"What a waste, eh*?" griped the buxom blonde flight attendant from Medicine Hat, snapping her gum and glancing over to Aisle F where the two hunky American detectives were seated.

"Moi, I teenk eets tres cute, eh," the petite brunette from Riviere du Loup shot back, gazing warmly at the tops of the men's heads--all she could see over the upright seatbacks. Well, the slightly-thinning crown of one man's head, anyway.

The third member of the hard-working flight crew, a lanky guy from the Maritimes, joined the conversation, sniffing back unshed tears. "Love in all its forms is a many-splendoured thing, eh?" His eyes glistened with emotion as he butchered the romantic quote. Young and impressionable, Irving hadn't been working very long for Maple Leaf Airlines out of Ottawa, the nation's capital. Indeed, he was so unsophisticated that he still thought the airline's slogan, "Canada's Lesser-Known Airline", was pretty nifty.

Blair didn't need sentinel hearing to pick up the remarks coming from the airline employees chatting at the back of the plane. Although he had questioned Jim's action briefly at the time, the only answer he'd received was a cold glare, from which he'd wisely backed both down and away. Now he shifted in his seat and began to interrogate the dozing Detective.

"I can't believe you did that, Jim," Blair complained, eyebrows inching towards his impressive, non-receding hairline. "You told that pretty ticket agent we were 'domestic partners' in order to get the discounted airfare to Toronto for this dumb conference. That is so unlike you, man."

"Unlike me how, Sandburg?" Jim responded, trying for calm and blase. He shifted his feet nervously, then attempted to cover up his anxiety by pushing his travel bag further under the seat in front of him. The ticket agent had apologized profusely, but due to the amount of hockey, curling and lacrosse gear that had to be stored in the plane's cargo bay, Jim and Blair had been forced to designate all their luggage as carry-on since they had arrived late for check-in. Sandburg had found the whole situation very amusing, and had started making puns about "carrion". That was when Jim had returned to the ticket counter, announced they were "domestic partners" and asked for the recently advertised discount.

"Well, first of all, it's a lie, and you have this weird love-thing goin' on with the truth. Something I've never understood. I mean, the truth usually has its merits, but you can really have too much of a good thing, and all. And secondly, it is so unPC of you. It sort of, like, takes advantage of a group we don't belong to. And since they've worked so hard for any benefits they have...." The anthropologist in Sandburg was momentarily sidetracked as he became caught up in his diatribe of Canadian versus American culture. "Hey, did you know that in 1999, the Canadian Supreme Court passed a law--a law, man!-- whereby members of same-sex couples are entitled to their partner's benefits, just like married and common-law spouses?" Blair hesitated briefly, seemingly tempted to continue with the lecture, but then brought himself back on track. "And third, now there are a number of people who work for this airline who think you're gay... that we're gay."

Once again Blair had managed to fascinate and amaze Jim with his ability to ramble on at length without actually stopping for anything as unimportant as breathing. For one surreal moment, Jim wondered if this applied to Blair kissing as well as to Blair talking.

"So some people think we're gay, Chief. Big fuckin' deal. Half of Cascade thinks it already, so what's a few more? I just decided I'd take advantage, is all."

Blair's voice came dangerously close to squeaking. "What do you mean 'a few more'? Who thinks we're gay?" He glanced self-consciously around the plane. Various other passengers and flight staff suddenly found the in-flight literature fascinating.

"Who doesn't?" Jim replied blandly, dividing his attention between Blair and the scent of their lunch as it was being lovingly re-heated. Canadian bacon he identified, along with several other nervous-making odours he couldn't quite place.

"Names, Jim! I want names," Blair demanded, his voice reflecting both curiosity and indignation. "And how come you know and I don't?" Brief pause. "Wait. Don't bother to answer that."

Jim smiled. Creative eavesdropping was one of the many perks of enhanced hearing... that, and the killer headaches. For this, or any other flight, Jim wore white-noise generating earplugs, courtesy of his thoughtful and self-proclaimedly under-appreciated Guide. Now if only he could find something equally effective to filter out said Guide.

"You want names, huh? Well, let me think about this a minute." Jim paused, putting on a theatrically introspective expression, drawing the moment out to watch Sandburg squirm, a pastime he never tired of, and which he found strangely relaxing. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that those passengers who had the misfortune of sitting near them did not appear to share this feeling.

"Well, there's Rafe and H., Megan, Joel, Simon..."

"Simon? Simon thinks we're knockin' boots?" Blair interrupted, his usually melodious voice now definitely showing squeakage. "Man, that sucks! Simon is our friend. And he goes camping with us. What? He's looking for hard evidence, maybe? Or cheap thrills."

Jim continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Then there's, well, just about everybody else at the PD; certainly everybody at the Academy, given that I picked you up every day after class and gave you private tutoring on the shooting range." Jim smiled, recalling the warmth of Blair's back against his chest as he reached round to steady Blair's aim. Blair's shooting had improved markedly.

Blair grimaced, then blushed and smiled simultaneously. "Is that why they included you in all the social stuff my class did after school? When everybody else brought their spouse or SO?

Jim nodded. He had very much liked being Blair's "SO". "And then there's all our neighbours. You remember that time I carried you home after you got drunk and called me to come and pick you up?"

"You didn't have to take me quite so literally there, Jim. And besides, that wasn't my fault...." Blair hesitated, peering at his friend through narrowed eyes. "I see what you're up to, Ellison. No tangents now. We're talking about your descent into moral hell: lies and half-truths. Anyone else think we're queer?"

Everyone at Rainier as well, thought Jim, but any mention of Blair's former academic life was still avoided after the tragic disaster earlier in the year.

"Chief, I did not lie. And that wasn't unPC. I never lie, and I try to be politically correct whenever I can, mostly thanks to you."

"Whaddya mean, Jim?"

"Think, Darwin. We. Are. Domestic. Partners, Chief."

"Uh, don't think so, man. I think I would've noticed."

"Sandburg, we've been living together going on five years, in an open-concept apartment. We do chores together, we do housework together, I wash your fuckin' underwear for you, and you, for Christ's sake, come with me to the doctor for my annual checkup. My wife never did that for me."

"But, uh, Jim... I know that's the 'domestic' part--but I don't think we quite have the 'partners' part." The new detective was fidgeting awkwardly in his uncomfortable airplane seat, toying with the seatbelt and generally annoying the man forced to sit on his other side.

"Aren't we 'partners', Chief?" Jim asked quietly. "It says so on every report I fill out now that you've been through the Academy; it's been true for the last four years, with or without the gold shield."

"I think you're playing semantics games here, Jim. That's not how the airline, the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered community or the entire western world defines the 'partner' part of 'domestic partners'. I believe you are obfuscating, man. Yep. You are definitely obfuscating. And obfu-skating on very thin ice if I may say so." Blair looked exceedingly pleased with his play on words.

"How long you been saving up to use that one, Einstein?" Jim rolled his eyes. He was beginning to get very weary of this discussion. The tinny sounds of the Maple Leafs vs. the Canucks coming from several dozen cheap headsets were bothering his Sentinel hearing and threatening to give him a headache, despite the earplugs. "Look, Chief. We're domestic, we're partners and we saved the Department $200 on the airfare. So what is your problem here?"

"Sex, Jim. Sex. We're not having sex, man!" Blair had left squeaking behind and was now definitely kvetching.

"Christ, Sandburg, if I just take you into the back of the plane right now and fuck you, will you get over this whole 'domestic partners' thing?" Jim was starting to lose it, and those passengers who had wisely chosen to remain in their seats while the seatbelt light was on were treated to this highly romantic--and somewhat loud--statement. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only when a flight attendant dropped a cup of hot coffee into the lap of a sleeping passenger. The ensuing screams prevented their flight-mates from overhearing Blair's response.

Smiling thoughtfully, all traces of squeaking, kvetching, squirming and fidgeting suddenly notable by their absence, Sandburg looked directly into Jim's celestial blue eyes and said, "Yeah, Jim, I think I just might. But let's wait till we get to the Canadian Pacific hotel in Toronto, 'kay?"

And at that moment, Jim realized that once again he had been deliberately and manipulatively guided into his present course of action... and he was okay with that. Very okay with it, in fact.

The big detective turned his rapidly-heating face away from his Guide and glanced out the scratched plexiglas window just in time to see the CN Tower--the world's tallest freestanding structure--come into view, along with the rest of Toronto's skyline. The appearance of this large concrete erection seemed somehow apropos. Suddenly Jim was looking very forward to this visit to Toronto; he knew that before they left, they would have done many things to explore this new dimension of their relationship--maybe involving maple syrup, hockey, beer and a number of little latex toques. But definitely not including beaver.

The End

*Eh: pronounced "a". Used at the end of every sentence uttered by a Canadian; in both official languages. Sometimes a request for an acknowledgement, as in "good beer, eh?"; more commonly to indicate the end of the speaker's thoughts, somewhat like "Over" as used during radio communication. "I'm gonna play hockey tonight, eh."