Written 07/02/03

Disclaimer: I don't own these guys. You know this, I know this. Why do we keep having to go over the same tired ground?

Summary: Wherein Jim has gas, there's nothing on TV, promises are made, and Blair proves he's an astute analyst of the human condition. Otherwise, just your average week at the loft.

SUNDAY

Blair opened the door to the loft and was immediately hit by a stench so horrific it caused his eyes to water. Manfully, he supressed the urge to gag -- knowing it would only bring more of the putrid air into his lungs -- , clamped his hand across his nose and screwed up his courage to brave the vile atmosphere.

"Oh, good God!" His hand proved insufficient protection, so he yanked up his shirt to use as an impromtu air filter.

"Sandburg? That you?" Jim's voice wavered weakly from the direction of the bathroom.

"Oh, man," Blair winced. "Fuck. Turn on a fan; open a window; pull out the freakin' gas masks! Jesus, Jim!" He made his way across the open living room. "What the hell crawled up your ass and died?"

Jim moaned pathetically. "Joel's chili."

One handed, the other occupied with keeping him conscious by way of screening his breaths, Blair struggled to force the patio doors to open as wide as they could go. Finally they swung loose, and Blair lunged gratefully out into the cool but blessedly fresh air.

"That's it, man!" He declared from the safety of the balcony. "I don't care how much you beg. I don't care how pathetically you whine or how fiercely you glare. You are never ever getting near a pot of Joel's secret family recipe five-alarm chili again!"

"Don't worry, I won't ever want to eat any more myself."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Sure Jim. That's what you said last time, too."

"Yeah, but I mean it this time."

"Yeah, right."

"No, ughn," Jim grunted then groaned. "Really. I can't take much more of this."

"Well don't expect me to feel sorry for you, you big doofus. You got yourself into this mess all on your own."

Despite himself, Blair winced sympathically when some indescribable but undeniably pain-filled noises issued from the bathroom, followed by the woosh of the toilet flushing. He moved to poke his head into the loft, but leaned back hastily as a new wave of foulness floated over him.

"Bla-air," his partner whined, soundingly less like a competent detective and Sentinel of the Great City and more like a six-foot-two five year old with a tummy ache. Which, incidently, he had.

"What?" Blair wheezed, reeling from the smell.

"Make it stop!"

Blair sighed. Regretfully, he drew in several deep breaths of clean air, relishing the scent of freedom. He sucked in one last lungful, holding it captive to support him in his upcoming duties. Then, chin up and head held high, the Guide charged into the fray to go rescue his Sentinel from the man's own bunged up digestive system.

Later that night...

"So what are you doing next month?"

"No, Jim."

"But..."

"No."

"But I've almost figure out which spices Joel uses! Just one more taste, and I'm sure I can crack his secret family recipe."

"No."

"Aww, Chief!"

"Don't whine, Jim. It's undignified."

.....

"And don't bother with the sad puppy-dog eyes either. I'm not falling for it."

MONDAY

Jim slouched down into the couch, a bowl of popcorn on his lap and a bottle of beer pressed against his forehead.

"Tough day?" Blair commiserated, flopping down beside him.

"Waited in court all morning, only to have the case dismissed on a technical. Chased a suspect through Chinatown's open m