him towards the van. "What do you expect to get out of all this?"

The driver took a step towards Blair. Profiled against the pavement, a tiny frown had locked onto the kid's face. Sandburg looked even younger than he'd remembered, asleep now and trapped on the edge of a bad dream.

No, he corrected himself. More like a nightmare....

"What does anyone want, Freddie?" Lee Brackett turned back to the van. "Fame, fortune, true love - a decent, affordable quarter pounder?"

Freddie glared at him, sweat beading his forehead as he fought to pull Ellison into the van. "I could really use a hand here."

Obliging, Brackett lifted Jim's legs and helped load him in. He swung the door shut and climbed back into the driver's seat. Then put the vehicle in gear and moved back onto the street. In the rear of the van, the hired help was frantically securing the unconscious detective. No matter how useful, Freddie Terassa did not rate the rank of partner. Brackett could smell the fear rolling off him in waves.

Brackett signalled for a turn and went for it, disappearing in the rush of the early morning commute. There were no sirens, no alarms. Not yet anyway. All was going according to plan.

Good.

"What do I want?" Brackett announced conversationally. "Just the one thing I've always wanted ... I want to win."

Startled, Freddie looked up from the back, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Huh?" he demanded, nervous. "What'd you say?"

Hopeless.... Brackett sighed, a sympathetic sound. He'd perfected it over the years. "Never mind," he said. "Drop you off at work?"

Freddie drew in a shaky breath. "Phase Two?"

"Right." Brackett nodded, pleased. "Phase Two."