With narrowed eyes and a steady hand he aimed at his target. He couldn't miss; too much was riding on this. His breathing evened out as he entered the zone...

"Oh, for God's sake, Chris, just throw the bloody thing into the bin and get it over with."

Damn it! Missed. He glared at his partner, but Sam was smirking at him unrepentantly. "Guess this means you're cooking dinner," Sam stated smugly.

He scowled. "You may live to regret that, Sammy boy. You know what my cooking is like."

Sam raised one eyebrow at his use of the diminutive of his name, but he let it slide, merely smiling a little superiorly and replying smoothly, "Let me rephrase that then. Guess this means you're the one springing for takeout."

Chris scowled again, but only for show. He couldn't really begrudge Sam his teasing. It happened so rarely these days that his partner, his lover, actually indulged in something so light-hearted.

On the surface everything seemed fine, and Chris had to admit that the act had even fooled him for a while and he probably knew his partner better than anyone. Sam had forgiven him and all was well with Chris' world. Even the inevitable showdown with Malone hadn't gone too badly, although Chris had to admit that he may only have faced their boss' sharp interrogation with reasonable equanimity because he and Sam had spent the morning before revealing their relationship making slow, satisfying love. Satisfying on many levels; not just sexually but also because Chris had half-convinced himself that it would be a cold day in hell before he was ever let back anywhere near Sam's bed, never mind his heart.

No, even Malone hadn't been able to shatter his good mood after that, and to tell the truth the old goat hadn't even tried that hard. Oh, he'd made several token comments about the First Rule and some half-hearted threats to reassign them to other partners but Sam had managed to talk him out of it with a minimum of effort, mainly by pointing out, very politely and respectfully, several salient facts, including that they were one of the few still fully functioning teams within CI5. There was also, of course, the fact that on at least two occasions since becoming involved they'd still done their job to the utmost of their ability despite the other being in danger - first in Tennessee and then the latest job in South America. Not even Malone could argue with those facts, not that he didn't try. So, after over an hour of being grilled about every facet of their affair, they'd got away with having six monthly reviews of their partnership rather than the normal annual reviews and a stern warning that if at any point Malone even got a hint that their relationship was coming first he would haul them over the coals.

The fact that they'd got away so lightly only increased the immense feeling of well-being Chris had felt, and not even Sam's assertion as they were leaving the building that Malone must have at least guessed about them beforehand could shake that.

Two and a half months of Sam being unhappy, however, could.

Actually, he wasn't sure that Sam had been unhappy the entire time. It had certainly taken him long enough to notice his partner's low spirits. He'd simply put Sam's quietness down to a combination of exhaustion, natural reserve and some lingering nervousness about their temporary break-up. He'd only begun to wonder about it in the last couple of weeks when thankfully the new agents got into the swing of things and the pressure on the experienced - Chris refused to consider themselves as older - agents eased off, and Sam stayed quiet.

And then there was the sex. Oh, it was good - it always was between them - but he'd begun to notice something strange. Sam seldom initiated it, although he was always responsive when Chris did. In fact, now that Chris had time to think about it sometimes he was too responsive. Sometimes there was almost an air of desperation about it, as though Sam was trying to make it last as long as possible, or maybe store up memories...

He shouldn't think like that. It only ended up with him being depressed too.

And then there were the times when he caught Sam watching him, although his partner always came up with some plausible excuse if he called him on it. He sometimes felt like telling the man that he didn't need to pretend, that it was okay to look at him because he, in a sense, was Sam's. But he couldn't, maybe because on those occasions when he caught Sam looking the lingering trace of sadness in his partner's eyes, before Sam could get his guard up, stopped the words in his mouth. He wanted desperately to take that look out of his partner's eyes but couldn't think of what to say that would do that, and so was left floundering wordlessly. And then the shutters would go back up, Sam would crack a joke and he'd wonder if he'd let his imagination get away with him. Until the next time.

He watched Sam closely now, looking for those shadows lurking in his lover's eyes, but Sam was all business, his concentration focused on writing the report on their latest case. He was so focused on Sam he didn't notice Spencer approaching.

"Something wrong?" the Ops manager asked, glancing between the two of them as Chris jumped out of his skin.

"Chris is hoping that if he sits there and looks at me with big puppy eyes I'll write this report for him." Chris could only admire Sam's smooth capacity for recovery.

Spencer gave a brief smile. "Is it working?"

"No," replied Sam, not looking up, his whole attention fixed on the screen in front of him. "Personally I think he needs the practice."

Chris balled up another piece of his pad and chucked it at his partner's head. It didn't make contact, Sam swiping it neatly out of the air before it came anywhere near, once again not even looking up. Chris was mildly insulted by that. "Practice at what?" he asked.

"Spelling for a start."

"There's nothing wrong with my spelling!"

"Favour has a 'u' in it."

"Not in American!"

Sam finally looked up to give him a smug smile. "So this is a cultural flaw then? The inability to spell is a genetic trait passed down from the Mayflower, is it?"

"Hey, those guys were pioneers..."

"Pioneers in the art of creative spelling, apparently..."

"Breaking new ground..."

"Losing vowels..."

"Getting away from the stuffy British..."

Not having an answer to that Sam did the only thing he could. He stuck his tongue out like any proper English, reserved and borderline anally retentive secret agent. Chris had to laugh.

"Well someone's in a good mood." Chris glanced up at Dave Michaels, the Englishman's partner trailing after him like a bad smell. "I take it you've 'eard the news?"

"What news?" He glanced at Sam but his partner looked as confused as he was. In answer, Michaels looked to Spencer.

"I was just about to tell them," replied Spencer mildly.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense," chided Chris, itching for something other than report writing to do. "Spit it out, man."

Sam did a much better imitation of Malone than he did, but it still raised a smile. "Well, now that we are finally up to full strength, Malone wants the holiday rota reinstated..."

"And?" Chris had a feeling he knew what was coming, and he was hard pressed not to cross his fingers.

"You and Curtis have wrapped up the Kazinski case, right?"

"We're writing the report now, right, Sam?"

"Well," replied his partner dryly, "one of us is. The other appears to be struggling with writer's block." Once again he glanced at the full wastepaper basket.

Chris pulled a face and turned a hopeful look on Spencer. "We'll be finished that..." He looked to Sam for a timetable.

"As soon as you stop throwing things at me."

He pulled another face. "Soon."

"Good. In that case, as soon as you've turned it in the pair of you have a week off."

"YES!" He couldn't help it, pumping his hands into the air. A week, a full week of not getting shot at, of lie-ins and sun and sand and sex. Especially the sex. A week of Sam. If he didn't manage to put a smile on his partner's face after a week, he might as well give up.

"What's the catch?"

Trust Sam to look a gift horse in the mouth. Chris turned pleading eyes on Spencer, praying that there wouldn't be a catch. The apologetic expression on the Ops Manager's face told him there was. "Just in case you're needed you have to stay close to HQ."

"How close?" asked Chris suspiciously.

"Three hours, no more."

Damn! No Caribbean. "Paris?" suggested Sam, obviously thinking along the same lines. Art galleries, culture, cuisses de grenouilles, no chance. His expression must have said that for him because Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's November," Chris whinged. "It's cold, it's damp..."

"It's a week off..."

Actually Sam had a point. No sun, no sand but he could still have the sex. "Fine," he muttered, and then he thought hard. "Your friend still has that holiday cottage? The one in... Devon was it?"

"Don't tell me that you guys are actually seriously considering holidaying together?"

Shit, he'd forgotten that Wiersbowski was there. He glared at his fellow American. "Well," he said through gritted teeth, "unlike your partner, I actually like to spend time with mine."

Wiersbowski bristled and now both Sam and Michaels rolled their eyes, sharing a look that Chris could only interpret as 'Americans'. Sam smoothly insinuated himself into the conversation.

"Well, put it this way, Mike. It gives Chris some company in the evenings when he shoots and inevitably fails to score."

"Hey!"

"What about you?" Michaels asked inquisitively.

"Oh, I gave women up for Lent," replied Sam urbanely, once again focused back on his report.

"Since when?" Spencer wanted to know.

"Since the last blonde I chatted up turned out to be a mafia hit woman. I decided that celibacy was a better option."

He seemed completely unconcerned by his confession, whereas the three men clustered around him looked completely flabbergasted. Chris had to hide a grin, briefly catching Sam's amused eyes. "God," Sam said, finally deigning to look at his audience when he deemed that they'd suffered enough. "You lot are so gullible!"

Their colleagues shared sheepish looks but Sam's joke had done as it was intended to do - distract attention from their plans. Wiersbowski snorted and strode off, still not having completely forgiven Sam for the South American affair, while Spencer and Michaels had the grace to share an embarrassed smile.

"So..." Spencer asked, "I take it you want the time off? I don't need to find another team willing to swap with you."

"If you dare..."

"What my partner means to say, in that inimitable way of his is that yes, Spence, we will take the week just as soon as I've finished this report and Chris has added the insults to the Metropolitan Police he will inevitably think are essential."

"That's a yes, Spence, in case you missed it."

Spencer chuckled lightly and headed off, Michaels trailing in his wake, wanting to know when he and Wiersbowski could expect similar consideration. Chris watched them go with a jaundiced look in his eye.

"Why the hell do you think Michaels agreed to take Wiersbowski back as a partner?" he asked idly, not really expecting a reply.

"He asked for him."

Chris gave his partner a startled look, before glancing back at Michaels. "Yeah? He doesn't look like a masochist."

"Mike has his good points, Chris."

Typically Sam, really. Mike Wiersbowski had a grudge against him and therefore he was going to be reasonable about it and ignore the veiled insults Wiersbowski threw in his direction, whereas Chris just itched to rip the son of a bitch's head off. "Michaels hit him," he pointed out reasonably.

"They hit each other," Sam pointed out gently. "And with the stress they were under..."

"We didn't resort to hitting each other."

That sad look flashed through Sam's eyes. "No, Chris. We just spontaneously combusted."

It was the first time that Sam had actually referred to their temporary break-up since the first morning when he'd woken up with Chris beside him. They both avoided the topic, to be frank, not wanting to reopen the wounds when they were so fresh. Even now, a couple of months down the line, they didn't talk about it. Maybe that was where they were going wrong. Maybe that had something to do with the unhappiness he could feel in Sam. Lost in his thoughts, he watched Sam working on their report, trying once again to figure his partner out, as unsuccessful as he usually was.

"If you're that bored, why don't you go and get some target practice in. Looks like you could use it," Sam broke into his reverie, smiling again and glancing rather pointedly at the overflowing wastepaper bin surrounded by balled up scrap paper.

Chris scowled. "Not bored and don't need the practice."

"Chris..." Sam began in that 'patient' tone of voice that told Chris he was working up to something Chris wasn't going to like. "We get to go and play when I've finished. I'll do it a damn sight faster if you're not sitting opposite, sighing loudly because you're bored out of your mind and throwing things at my head for a little light relief."

Chris flushed slightly, not realising that he'd been so noisy. "What about the report though?"

Sam gave him a steady look. "As always, you can read it and change anything you want before we turn it in. Now get. Go do something useful." Get out of Sam's hair, in other words.

He couldn't leave his partner struggling with it on his own though, not and live with himself. Well, okay he could live with it but Sam might have a problem for all his partner's seeming generosity. He gave another heavy sigh. "Okay, pass the evidence over. I'll do the appendices."

It was probably the worst part of report writing but the look of sheer surprise on his partner's face almost made volunteering worthwhile. Almost. Still, he thought, brightening up. Sam would owe him for this, and he intended to take full payment over the next week or so.