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Wet towels on the bathroom floor.
Clothes strung out from the hamper to the bedroom.
Unnamed and unnamable substances sprouting furry greenness in the wrong color of Tupperware in the depths of the fridge.
After two long years of it, Jim Ellison had reached his limit.
"SANDBURG!"
"Yeah, Jim?" Blair wandered slowly out of his room, eyes on the book cradled lovingly in his hands. His hair was clubbed back with a leather thong, and his glasses were sliding precariously low on his nose. Jim didn't move; Sandburg jumped almost a foot when he found himself unexpectedly face-to-chest with the Great Wall of Sentinel. "Geez! C'mon, Jim, you're taking up more than your share of hallway here."
Jim plucked the book out of his roommate's hands, then hooked the glasses off for good measure, just in case. "We need to talk," he said, steering his Guide toward the living room.
"I hate it when you do that," Blair grumbled. But he allowed himself to be pushed gently along and sat down on the couch across from Jim without a fight.
For about ten seconds. Then he bounded up from the cushions and began to pace. Jim shook his head, his eyes tracking Sandburg's movement. "You're like one of those...what do you call those things that never stop moving?"
"Perpetual mot---hey," Blair said. He frowned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Well, this isn't a feel-good talk, Sandburg. We've got some serious problems. I am up to here--" Jim made a sudden chopping motion near his neck that did not bode well for Blair, "--with the chaos you've created in my life. Something has to give, Chief, and it ain't gonna be me. I think I've given just about enough here, don't you?"
Blair's eyes narrowed. "Just what are you saying, Jim? You think I don't contribute?"
"That is not what I said. You contribute plenty on the job and with the Sentinel thing, and don't think I'm not grateful. You saved my life yesterday, and it wasn't the first time. This isn't about the job, it's about the loft." And maybe just a little about control, eh, Ellison? Which you didn't have yesterday, which almost got both you and the kid prematurely dead?
Once again Blair had been ordered to stay in the truck and call for back-up. Once again, only the second half of the order had been followed. And, once again, the kid had managed to do just the right thing at just the right time to save both their asses. If Blair hadn't nearly gotten himself shot in the process, Jim could have handled it. God knew he had enough practice. It was just -- damn it, there were going to be times Jim couldn't be there to look after the kid. He'd been lucky so far, but --
He pushed those uncomfortable speculations away, shaking his head to banish them. "You don't lift a finger to make this place suitable for human life," he said instead of the ten other things he wanted to say, "and I'm sick of it."
Blair stopped in front of Jim, looking down at him. Damn, he was standing in one spot and still moving, Jim noticed. Up and down instead of over a distance, but moving all the same. There ought to be a law against having that much energy. If there were, Jim would be glad to throw the book at his roommate, but he kept hoping some of the excess might eventually be channeled into a little cleaning.
"So," Blair said, his voice rising to match Jim's tone, "you're saying that, in addition to working on my dissertation," Blair said, holding up one finger, "and working with you on the police thing," another finger, "and teaching you to use your senses without zoning out," yet another, "and teaching two classes, and basically being so at your beck and call that I have a freakin' cell phone so you can interrupt me any time," two more fingers, "Oh, and occasionally hitting bad guys over the head so they can't put a hole in your head big enough to drive a truck through...in addition to all that, you want me to do...housework. And this is my huge failing? When in this scenario am I supposed to eat and sleep, Jim? 'Cause I'm seriously pressed for time in those areas as it is. If somebody could find a way to do both at the same time, short of an IV drip, I'd be the first to volunteer as a test subject."
"That's a nice speech, Sandburg," Jim said, standing up so he could look at the kid without craning his neck. Okay, and so he could be a little more intimidating. No big deal. Sandburg didn't intimidate easy, and Jim needed any edge he could get. "But it's not gonna cut into your busy schedule to, say, make sure when you toss your clothes at the hamper, they actually land inside of it. Or to take ten seconds to hang up your wet towels after a shower. The refrigerator --" Jim actually shuddered. He didn't even want to think about what might be growing in there. "That may take a little more time, but unless you're growing your own penicillin, I think you'll find having edible food is worth the effort."
Blair shook his head. "Man, you are so anal. You know I always take care of that stuff."
"Yeah!" Jim barked, eyes narrowing. "Two weeks later! By that time the towels have stiffened into abstract sculpture, the bathroom smells like unshowered Sandburg -- which is not an attractive aroma, Chief -- and we have to call in a Haz-Mat team to open the fridge for us." Jim looked away and took a deep breath. Several deep breaths. "I'm not asking for a lot," he said in a slightly calmer tone of voice. "Just a little consideration."
"Oh, that's rich," Blair growled. "Joe Loner asking for consideration. Man, I do stuff for you, you probably don't even know about. What's the last thing you did for me?"
"Hey, I took you to that Jags practice."
"Yeah, and then tried to throw my favorite player of all time in jail, man. Besides, that wasn't for me. That was for you, and I got caught in the current."
Jim almost told him about finessing that party ticket out of Simon, but held back. He'd thought it was important to remind Simon that Blair was Jim's partner, and that it was a permanent arrangement. Well, maybe that wasn't the complete truth. Sandburg himself seemed to think Simon needed a little reminding; he'd made that clear a few days before the playoffs, during the Cyclops Oil case. Jim had been trying to shore up that little insecurity in his Guide's psyche for weeks. And he'd been trying to make sure everybody else was as certain of Sandburg's position as Jim was himself.
At some point he was going to get around to having that out with the kid. It was a matter of trust, which Sandburg seemed to have in alarmingly short supply. They'd talk about it, and Jim would set him straight.
But not today.
Today was for yelling, and Jim was just getting started.
The pillow was innocent, but Jim beat it up anyway. He was in that kind of mood.
The talk with Sandburg hadn't gone well, to put it mildly. In fact, it'd gone pretty amazingly not well, so not well that the kid had actually threatened to move out. It'd taken some fancy footwork and no small amount of reassuring to convince Blair that it wasn't Ultimatum Day on the Sandburg/Ellison domesticity front. Even then, the kid felt it necessary to storm off to his room and slam the door -- not one of his better come-backs. That famous Sandburg cut-'em-til-they-bleed wit tended to go off-line when he passed a certain level of mad.
And on the one-to-ten Sandburg Scale of Being Pissed Off, this had to hit somewhere around fifteen.
All I want, Jim muttered internally, is to not live in a place the homeless would sneer at. Is that too much to ask? He didn't think so, but Sandburg obviously did, and he was extremely put out by the question. Sure, the kid did a lot. Too much, in fact. If over-commitment were a religion, Sandburg would be its god. But even up in his bedroom, the smell of something that had once been spaghetti, and was now something grotesque enough to make Industrial Light and Magic proud, was strong. Jim wasn't sure he'd ever be able to eat tomato-based foods again.
With a final sigh, and the pillow pounded into submission, Jim dialed down his sense of smell until it was almost non-existent. It bugged him to close off any of his senses, even one at a time, but he wasn't going to be able to sleep with that sickly odor glomming on to his olfactory receptors.
He'd just have to hope any bad guy who showed up in the night was loud, as well as smelly.
I needed a Guide, Jim thought blearily as he drew the covers up tight around his shoulders. I got the Energizer bunny version, on speed. I don't even really mind that part. But gods above, it'd be nice to have a partner who listened once in a while...
Sleep came for him, and Jim went willingly.
The gently wafting scent of bacon drew Jim out of his slumber. God, this is a nice way to wake up, he thought, eyes still closed as he inhaled deeply. Looks like Sandburg's ready to kiss and make up. If he wants to do that with bacon, I am not about to argue. The instances of Blair Sandburg being moved to such an extreme that he cooked animal protein as a peace offering were rare. The stuff of legend, in fact. Legend or no, if bacon was involved, Jim was there.
Not bothering to throw on a robe, he padded down the steps boxer-clad and barefoot. He'd been kind of anal about the robe for a while after the kid moved in; it'd been two years since he'd lived with anybody and somewhere along the line his modesty had come back on him. Two more years of living with Mr. Natural, though, had broken him of that completely. Jim figured hanging out with pygmies who felt over-dressed in a loin-cloth had pretty much destroyed any modesty Sandburg had ever possessed. Something certainly had. At any rate, boxers were considered acceptable breakfast attire at la Casa d'Ellison y Sandburg, and Jim was starving.
The sight that met his eyes was, at first, more stunning than gratifying.
"My God," Jim said in stead of 'good morning.' "What the hell happened to you?"
He'd never seen anything like it, not on Blair Sandburg anyway, and for a moment it seemed the entire world was off kilter. The kid looked like he'd been mauled by a horde of Gap employees. His hair was combed straight back from his head and held in place neatly, tamely with a silver clasp. His earrings were gone without a trace, and he was wearing a suit --the component parts of which actually matched. A sedate but classy charcoal grey ensemble over a deep red silk shirt. On his feet --
Jim's eyebrows climbed his forehead in shock.
On Sandburg's feet were a brand new pair of penny-loafers.
With socks.
Suddenly, Jim felt the need to sit down.
"Good morning, James," Blair said calmly. He smiled cheerily, his blue eyes shining like glass in the morning light. "I've made breakfast for you. Would you like some eggs?"
Jim nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "What's the joke, kid?" he said. It had to be some form of that uniquely Sandburgian torment Blair tried to pass off as humor.
"Joke?" Blair asked. His smile widened, stretching his lips thin. "There is no joke, James. I've made coffee for you as well, and I took the liberty of making sure your favorite jacket was pressed and ready for you. We should leave in exactly forty-five minutes to arrive at the station on time, which gives you plenty of time to eat, shower, and dress. Bacon with those eggs, James?"
Jim rolled his eyes. So that was it. The kid was trying to kill him with consideration, convince him that a perfect Blair Sandburg was somehow undesirable. Trust a psych minor to try reverse psychology.
No sale, Blair, Jim said to himself, grinning. I could get used to this.
"Yeah," he said out loud, reaching for his fork. "Lay it on me."
"He's on his way up now, Simon. I'm telling you, it's uncanny. You just have to see it to believe it."
Simon Banks leaned back in his chair and looked at Jim with a pleased light in his eyes. "So, the changes are for the better, you say?"
Jim grinned. "Yeah, for the most part. I mean, he keeps calling me James, which is getting a little annoying since he says my name every time he opens his mouth, but beyond that -- it's amazing. He's polite, friendly, upbeat, well-dressed -- He's a new man."
"Sounds like a new and improved man," Simon observed, smiling. "Maybe your influence is finally taking hold."
"Yeah, or maybe he's a pod person," Jim shot back, laughing.
Simon didn't join the laughter.
Probably just had a long night.
"Where is he now?" Simon asked, turning to look out at the bull pen and reaching for his coffee pot in the same motion. "Hazelnut? It's fresh."
"No, thanks. I tanked up at home. Blair made a pot of some Colombian stuff this morning that was out of this world."
"I thought he was coming in with you today."
Jim's eyes went blank and unfocused for a moment as he concentrated on his hearing. Blair's voice was audible in the elevator; Jim turned the sound back down and looked back toward Simon. "He's on his way up right now, Captain. He needed to make a stop first. Said he'd be back at ten-fifty. Can you believe that? Overnight, the kid goes from 'I'll be in around three, maybe, unless something comes up' to 'I'll arrive at the station at ten-fifty.' He's really laying it on thick."
"Maybe he's reformed," Simon suggested. "These all sound like positive changes. I know I'd kill for a roommate who made bacon for breakfast instead of trouble."
"Life with a teenage kid getting to you, Simon? Maybe I should invite Daryl over, give him a drink of water from our well. I'm half convinced there's something in it."
Simon smiled briefly, his eyes distant. "I'm looking into it," he said softly. "I'm looking into it right now."
The captain's words barely registered. Sandburg's arrival in the bullpen took all of Jim's attention.
All of everyone's attention, as he slowly turned to show Brown and Rafe what he'd been up to during his absence.
Jim began to worry. This was beyond a joke, beyond any kind of petty reverse-psychology revenge. This was -- something was wrong. Seriously, badly wrong.
Sandburg had always sworn they'd bury him in braids. If that was true, he was safe for at least two years. All vows to the contrary, Blair had done the unthinkable.
The kid had cut his hair.
It was short. Very short. Any drill sergeant would be proud.
Blair's long, golden-brown curls were completely gone. In their place was a style that could best be described as Nouveau Concentration Camp -- short enough to be called a crew-cut, yet combed and gelled and arranged in such a way that it actually looked almost hip. It made Sandburg's eyes seem absolutely enormous, and his cheeks looked like they'd been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop.
Grabbing him by the arm, Jim yanked Blair away from the crowd of stunned detectives and hauled him out of the department. In the hallway he paused, looking around for a suitable retreat, but nothing presented itself. Pursing his lips, he pulled Sandburg down the corridor to the stairwell and pushed him through the door.
"Is there a problem, James?" Blair said calmly, still smiling that plastic smile. Jim's heart was pounding rapidly, loud as a bass drum in his ears, and he could smell the sour, acrid odor of his own fear-laden sweat.
"Yeah, there's a problem. What the hell is wrong with you, Sandburg? What's going on?"
The innocence of angels lit Blair's eyes. "Wrong? Nothing's wrong, James. Everything is fine. Are you all right? Perhaps I could get you some tea?"
"I don't want any tea, damn it," Jim growled. "What I want is for you to come clean with me. What's with the hair? What's with no earrings and no grunge and no Nike Severes and calling me James all of the sudden? If this is your idea of a joke, kid, I have to tell you -- I'm not laughing."
Understatement. What he was doing was panicking. He knew Blair too well to seriously think the kid would take a joke this far. His guide was a bit eccentric, he was definitely off-beat, and he had some pretty strange ideas about any number of things -- but he was absolutely, one hundred percent dependable, and there was no way the kid would carry a prank this far.
Which brought Jim back to something being dead wrong about all of this. Every protective instinct he had -- and when it came to Blair Sandburg he had quite a few -- screamed that Blair was in serious trouble.
"James --"
"Jim, damn it. Call me Jim, like you used to." God, 'used to.' Used to just last night. What is going on here?!
Blair tilted his head to one side, as if he were listening for something. Jim watched him, as horrified at the blank look on Sandburg's face as he was at the suddenly crew-cut hairstyle. "Jim," Blair said, the word sounding almost foreign on his lips. Sounding as if he'd never said it before in his life. "Sure, Jim, I can do that for you. Was there anything else that was bothering you?"
"Try everything." Jim's hands closed over Blair's shoulders and squeezed; he just barely managed to resist giving the kid a good shake. "Talk to me," he said urgently. "If this is about yesterday, Sandburg, we can fix it, we can work on it."
"Yesterday? If you mean my actions while you were inside the warehouse, Ja -- Jim -- you have every right to be angry with me. My behavior was completely unprofessional. I don't know what came over me. I should have stayed behind and called for back-up as you had requested --"
Jim's eyes widened. "If you had, I'd be dead right now, kid. You saved my life. Risked your own, which we are going to need to discuss, but -- mostly -- you did good."
Sandburg continued as if he'd never been interrupted, his eyes glassy and vacant. "I promise I won't disobey you again, Jim. I should not have gone into the building. I am just an observer, after all. It's not my place to--"
His face hardening, Jim did shake him then. Once, hard enough to make his point. "I'm saying this only once," he said. "If I find out you're just fucking with my head here, I'll kick your ass so hard Naomi will feel it. You got that?"
"Naomi?"
"Damn it, Sandburg, that's enough!" Jim shouted. He shook Blair again, then let go quickly, afraid he'd really hurt the man if he didn't step away. His rage was fueled by fear for his friend, and both were nearly out of control. His hands shook; Jim clenched them into fists, and felt a muscle in his jaw start to twitch with tension. Sandburg had called that little tic Jim's 'ire-o-meter'. He'd said he knew by the speed of the twitch what constituted a minimum safe distance from the Ellison Temper Fall-out Zone.
Jim didn't think there was a minimum safe distance for this one. "Get out of my sight," he said, ever so softly. "Just go."
"Why are you so angry, James?" Sandburg said.
His chin jerked to the left as he spoke, involuntary. Jim frowned.
"Why are you so angry, James?"
Again the jerk to the left.
"Why are you so angry, James?"
"Stop it!" Jim covered his ears against his own cry, but couldn't miss hearing the sheer terror in the sound. "Stop, please!"
"It's all right," Sandburg said soothingly. Said it in the Guide tone, but the sound was wrong, it was twisted somehow, horribly off-center. It wasn't Blair. Dear god in heaven -- it wasn't Blair!
"It isn't so bad," he said, the man who wasn't Blair, couldn't possibly be Blair. He took a step forward, and the grin on his face stretched crazily, white teeth vivid against the preternaturally perfect tan of his face. Jim tried to back up and fell, landing on his hands and his ass before scrambling backwards and going for his gun.
"No!" Jim said, his voice barely a gasp as he began to hyperventilate. "No, just...stay back, stay away..."
"It is...delightful..." Blair said, still advancing...
...and Jim fired, his aim deadly.
The bullet buried itself deep in the younger man's chest.
Blair went down.
The body tumbled backwards in slow motion. Or so it seemed to Jim as he watched, horrified, as the man he'd just killed crumpled and fell, body bouncing down the stairs, limbs twisting at obscene angles. He thought he heard something break, but the sound of his own heartbeat roared in his ears and obscured all else.
One word echoed in his mind. One word that was a cry of loss and pain and remorse.
No!
Unthinking, dazed, Jim descended to the first landing, where the battered body lay crumpled against the wall.
Blair. Oh, god, Blair...what've I done?
He knelt beside the body, trembling with barely checked horror. Clumsily, he reached out and turned it. At the halfway point, the weight of the corpse carried it over, limbs seeming to flail even in death.
The eyes were wide open.
And they were moving.
"Sandburg!" Urgently, Jim searched for a pulse, the sound of breathing, the rise and fall of the ravaged chest -- anything to indicate that life still dwelt within the body he now cradled against him. "Blair, stay with me! Blair!"
There was no blood.
There was no breath.
There was no beating heart.
Yet the eyes still moved, and -- no, dear god, no -- the mouth was moving, too.
He was trying to speak.
The Sentinel's ears seemed to tune themselves, picking up sounds that did not belong. Clicks. A low whine of electricity. Liquid rush of fluid through veins that...that were mapped wrong, out of place...
And they picked up a whisper, barely even there.
" 's...'sall right...Ja...Jim..." said the thing in Jim's arms. " 's..it's not...so bad..."
And then something deep within the thing sparked, flashed into fire...
...And started to burn.
Mindless now in his terror, Jim cringed away from the thing he'd held, the thing he'd mourned. Suddenly he was on his feet, and the stairs were flying past beneath them as he raced toward familiarity.
But the door to the seventh floor was already open, and the dark form blocking it wore a smile that carried too much knowledge.
"It's all right, Jim," Simon said soothingly. His gun was in his right hand.
Jim turned, stumbling back downward, his heart keening with fear and rage and grief as sanity disintegrated around him.
The door to the sixth floor was locked, and the fifth.
The fourth was open.
Open wide. And blocked by Rafe and Brown, who's smiles matched Simon's for knowledge and evil, whose guns were also held at the ready.
A final turn, desperate, brought him face to face with Simon again. Jim hadn't heard, in his panic, the footsteps following behind him.
"It's not so bad," Rafe whispered in Jim's ear, standing too close behind him.
"It's delightful," Brown said, leveling his weapon and bracing to fire.
The world exploded, and Jim's mind spiraled down into darkness.
Jim was halfway vertical before he even woke up. His heart raced painfully in his chest, and his breathing was labored. Still trapped in remembered terror, he flung his Sentinel senses outward, searching for sound, movement, danger...
...And finding only the mundane, every-day noises of Sandburg making breakfast, whistling tunelessly as he whisked eggs in an earthenware bowl.
Sandburg.
Blair.
"Chief!" Jim cried out, pounding down the stairs at a dead run. His eyes widened in horror as he stopped in his tracks in the middle of the living room, staring in mute denial at the man in the kitchen.
He was wearing a suit -- the component parts of which actually matched. A sedate but classy charcoal grey ensemble, over a red silk shirt.
"No." Jim backed away slowly, shaking his head. "No..."
"Jim? Hey, man, are you okay? You look like the sky just fell on you." Blair reached for his arm, but halted when Jim flinched away. His voice deepened with genuine concern. "Jim?"
Jim's eyes widened as the words penetrated. The voice. "Blair?" he whispered.
Amusement lightened Sandburg's expression. "Yeah, man. I know I look a little different, Jim, but geez.."
"Blair." Jim reached for Sandburg this time and caught the sleeve of his jacket. He pulled his partner in, wrapping strong arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. "Thank god," he said softly. "Thank god..."
For a moment Blair hugged him back, obviously confused but just as obviously game. After a few seconds, though, he tried to push back. "Whoa...Jim. Need to breathe here, 'kay?"
Jim nodded, his cheek moving against the top of Blair's head, not letting up on the pressure at all. One hand stripped away the clasp that held the kid's long hair captive. Clutching at the springy curls to reassure himself of their reality, Jim vowed to never make another joke about Sandburg's hair. It was perfect just the way it was.
"C'mon, man, seriously..." Blair gasped.
This time he succeeded in dislodging himself, and pulled back to look into Jim's eyes. Looking away, Jim felt his cheeks reddening. "Sorry," he said, not feeling sorry in the slightest, but sure that some such sentiment was required after nearly smothering one's Guide. "I don't know what came over me."
Blair's face flushed, but he was smiling. "Yeah, right," he said. "I'll have to check Burton's journals for references to compulsive hugging. Wonder how many Guides met their demise 'cause they couldn't get a Sentinel to let go of 'em..."
"Not funny, Sandburg," Jim growled. The tension and fear of the dream were fading, and with it the adrenaline rush. He moved to the table and sat down, cradling his head in both hands.
"Hey." Blair's voice was soft and close; a hand rested gently on top of Jim's head, a solid apology. "I'm sorry. I should've seen you weren't ready to kid about it."
"Not your fault," Jim said without looking up. "I just need to collect myself."
"Nightmare, Jim? Talk to me."
"No," said Jim. "It's...it was really stupid, now that I think about it. Crazy."
"That doesn't mean it didn't scare the hell out of you, Jim. Dreams have their own, internal logic. There's no shame in believing in it while you're in there."
"Yeah, but this..."
"But, nothing. C'mon, Jim, tell me about the dream." Blair laid a hand on Jim's arm, a gesture of comfort he willingly accepted.
After a moment's pause, Jim said, "You were...I came down here and you were different. You were all dressed up, like you are now, but more than that. You talked different. I thought you were just--"
"Trying to piss you off?"
Jim smiled slightly. "Yeah. Sorry."
"Hey, don't be," Blair said, returning the smile. "It's not like I'm above it."
"You kept calling me James. And you cut your hair--"
"Man, that was a nightmare!"
"You did look pretty rough, Chief. Never thought I'd say it, but don't cut that mop off. It suits you."
Blair laughed. "Where's a witness when you need one?"
Jim reached up and ran a hand over his own short hair, remembering how Sandburg had looked with a similar cut. Or -- not really Sandburg, even in the dream. "You apologized for saving my life."
The hand on Jim's arm tightened almost painfully. "Should have known it was a dream right then," Blair said. "I will never apologize for anything I do that--"
"I know," Jim said. His eyes locked with his guide's, gratitude and understanding flowing between them clear and strong. "I know that."
"Good." Blair's nod was decisive, almost a challenge.
Jim wasn't about to argue. "It wasn't you," he said after long moments of silence. "It looked like you, and it had your voice, kind of, but...it was like a machine. I could hear the juice running through it when I listened, and it was...I had to shoot it." The last words came out in a rush. "You."
"It," Blair said firmly. "And 'it' was a dream. I'm not offended, Jim, believe me. You turn into a killer robot in any dream of mine and you're toast."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Okay, so, you killed it. Then what?"
"Then Simon and Brown and Rafe came after me. I think Brown shot me. And then I woke up."
Blair nodded. "And came downstairs, and found me all dressed up with no place to go."
"What are you spiffed for, kid? This is a Saturday."
"I had a date. This friend of mine -- who I wouldn't mind taking that next step with, if you know what I mean -- was going with me to hear Dr. Antonia Perez speak about ...well, a bunch of stuff that would probably bore you to tears, so I won't go into it. Anyway, she cancelled on me at the last minute, so here I am."
Jim looked at Sandburg speculatively. The guy had to pretty excited about this speaker to dress like a normal person for her. "Tell you what. You finish making the eggs, make sure there's some coffee ready, and I'll go get dressed. What time does the lecture start?"
"In about an hour, but--"
"But, nothing," Jim said, smiling. "After that dream, I'm not letting you out of my sight for a while. Today a killer robot, tomorrow...who knows? It's just not worth the risk, Chief." He cuffed Sandburg fondly, ruffling his hair a bit before heading for the stairs.
"This is so cool," Blair said, grinning back. "I can't believe you're actually going to go. You're going to love it."
"I thought you said I'd be bored to tears."
"Also a possibility. Okay, I'm going to love it and you're going to love making sure I don't morph into something scary."
"Sounds like a plan."
"Hey, you want to pick up dinner after? There's a game on tonight. Looks close."
Jim paused at the top step and grinned. "Sure," he said. "While I'm watching it, you can clean out the fridge."
Blair sighed theatrically, but couldn't hide a tolerant smile.
"Sounds like a plan," he said.