1. Chapter 1 (2/2)

naomi's eyes were soft with unashamed, old-fashioned maternal pride, as her fingers

ushed the old photo, caressing the image of her little boy's furrowed

ow; she could not remember the name of that old second-hand book blair had learned to read from, but the picture of his tiny, determined face, and the memory of his voice fumbling over, mispronouncing, and finally proudly getting words way too long and complicated for a five-year-old... that would stay with her always.

~ooo~

fluff

sandburg has finally fallen asleep, on top of the pile of old newspapers and handscrawled notes he calls 'research', and as i lift him to his wobbly feet, i can see the ink smudged on his nose and smeared words about love and loyalty across his cheek; i should wipe it off, but... not yet.

~ooo~

humor

so okay, blair admitted that being sick of proof-reading reports for half the bullpen - and being equally suspicious that no one actually read his revisions, not even simon - was no excuse, but he couldn't help wondering when one of them would notice that the latest surveillance accounts made even less sense than usual... in klingon...

~ooo~

h/c

blair looked over at his injured, recovering and sound-asleep partner, mentally noting that, for the purposes of putting a sentinel to sleep, "toward a critical ethnohistory of techno-shamanic ritual, and the appropriation of tribalism in the modern sociopsychological paradigm" beat sleeping pills hollow.

~ooo~

smut

"what a way to go, man," sandburg, a weird mix of fear and fascination on his face, peered over the unimaginable piles of decades-old magazines with their trashy, flashy and incredibly unerotic covers, "buried alive in your own hoard of 1960s porn..."

~ooo~

ust

they're the first, the last and the greatest love of blair's life, so how do actual people like, hell, me compete with the ones in his books?

~that's all~