Solitary Creatures
by Aristide
But maybe not. God, destiny, and frizzy anthropologists work in mysterious
ways. Jim knew it. He usually didn't let it bother him much.
But, it bothered him now. Bothered him, and even shamed him in some obscure
fashion—he was too old, and, dammit, too insular to allow himself to
be kept up at night thinking about might-have-beens and underground impulses.
He should be asleep. Right now.
Just asleep. Safely asleep. Zonked right out in the void, Jim Ellison
sleeping the sleep of overworked cops everywhere.
Right now...
Jim turned over again. Sighed. Punched his pillow vehemently.
And remained stubbornly awake.
Sandburg had been born with too much energy, and not enough appreciation
of the words 'free beer'. That was why he ended up at the mercy of the
Teenagers From Outer Space while Jim sat, cool and casual (and progressing
nicely with a fairly mellow buzz, thank you very much), in a shaded lawn
chair next to the ice chest at the Cascade PD Summer Picnic.
This was the first year in anyone's memory that the picnic had come off
as scheduled, rather than being pushed back to one of any of the half-dozen
allotted 'rain dates'. Jim guessed that it was probably this unprecedented
miracle that provoked the strangely hyper atmosphere—but boy, whatever
caused it, it was a truly weird experience to watch the department gear
itself up to match the level of Blair's customary frenzy, rather than
the other way around. The moments Jim had spent watching Sandburg and
Taggart mount a united water-balloon assault on Simon seemed tinged with
unreality, as if it were some sort of vague hallucination inspired by
overdone burgers and violently yellow potato salad.
The presence of Valerie and Mallory Roddin had only heightened the weirdness
factor—perfectly identical and identically perfect; each one was a
living, breathing manifestation of sixteen-year-old, Lolita-sweet jailbait.
Oddly free of the streaks of surly rebellion that characterized most
cops' kids; both of them were plentifully dimpled, bubblegum-popping
bundles of long-limbed, congenial flirtation. He watched them ensnare
Sandburg like a couple of Donna Reed clones suffering from an estrogen
overdose, enticing him away from the beginnings of an impromptu touch-football
game with thigh-flashing promises of hacky-sack. Sandburg never stood
a chance.
Narcotics Detective Sgt. David Roddin came and settled next to Jim long
enough to partake in a companionable beer, long enough to ask a couple
of shoddily-veiled questions about the wisdom of letting 'that observer
fella—teacher, ain't he?', run loose around his precious 'angel-babies'.
Jim reassured him with a series of dismissive, macho grunts; and refrained
from poking Roddin about the fact that his two mutant children were not
only from some planet where they patterned clones after Eisenhower-era
TV shows, but also that both 'angel babies' apparently had a nascent
geek-fetish, which (assuming a preference for jock-type grandchildren,
which was indubitable), would cause major fatherly heartbreak if it wasn't
nipped in the bud.
Roddin drifted away soon enough, and Jim directed his entire attention
to the pubescent grope-fest that was moving forward under the innocent
guise of hacky-sack. The two Roddin offspring seemed to be playing in
accordance with an unorthodox rule that required, as soon as the bag
was kicked out of the field of play, an automatic penalty of a full-body
tackle upon the person of the Monkey-in-the-middle—in this case, Simian
Sandburg.
It was fascinating, in a mildly perverse sort of way—all that girlish
giggle and blossoming womanhood hurling itself at Sandburg like new cubs
bringing down half-dead game; a practice sport, a warmup for eventual
predatory violence. Jim watched as time and again Blair was brought to
ground, handled and grappled with so forcefully that Jim would have been
willing to bet there would be dainty hand-sized bruises on Sandburg's
ass for the next few days. Blair was powerless—he couldn't grab back;
not when a defensively raised hand would most likely end up full of heaving,
sixteen-year-old tit. He didn't seem to mind too much.
Jim watched and drank, waved off Simon's efforts to shanghai him into
the Vice/Major Crimes tug-of-war, staved off a growing hunger with two
bites of ice cream before he decided that beer was a safer bet, and watched
some more, and drank some more. There was a lull in the game when both
of the twins decided that they needed to know exactly how ticklish various
spots on Blair's body were; and Jim cracked open a fresh Heineken without
looking at it, mesmerized by the sight of Sandburg writhing and breathless
under torment.
No sooner had Blair begged them off of him and recommenced the game when
a wild kick from (was that one Valerie?) sent the bag spinning up and
over and into the trees... from where it did not descend.
"Oh, damn it!" "Watch your mouth, Mal." "Oh right—like you're gonna
tell daddy on me?" "Maybe I will, then—that'd fix you, that's for
sure—" "Oh yeah? You do and I'll tell that you slid your hand up his
shorts—what if he hadn't stopped you?"
—giggle—
Donna Reed morphs into Madonna. Jim smiled. Strange things in this world.
Blair climbed the tree. The girls stood underneath, watching. Jim watched
them watch Blair, eavesdropped on their hushed and husky teen-magazine
appraisal of that butt, those eyes, that hair... Jim smirked, and
rolled his eyes.
The bag fell to earth, and the girls dived on it, squealing.
They got out of the way just in time. A split second later a sound of
ripped fabric and a surprised yelp intruded, and Blair thumped to the
ground. Bounced about as high as the bag had, to boot.
Jim was on his feet before he knew that he meant to stand.
Needlessly. Sandburg was up again and moving before Jim could even take
a step. Limping a little, but evidently essentially unharmed. Jim sat
down.
He watched as Sandburg made slow progress towards him, smiling, waving
off all inquiries and offers of help, flanked by his ultra-solicitous
alien teenage escorts, both of whom were taking full advantage of the
situation to prop him up and help him along, making occasional little
birdlike dives toward his leg. Okay—he was okay.
Jim cleared his throat. "You're not gonna claim Workman's Comp for that,
are you, Sandburg?"
Blair settled gingerly onto the grass next to his lawn chair. "Oh yeah—I figure if I play it right, I can get enough of a 'hazardous duty' bonus
to take care of my tuition for the next semester..."
Jim passed him a beer. "Asshole."
Soft, identically muted gasps from the peanut gallery. Jim just stared
at them.
The twins offered some final, tentative appeals ('are you sure, like,
totally, that you're okay?' 'yeah, for real?'), and then backed away
slowly, wide-eyed and fidgety, finally turning with a fresh tide of giggles
toward the nearest Frisbee scrimmage.
Blair sighed. "It's the scowl, man. You've gotta learn that not all women
get turned on by that scowl."
"Fuck you very much, Sandburg. They were evil. I saved you. You owe me.
Want another beer?"
"Gimme—ah, better than aspirin. Evil? Jim—you must need a vacation,
or something. They were sweet. At least—I thought they were sweet."
Jim let it go, distracted by a certain, all-too-familiar scent. He breathed.
The sorting and sifting process was automatic, now—sweat, arousal,
a trace of blood—"You're bleeding, Chief."
He watched Blair poke at the rip in his shorts, high on his left thigh.
"No big deal—I think I've got a splinter, that's all."
Jim appraised him blandly, and sniffed again at the subtle, almost teasing
scent of desire. "Want me to smile pretty, call the twins back? I bet
they'd be happy to help you dig it out..."
Blair smiled, looking almost self-conscious, a little nervous. "I'm sure
their father warned them about smiling men—they'd probably report you
to daddy. No, I'll take care of it when we get home. I'm okay."
"Right."
Companionable silence descended. Jim inhaled quietly, dangling his latest
bottle from the tips of his fingers, swinging in slow circles past the
angle of his knee. Grass. Barbecue. High summer. Sandburg with a trace
of bubblegum still clinging to him, grass-stained, barbecue-smeared,
summer-sweaty and turned on—Sandburg and tree sap and blood...
...Sandburg and two blondes, virgins, two eager but unbroken girls; fighting
over his various body parts like depraved little hellions—who the hell's
in charge of this rodeo, anyway?...
...tree sap and blood...
...and blood—who would bleed here? You or them? Break through—do
it, you don't want to dick around with that, 'cause it only hurts worse
if you try to be kind—blood, just a trace, just a trickle; hot-copper
scent of life, could be swept away with one moist and dedicated stroke
of the tongue...
Jim blinked, sniffed, and shook himself a little. Drank his beer. Grimaced.
Olfactory fantasies were part of the goddamn package, okay—he'd accepted
that. Some time ago, he'd accepted that. But acceptance couldn't make
a dent in the provoking irritation of knowing that now every time he
smelled tree sap he was going to end up sporting a diamond-cutter.
Great. Stay away from lumberyards, Ellison.
Just stay away.
And later, in the loft, in the soft relieved haze of being home and tired
and somehow sun-struck even though he'd spent most of his time in the
shade, Jim tuned in to Radio Blair one last time before he took his exhausted
self off to bed—
Small gasps of pain and muffled curses from the bathroom.
"Chief? You okay?"
A sigh, then—"Splinter—can't see it through all the hair." A quiet
hiss that trailed off to a chuckle. "I think I'm gonna have to shave
my leg, Jim. You'll still like me though, right? I mean—you can still
let me drive the truck and everything, can't you? It's really a—Ow—really a health issue, man, no matter what anyone says..."
He tried the door. Locked. "Let me in, Sandburg. I'm not running around
with some half-Esther-Williams freak..."
Blair opened the door, wearing only a pair of boxers and a disgruntled
frown. "I wasn't gonna shave my whole leg, Jim. I know you've got your
reputation to protect—"
"Uh-huh. And so what exactly am I doing with you in my life? Sit down."
Blair sat on the edge of the tub, handed over the tweezers. "Hey, I'm
your one-man P.R. Department—you just look so macho standing next to
me—ouch!"
Sandburg didn't have a splinter. He had four. Three of them lodged
in the narrow gash on his thigh, and one about an inch below that, right
above a shallow scratch. "Don't be such a goddamn baby, Sandburg. I see
'em. I'm on it."
"I'm not being a baby—you're not the one who's getting his thigh-meat
excavated here—oh ow ow ow..."
"Guess this'll teach you to strut your virile stuff in front of the teen-beat
nation—"
Jim stopped abruptly. He had a splinter held fast, a red fleck caught
in the end of the tweezers. He had blood on his fingers.
Sandburg had a hard-on.
"Um... Sandburg..." Jim almost couldn't recognize his own low growl.
"You'd better be thinking about those twins."
Silence above him. For too long. He pulled back.
That look—mute and slightly crazed, and way too naked for this
kind of close proximity... When Blair cleared his throat, Jim jumped.
"Not at the moment, no."
Jim's head dropped involuntarily, his attention focused back on the wound
because right now that was the only place he could focus, the only
part of Blair he could look at without... Without saying or doing something
he'd regret. Cold with shock and yet hot with a strange feeling of exposure,
Jim kept very still. It would go away. Sandburg was obviously having
an off moment (perhaps not an odd thing after all, considering he'd spent
the afternoon being fondled by reprobate virgins). Not a big deal.
Slippery, bloody fingers trembled around the tweezers. Yes, a big deal.
He firmed his grip and the tremor stopped—better off as not a big deal—right.
Jim cleared his throat, pushed everything from his mind except for fond
thoughts of foolish hacky-retrieving, tree-climbing idiots, shrugged,
and returned to his task. "Whatever gets you through it. Just hold still
and don't whine."
His fingers performed automatically, three more tiny, crimson, stake-shaped
bits laid on the edge of the sink before it even registered on his conscious
mind that every hair on his body was standing on end and he couldn't
seem to pull in a full breath of air. He put the tweezers down and stood
up too quickly, regretting it when his head swam. "That should do it.
Don't forget peroxide. Good night." Curt and calm. Good.
He left the bathroom and headed upstairs, and he didn't realize until
he was stripped and settled and ready to get some shut-eye that his index
finger and his thumb were still smeared bright red—he must have that
stuff all over by now, on his clothes, his sheets...
He stared at his crimson fingers, mesmerized. He'd have to pre-treat
the clothes, and change his sheets. He'd have to check the banister and
look for any stray prints, clean those up. Right.
Jim closed his eyes, directed his thoughts firmly to cleaning products
and directions—cold water, cold water always...
His jaw ached. He was thirsty.
He licked his fingers—first the thumb, then the index; and shivered
from the rough/smooth feel of his own tongue over salty, tacky, sensitized
skin. The metallic tang washed through him with a rush like catching
a wave, a big wave, big and irresistible and rising off the undertow.
He shivered again, shocked at himself, shocked at his own behavior and
response; savoring it anyway.
Then he got up and changed the sheets.
Understanding does not preclude frustration.
That seemed like a sufficiently analytical thought, so Jim thought it
again. Tasted it. Rolled it around in his mind just to see where it might
stick. Understanding does not preclude frustration. Yes. The satisfaction
he got out of the thought disappointed him, which was pretty damn contradictory,
which in turn was pretty damn frustrating when you got right down to
it...
Jim sighed, and reached automatically for his coffee. He might as well
have called in sick today for all that he had gotten done. He'd pushed
papers he stared at but never saw back and forth between various piles
on his desk, but other than clearing up a few dusty areas, not much in
the way of actual work had been accomplished. He'd wasted time without
netting any real result, and he hated that. He'd been distracted, and
he hated that even worse. And now he'd discovered that his coffee was
ice-cold, and that was pretty much cause for going Postal, as far as
he was concerned—
He sighed again, and leaned over to put the disgusting stuff far enough
away that he wouldn't reach for it again without thinking. He felt frustrated.
Obviously. On so many levels—so much here went across the grain of
who he was—analytical thought was not, after all, his usual weapon
of choice. He didn't like analytical thought. He liked intuitive leaps,
instinct, gut response; and he liked action.
Action—so much simpler, so much more direct and overt, so much more
satisfying than this navel-gazing, brain-churning bullshit. Of course,
if he'd gone that route, if he'd relied on his instinct for action, he
wouldn't have spent last night's sack-time throttling a hard-on he could've
broken down doors with into subsidence. No, Jim 'Action' Ellison would've
redefined his unofficial moniker by hauling Sandburg up against the nearest
wall and demonstrating that he was good for much more than impromptu
splinter removal.
But he hadn't. Didn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't. And all other sorts of words
that serve as a quick way of saying 'not'. The moment he'd seen that
wild, almost-guilty/almost-bold look on Blair's face it had been like
it knocked him right out of himself somehow, moved him from a position
in his own life from participant to observer, from action to... analytical
thought. God help him.
Really, really goddamn annoying—he hadn't been with anybody in over
six months, and yet he felt totally and irrevocably fucked. He had a
sneaking suspicion that only he would be able to formulate a situation
that convincingly pathetic.
Pathetic indeed. As soon as he'd heard Blair's soft-spoken words, Jim
had done something, flipped the switch on some inner arbiter—for
safety's sake. After all, in his first muddled consideration of last
night's events, he hadn't been at all sure that his gut reaction might
not have been to thump Sandburg a good one and remind him to keep it
in his pants. Blair's unnatural quiet over breakfast this morning suggested
that perhaps the same thing had occurred to him.
But no. Thumping Sandburg was right out, at least, under these circumstances.
Closer examination (and God—how he hated that; like poking at a wound
that was fascinating in its severity) revealed what the arbiter had tried
to conceal from him—it was actually kind of... exciting, in a very
bizarre way, and when the pieces all fell together they made a terrible
kind of sense. The kind of sense that told him more than he'd really
wanted to know about more than he'd ever cared to consider, and thereby
cursed him with the burden of understanding...
An understanding that did not, fuck it all to hell, preclude frustration.
Right.
Jim shrugged, rolling his neck until it cracked. He growled quietly—forcing his mind through these kinds of hoops was truly awful, and it
was beyond him how Sandburg and other Sandburgian types managed to do
it on a regular basis without going nuts. He reached for his coffee,
stretching, grumbling vaguely at himself for setting it down so far away...
Cold. Oh yeah. Apparently the erosion of his mental faculties had already
started settling in. Wasn't that nice?
Well, it might not be nice, but at least it was helpful. When he was
so far gone that he couldn't be bothered to remember to get hot coffee,
the time for rational thought was past. There were some things a man
of action couldn't be expected to withstand.
Jim put his coffee cup down with a determined 'clunk', debated for about
two seconds whether he should put his haphazardly reshuffled piles into
some sort of order, mumbled 'kiss my ass' loud enough to prod a shocked
gasp out of a passing administrative clerk, then grabbed his jacket and
made for the door.
It felt so good to move, to take these decisive steps—he could almost
hear the cheesy '70's cop-show soundtrack in the background. It made
him smile.
"I need your help."
Jim had known those words would do it, would cut through any initial
resistance and get Sandburg's full attention in a way that no others
would. And he was right—when Jim walked in the door, Blair's initial
greeting had been tentative and a little distant, not much pause in the
constant chitter-click of the keyboard from inside his room; but as soon
as Jim came into the doorway and dropped his little bombshell Blair was
at attention, all evident presence and warm concern; still looking a
little uncertain, but apparently very much there for him, nonetheless.
"Sure, Jim. Anything, man—you know that. What is it?"
Jim opened his mouth automatically, paused, and then closed it again.
Ah. The flaw in the plan. On the way home in the truck Jim had constructed
the perfect opening line, but he'd been so distracted (in a modestly
smug sort of way) by considering what a very perfect line it was that
he hadn't really paid attention to constructing any follow-up lines,
perfect or otherwise. Whoops.
He cleared his throat, and decided abruptly that he didn't really need
a plan—that this particular plan had all been about letting it all
go and not having any sort of organized plan... Good Lord, if he had
to live like this, if he had to spend his time in constant thrall to
these damn endless and slippery mindloops, he really would be insane
inside of a week.
"There's some things I need to tell you... and some things I want to
know. I've been thinking today—I got jack-shit done at the office,
and it's probably a good thing the guys in the black hats decided to
take the day off, because I was pretty goddamn worthless." He ground
to a halt, choking on his own words, his own admission; and he found
that, perfect hook or not, his opening line had a disturbing amount of
truth to it. His jaw was so tight it felt like he was chewing on rocks.
"I need your help, Sandburg."
Apparently his discomfort had communicated itself without any further
elaboration, because before he could even draw another breath Blair was
there with him, close but not touching, shooing him into the living room.
Thirty seconds later there was a cold, open bottle in his hand, and Sandburg
had settled himself on the other end of the couch with his best 'speak
to me O Sentinel, my Sentinel' look on his face.
This entire operation was executed in an edgy silence, and Jim found
that there was a certain evil pleasure in realizing that Blair had muzzled
himself on purpose—oh, he looked calm enough, all right, but closer
inspection revealed lips pressed a little too tightly together, and
Jim enjoyed taking his time preparing his words while surreptitiously
watching Blair work himself into a quiet little frenzy trying to keep
his mouth shut.
"Don't pop a vessel, Sandburg," he growled finally, "it's not like I'm
going to start spouting the Sermon on the Mount, here."
Blair's color was high in his cheeks, a manifestation of feeling that
actually soothed Jim a little. There was this thing between them now,
this big, dense, heavy weight of words and thoughts unspoken, and Jim
was relieved to know he wasn't alone. It gave him the strength to speak.
He chose his words carefully—words about Sandburg and not about himself,
a little sarcastic maybe, and perhaps a little defensive—that seemed
safest, for now.
"So—are you hot for tweezers generally, or did it have something to
do with me?" It was hard, so hard to get the words out... Jim swallowed,
watched his words strike home.
"Everything... it had everything to do with you, Jim." Totally calm,
despite the blush. Amazing.
Now Jim felt his own cheeks get hot—much less comforting than watching
Sandburg sweat it out. He swallowed again. Had he expected a fight? Had
he really?
"Oh. Hmm." What the hell was he supposed to do now? He felt a terribly
strong urge to squirm—unacceptable. He straightened his spine. "I meant
to tell you... I wanted to tell you some things, but I don't know if
I can."
Blair's eyes were huge, grave and earnest; a picture that Jim used to
find himself again when he was loose and wandering in the depths of a
zone-out. Reassuring, usually, but not now; not with this... thing between
them. He looked away quickly.
"What can I do, Jim? Just tell me—I want... I want you to be okay;
you know that, right? You do know that?"
"Don't look at me." The words escaped before Jim could bite them off,
and immediately he regretted speaking them—he might as well have 'chickenshit'
tattooed on his goddamn forehead...
"Yeah, okay, man, whatever—not looking, I can do that."
Jim's eyes were drawn against his will. Blair had his head reclined back
against the couch, his gaze trained on the ceiling as if staring at it
was the only way to keep it from falling down. Jim felt an immediate
and curious sense of liberty—very odd to see Sandburg simultaneously
present and distant, fully there with him and yet directed away—no
scatter-shot lasers of concentration to spread havoc over him and his
closely guarded stock of self. It left him free, somehow.
His stomach dropped as things seemed to shift and slip around him. No
longer an observer, Jim felt himself fill up his own body, fully at choice
to move or to rest, tingling strangely within the boundaries of skin.
Jim Ellison, present and accounted for... and then he found the words
he'd wanted, the ones he hadn't quite been able to reach during eight
goddamn hours of thinking in circles.
"I don't think it even really surprised me, Sandburg. It was like—like
part of me had... almost expected it. Been waiting for it. That surprised
me." As always, he marveled at his own aptitude for understatement.
Blair sighed. "Jim, can I ask you a favor?" Odd, to hear Sandburg sound
so very solemn. Serious, he was used to, but solemn was a new one on
him.
"Sure thing," he replied without thinking, freezing belatedly as it occurred
to him what kind of solemn favor Blair might be asking of him...
"If this is working up to you telling me to leave, could we cut to the
chase? I've been trying to be patient, but I know how you get when you're
talking your way around something, and I don't think I can take it this
time, okay?"
And in a sudden flash of insight, Jim saw the schism between them,
whole and complete. The line between observer and participant fell away,
and Jim saw his own limits clear, his own need for distance and the darkness
that lay behind it. He winced—that need in him hurt Sandburg; Blair
respected his need for distance although he didn't understand it, and
consequently suffered the tortures of the unknown while he waited (so
patiently!) for Jim to come around, to either confirm or dismiss the
fear.
(Why do you let me?) He wanted to ask, but he couldn't, because as
deep as his sorrow ran over the pain he'd never meant to inflict, there
was still a wall there, and the wall was there for a reason, dammit,
and you don't just wake up one morning and decide that enough's enough,
you're going to let almost forty years' worth of that shit go.
But right then, in that moment of watching the sunset light illuminate
soft curls, shine mellow peace at him from a smooth and blameless slope
of forehead, he dug his nails into his palms and wished that, maybe,
somehow, he could. If he could... if he could do that, why, he could—he would reach out, wouldn't he? Reach out and gather Blair to him, and
look for a way to make amends...
And then... what?
Jim shook himself. There was a question on the table, and he didn't need
to be wasting time tripping out over how sunlight looked. "No, Chief,
I'm not telling you to leave."
(I just have no fucking idea how I'm going to deal with you if you stay.)
He watched Blair swallow. "Okay. Thanks, man."
And after that, there seemed to be no more to say.
(Oh yes there is.)
Damn. His hands were shaking again. Just like last night. "Blair?"
A careful blink. "Yeah?"
And with a sense of deep, terrible regret, a fully detailed comprehension
of his own failings coupled with the grief of knowing that he couldn't
give them up, not yet, Jim allowed his numb lips to speak.
"Look at me."
Blair did.
Even like this, nerve-wracked and a little sad and frighteningly excited
and terribly unsure, Jim found it comforting to know that he had been
right. Being right was the same solace it had always been.
He'd believed without reservation that Sandburg would read the truth,
would see his desire with one look, and he'd been right about that.
It was something, the only thing, really, that he felt like he had to
hold onto in this moment.
However, the consolation of this brilliant and accurate leap of deduction
was seriously offset by the immediate follow-up realization of how deeply,
vastly, and tragically wrong he'd been about what might happen next.
All of his thoughts and considerations last night and throughout the
day had been about his own actions towards Blair, what he might do to
Blair, with Blair; good old Jim Ellison surmounting his sudden sexual
crisis in the active mode, through explorations into the unknown with
his energetic accomplice, Blair.
It had somehow never even crossed his mind to stop and consider what
the hell Blair might do to him.
His calculations had been off, therefore, by about a hundred and seventy
pounds or so. The same amount of weight currently straddling his lap.
Stunned and speechless, Jim tried to catch his breath; his eyes pressed
tightly shut as feather-soft touches skated with tingling intimacy over
his ears, his cheeks, his forehead. Behind his closed eyes he lived it
all again, survived that moment when Blair looked at him and the light
went on, sparks like champagne bubbles drifting in blue eyes, and then
all complacent rightness went abruptly out the window as Sandburg floated
across the space between them and started doing things to him. Gently.
Softly. Everything tinged with a slow, earnest adoration, nothing threatening,
nothing he couldn't handle, but—doing things. To him.
Right now, despite his mind's insistence that this couldn't be happening,
not like this; Blair was doing these things. Still.
Jim's mind seemed to bend somehow as everything turned inside-out.
Great Holy Jesus-Flagwaving-Christ; how in the hell had this not occurred
to him?
"You." Blair whispered, and Jim squeezed his eyes tighter shut. "Feel.
So. Good..."
Suddenly, despite the dire implications of his own question, Jim found
himself caring a lot less about getting an answer to it.
Right isn't everything, after all.
Tender hands tilted his face up, and Jim's eyes flew open. Blair was
intent on him, looking entranced and unshakable and not at all like an
accomplice, but much more like a man who knew exactly what he wanted.
What to do. What to take...
Bending languidly to his mouth, easily, relentlessly, moving with poured-honey
slowness, like someone in a dream—
"Wait," Jim gasped out, neck muscles strained by pulling back so hard,
"That's... This is... Sandburg, this is just too fucking weird—"
"I thought about this more than anything else," Blair interrupted smoothly,
shifting against him like a human tide, "feeling you hard like this—you're hard, Jim; and kissing you..."
"Mm-mm." Wordless, mouthless, pointless way of saying 'no'. Speechless
again, but this time he couldn't talk if he'd wanted to, because Blair's
tongue was in his mouth, and all at once he was trembling so hard he
thought he might shake them off the couch.
Wet. Slick. Luscious. Opening him up. Tasting him, and teasing, terribly
teasing...
"Mm-mm..." Oh, that didn't sound very convincing at all.
Plunging in and rocking, warm hands on his face, on the back of his neck,
stroking, soothing...
"Mmmm." Fucking hell. Jim stole a breath. Regretted it when he heard
himself groan into Blair's mouth.
Open and wet, warm and close, and his own hands were moving, reaching,
feeling...
"Mmm—ohhh..." Blair captured his tongue, flicked it, seduced it, and
bit down.
Jim came in his pants.
On September 10, 1972, Jim Ellison had been excused from his Algebra
I class by Ms. Alton-Finch, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to
Estelle Winwood on a bad day. He stalked purposefully through the unfamiliar
hallways, clutching his bathroom pass, trying hard not to feel like a
stupid freshman who couldn't wait 'till lunch to drain the snake. All
of the first-day-of-high-school hype had been upon him, the exigency
of new friends and team tryouts and things that would keep him busy and
get him out of the goddamn house until he could for fuck's sake leave
for good...
The pattern of imprisoned anger behind his thoughts made him turn the
lavatory tap much harder than he'd meant to when he went to wash his
hands, and consequently the rusty old faucet jetted a furious stream
of water right onto the crotch and down the inner leg of his carefully
faded jeans.
Thus, Jim Ellison spent the first lunchtime and fifth period of his high-school
career looking exactly like a dorky freshman who'd just wet his pants.
Not exactly a hugely formative experience, but definitively the most
embarrassing, the most horrifying, the most oh-God-give-a-guy-a-break-and-just-kill-me-now
shameful experience he'd ever had.
Until this one.
He let Blair hold him. He didn't really object, but even if he had he
wouldn't have done much about it, because he was far too busy wanting
to die. He let Blair hold him, he felt the light butterfly touches of
Blair's lips across his ferociously hot forehead and prickling against
his hair, and kept his energy focused on not panting like a bull-moose
in heat.
"Jim—man, are you okay? Everything's cool, you know; we're cool here..."
The patented Sandburg Soothe, post-coital version. Jim shivered. He couldn't
move his arms. They were locked tight around Blair's body and that seemed
wrong, to cling so tightly when he was cringing with shame, but he couldn't
make himself let go.
"There's nothing—shh—there's nothing to be ashamed of, that was wonderful,
you're wonderful..." Oh, he didn't want to be comforted by this—these
words were not the place he wanted to take his consolation from; he needed
space and time and distance, needed to put himself back together in some
dark and isolated place, but... but...
"You're not alone." Blair found room between them, somehow. Glinting
brilliance of sun-shiny curls curtaining down from above (and when was
the last time he'd had hair in his face? Too long, too long ago), and
a peaceful, hollowed pocket between them where Blair's clever hands were
busy, unzipping his own jeans, reaching, pulling out what Jim could feel
the heat of, but couldn't bring himself to look at.
"You're not... alone..." Blair settled into him like he was the most
comfortable chair in the world, utterly at home and cozy, and resting
so sweetly against the top of his head—Blair Sandburg, doing what felt
good, snuggling up in Jim's lap and whacking off. Jim gasped, and the
scent of it reached him; dark and passionate, and elusively tempting
in a way that made him want very badly to get closer. That reborn hunger
killed the shame in him quite effectively, and abruptly his entire body
seemed on fire with the awareness of what was happening; every stroke,
every slow, swaying movement, every indulgent sigh of enjoyment from
above—it was unreal, it was unbelievable, it was quietly outrageous
on a whole new level, and he was treasuring it deeply, drinking it
in, because it was so mindblowingly hot he was already hard again.
"Oh Jim..." Softly affectionate above him, relaxed and responsive without
a single hint of fear or embarrassment—how did he do that? Jim held
Blair more tightly, leaned into the hollow of throat so that he could
peek furtively downwards, struggling with his rapid breath and the dim
suspicion that he was going to start shaking again soon.
"Wonderful, wonderful—yeah..." Blair arched against him, rubbing, thrusting
towards him, getting himself off quite effectively while Jim hit a level
of panicked lust he hadn't known was possible and groaned with the pain
of being trapped in his pants while all this gorgeous wanton flesh undulated
across his thighs. He'd meant to peek but he was staring now, Blair's
hand, Blair's cock moving, excitement so rich it was a kind of torment,
gripping him deep under his stomach, under his balls, washing all awareness
away except that of need.
"You too," Blair gasped from above, and sure enough the shakes set in,
right on schedule, "I know... you want to... so come on, Jim—let's
do this thing..." As if the words had released him Jim found that he
could let go, could untangle his arms from their deathgrip to slide unhesitatingly
into his own lap. Blair leaned back a bit to accommodate him, and then
there was only the devastating awareness of how close those parts of
them were, and a last bright flash of shame as his fingers slid through
the puddle he'd made earlier, and then delirious relief as he took himself
in hand.
Something brought his eyes up then, perhaps some strange standard of
mutual pleasure that decreed that it was somehow rude not to look at
the guy you were jerking off with—whatever it was, Jim found himself
caught by half-lidded eyes and flushed skin, lazy smile and desire and
such sensual intention that he felt his cock leap in his hand, and
he hissed.
"I'm going to fucking come all over you," Blair said serenely while he
leaned forward, and the world went white-hot for a moment before Jim
came back to himself, lost already in mid-kiss.
While he'd been gone a lot of the tranquility had evaporated out of the
atmosphere, and now he was plastered against the couch under the assault
of a moaning, heaving maniac, a hot and compact embodiment of erotic
craving that fed off his tongue like it was some kind of aphrodisiac,
humping against him and twitching every time their busy hands slid aside
enough for their cocks to streak against each other.
When Blair grabbed his wrist Jim shuddered. A quick fumbling, a brief
ache of loss while his hand was pried loose, and then he cried out mindlessly
because Blair was right there against him, close and hard and pushing
at him, and his fingers obeyed when Blair guided them to wrap around
both shafts, squeezed them together as if he'd been doing it all his
life.
All he could do was hold on. It was all that he could do, and thankfully,
it was all that was necessary. Blair moved and slid, sucked on his tongue
and held him steady and fucked his cock wildly, desperately, three sharp
jerks before wet heat spurted over his glans, his groin, his stomach,
and Jim cramped with the sudden pain of how wonderful that was and thrust
up hard under Blair's weight and came, unbelievably soon after the last
time but he did, he did; savoring the taste/sound of Blair's cries against
his gasping mouth.
"Jim—hold it—hold me like that... oh yeah..." Jim went numb with
the aftershocks of cresting pleasure, still struggling to believe that
this was real, that this was happening, that he'd just done—that
Blair had just... that they...
His mind caught up as his body settled down, and he couldn't stop, he
couldn't stop shaking, heaving for breath, breathing in the smell of
both of them together. He was heavy with the knowledge that nothing had
ever been so sweet, so hot; that he'd thought that maybe he knew what
he was getting into here but he was wrong, very, very wrong. Abruptly
his eyes burned and he shut them quickly—(Great. The final fucking
insult.)
Jim pressed his lips tightly together, and tried to ease up on himself
a little—how could he have known, when nothing on earth had ever prepared
him for... for that?
And then he just drifted; breathing hard, waiting. It occurred to him
dimly that he might just be going into a bit of shock now, seeing as
he was experiencing a pretty fucking profound epiphany while sitting
on his couch covered in come with his roommate on his lap.
He supposed he could allow himself that, under the circumstances.
Fortunately, Sandburg seemed to pick up on his need for quiet. There
was no new-age inquisition into the state of his feelings, no overt or
covert scrutiny as he stated his intention to take a shower, got up,
and left the room.
He closed the bathroom door behind him, leaned against it with his eyes
shut, and listened to the panicked-rabbit sound of his own heartbeat.
The availability of hot water called to him with its usual siren song
of relaxation and comfort, but he ignored it for the moment, waiting,
waiting to be ready.
There were pieces of things inside him, a jigsaw of emotions, thoughts
and ideas that had been tossed sky-high only to patter down and reveal
an entirely different picture than the one he was used to looking at.
He was still shaking.
An entirely different picture. He drew in a deep breath, and the shakes
worsened when he realized that he smelled like a victim of a drive-by
circle jerk, and the air hissed out between his teeth when the awareness
hit that he didn't really want to wash it off yet, because it was a
precious reminder of what had just happened, because it was maybe the
very last thing he'd be able to imprint on his senses to round out his
burning memories, because it was... nice.
(Nice. Oh Christ.) Jim opened his eyes, and faced himself in the mirror.
And found, to his further surprise, that it wasn't as difficult as he'd
feared it would be. He'd thought it might just about kill him, to look
at himself and say hi to the man staring back at him; but actually the
proof in the mirror—he was still him, still himself, the only difference
being that his eyes seemed to be glowing with some sort of semi-sane
exultation and he was really a mess—the proof of that was a relief,
a strange comfort, maybe even... an improvement?
For the first time, a crazed truth crashed home to him—he might survive,
he might withstand his father's legacy. It made his heart pound fiercely.
Jim stripped off his clothes (half fond farewell, half mildly revolted
amazement at the sheer volume of what they were splashed with) and got
into the shower. He was in the middle of a systematically brusque lathering
of his own hair, accompanied by an electrically-edged fantasy of a much
more languorous and sensual washing of somebody else's curls, when a
perfectly rational internal voice spoke up and asked him exactly what
was going to happen the next time Sandburg got close to him and drove
him out of his mind.
Beyond the obvious, of course.
He stood there blinking under the water, the sting of soap in his eyes
terribly reminiscent of the earlier burn, of that moment when he'd realized
that the idea of letting Blair go was pretty fucking painful. His dick
was hard again (Sandburg—the Sentinel's Viagra), but his chest
ached deep inside and there was a coldness in the pit of his stomach
that the heat of the shower couldn't touch. So many women—there had
been so many women (and probably a bunch of men as well, for all he knew,
only those hadn't been paraded in front of him), and none of them had
ever found a grip that would last because Blair, like Jim himself, was
a solitary creature; available to a certain extent but certainly no further
than that...
These disturbingly distressing thoughts were cut off by a sudden flash
of memory, of a day about a month ago when Jim had stayed home sick with
a bad cold, hacking his lungs out and doing a fairly convincing impression
of a snot factory.
...Sandburg had chosen to stay home with him, 'to keep him amused' as
Blair put it, 'to bug the shit out of him', as Jim said. The day had
stretched on endlessly, endlessly; long hours of forever with wind and
rain whipping the hell out of everything outside the loft, but inside
it was warm and comfortable. And the phone never rang and nobody disturbed
them with any sudden crisis for once, and even though the cable went
out sometime in the morning he'd never been bored because Sandburg played
cards with him and joked with him, and made him drink some revoltingly
sweet cocoa with little plasticlike marshmallows in it that they'd ended
up fishing out of their cups and flicking at each other. And when darkness
finally, finally fell Blair taught him how to make some weird curried
dumpling soup that made his whole face run with sweat and other gross
fluids and they had laughed a lot at that...
Jim finished up his shower with his usual perfunctory efficiency, musing
on all the new definitions for so many, many things. This is Jim. This
is life. This is sex. This is friendship. This is love. (Look familiar?
No? Well, what did you expect?)
(This is change, walls or no walls, Mr. Almost-forty-years-of-bullshit.
And, solitary creature or not; it's a fucking gift.)
Jim caught his own eyes again in the mirror, vague through a haze of
steam. Yes, confirmation there—a gift.
(Now go, and try not to be a chickenshit bastard. Don't you cheat him
or yourself... okay?)
Jim put on his robe, dumped his clothes into the hamper with one last
rueful grin, and opened the door.
Okay.
He was fine, just fine, dealing and coping and keeping his apprehension
and his excitement nicely balanced to form some sort of equilibrium;
he was fine right up until the moment that he realized that he wanted
Blair to fuck him.
This little flare of enlightenment descended upon him while Sandburg
was in the shower, while Jim was busy listening to the stream of water
and thinking perverse thoughts and going over the couch with a moist
cloth just to be on the safe side. His erection had thankfully subsided
while he got out of the bathroom and Blair ducked in, offering only one
reassuring smile and a look of repressed curiosity that had Jim nibbling
the inside of his lower lip to keep from chuckling. His personal pup-tent
returned, however, the moment he heard the water go on behind the closed
bathroom door, the same moment he looked at the couch. Right there. Everything
had changed right there, and there was a naked man in the bathroom behind
him, naked and wet and scrubbing off the aftereffects of an impromptu
lust festival, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Cleaning steadied him, sobered him—not that there was much evidence
of anything to clean (most of it had landed on him, after all), but
still—it was something to do while his mind constructed various scenarios
that might have compelled him towards a much less innocent and less tidy
activity while he waited for Blair to get out of the shower so he could
suck his face.
For once, the idea of being at a distinct disadvantage didn't really
put him off his stroke (so to speak). Blair knew what he was doing, that
much was evident, and Jim found himself happy enough to follow along
blindly (hopefully without any further instances of coming in his pants,
please God), to learn from somebody he knew was a competent and thorough
teacher, and if Blair wanted him to...
Or wanted to...
Or went ahead and...
He froze, on his knees on the floor with cloth in hand while he went
over the couch with intent scrutiny, abruptly so hard under his robe
that it was hurtful as his body flashed hot with something galvanizing
and electric, like being struck with some kind of erotic lightning that
he felt everywhere, but felt particularly strongly in a certain body
part whose adaptability he hadn't really considered until this moment.
Jim put his head down on the couch, relishing the cool, slightly rough
touch against his flushed cheek, and bore up under the now almost-familiar
signs of overwhelm—rushing, racing pulse, anxious little sips of air
that never seemed to be enough, the shakes—and marveled at his own
craziness. How could he know he wanted that; how could his body know?
He couldn't know, not really; but damned if he didn't feel like he
did.
He closed his eyes. Shadow-Blair behind him, close and holding him, touching
him everywhere and taking him places he'd never dreamed of—taking him,
period; bringing all that intensity and focus and purity to bear on his
body—
Unaware of his own actions, Jim pressed his eyes shut tight until they
stung, and covered his head with his arms. That was too much—from happily
(relatively, anyway) hetero to apparently gay in one day he could handle,
but from tightly controlled hetero to abandoned bottom-boy in something
less than twenty-four hours? Oh no. No no no. That face in the mirror
had still been his face, and that had been a relief, and he didn't
want to strain his own credibility past the point of bearing.
But, oh... his hands came away from his head and stretched out over the
couch, creeping languidly much the same way Blair had crept upon him
earlier, leaving him spread wide open in a way that should have scared
him to death but instead made him feel incredibly alive—an utterly
new, wonderfully delirious feeling of being able to just give up, to
turn himself over with unquestioning trust and know that he was safe
to do it, to let someone else be in charge of everything for just a few
moments... did he really want to run away from that?
Jim sighed and rubbed his cheek once more over the cushion, just a little,
his mind buzzing. Actually, there was another option available to him,
should he choose to take it. He could refuse to think about it, give
life a chance to take him by surprise...
Yeah, right.
(Try to remember to look shocked and apprehensive if and when the moment
arrives, Jim old boy.) He sighed, glad that the tremors were finally
fading away, and got himself up off his knees with barely-concealed reluctance.
(Oh great—I'm a slut. Jim Ellison, 'Man of action' by day, slut by
night. Just fucking perfect.)
He heard the water in the shower go off the moment he gained his feet,
and he headed with quick, nervous steps towards the kitchen to rinse
and hang the cloth he'd used to clean up the couch. He then headed upstairs
to put some decent clothes on while pointedly thinking non-Blair, non-lustful
thoughts; but in the best tradition of the old joke everything he thought
about (basketball, the last case, his next case, groceries he should
buy, movies he wanted to see), seemed to have a Sandburg-esque angle
to it, and the jump from there to lustful thoughts was a terrifically
short one.
(Face it—you're screwed.)
Jim sighed. Blinked. Thought about it.
(Don't I wish...)
He slapped his forehead and groaned quietly.
Dinner was a nice reprieve, an interval of normality without any of the
strained tension he'd thought he might have to endure. Pasta with big
pieces of tomato and chicken mixed in, covered in some sort of weird
spicy sauce that he wasn't quite sure about but decided to like after
he found out that it didn't make his nose run. Beer. Salad that he didn't
really want but ate anyway just to keep Sandburg from whining at him.
Polite, civil, normal discussion—a comparison of internal politics
between the University and the Cascade PD, the latest news on the Jags
(good) and the latest statistics on national crime (bad); all in all
the kind of evening he'd been enjoying for four years now without really
paying attention to it.
Blair seemed so frigging calm it was nearly frightening. Warm and friendly,
yes, relating his opinions, thoughts and stories with his usual effervescence;
but undeniably, unquestionably calm, as if the whole world hadn't just
shifted a screaming ninety degrees to the left. Either this was Sandburg's
idea of giving him 'space' and 'time to adjust', or Blair fucked his
friends on a regular basis and then didn't ever talk about it again.
He thought it as a joke, but it stirred fears in him that were quite
real and unfunny. When the dishes were done and put away, the kitchen
tidied and the counters wiped, Jim felt Blair's hand come to rest on
his shoulder as he wrung out the sponge for the last time; and the relief
that sparked through him made him sigh.
"Jim," Blair was close, very close to him, close enough for Jim to lean
down and kiss him, if he'd had the courage to do such a thing, "I know
I probably scared the piss out of you earlier—I moved too fast, I know;
and I'm really sorry that I did that, I mean, scaring you is like, the
last thing I wanted to do, but—"
"I'm okay, Chief," he interrupted, and gave in to the urge to reach out,
resting one damp hand gently on Blair's sleeve, "like I told you before,
I kind of expected it, somehow—I think some part of me has been thinking
about it for a long time." He squeezed gently, feeling muscles shifting
under cloth, under skin, "I'm okay," he repeated gravely, (let's hear
it for the Master of Understatement!) "Really."
Blair's eyes were very large, earnest and hopeful in that probing way
that usually annoyed the hell out of him but actually seemed kind of
cute, in the moment. "Really? You're okay?"
Jim glared down at him. "Do orgasms negatively affect your hearing, Sandburg?
I just told you fucking twice that I'm fine."
Blair smiled, looking delighted. "Yeah, man, but you lie about shit like
that all the time. How'm I supposed to tell whether you're really okay,
or whether you're blowing smoke up my ass and secretly flipping out?"
Jim wondered absently if one of the perks of this new arrangement would
be the option to spank Sandburg when he deserved it. "Chief," he replied
dryly, "if I was blowing smoke up your ass, I would be flipping out,
and not very secretly. Did I ever tell you that your choice of metaphors
says a lot about you?"
Amazingly, Blair's eyes got even bigger. "Met-a-phors!" he drawled in
a tone of religious mock-awe, "I guess orgasms must positively affect
your vocabulary—hey!—"
"That's it," Jim growled, his hand tight on Blair's wrist as he headed
for the stairs, "if you're going to tease me, you're going to do it in
bed."
"Wow," Blair sighed behind him, "you're being a total dickhead—you
really are okay."
It made him want to stop right where he was, stop and pull Sandburg into
his arms and treasure the friendship that was still there, that could
still exist even though everything else had changed. He wouldn't—didn't—do it, though; dragging Blair upstairs and getting naked with him was
one thing, but trying to explain that he was clinging like a leech because
he'd just realized that they'd still be able to have belching contests
and fight over the remote control seemed a little beyond him at the moment.
He kept his grip on Blair's wrist until they'd reached the top of the
stairs, and then, as he now had a perfectly good excuse, he gathered
the other man close, nuzzling against silky curls until he thought he
might sneeze.
"Um... Jim?"
Uh-oh. He knew that tone. He sighed. "Yes?"
"Did you want to... Shouldn't we... There's probably a few things we
should talk about, you know?" Once again, proof positive—that tone
meant trouble.
"Later, Sandburg." There had to be some way to effectively sidetrack
this conversation...
"Just one thing, then," Blair sounded almost desperate. "Just let me
tell you this one thing..."
"Okay," Jim breathed agreeably. He was certainly feeling very agreeable,
all things considered. His hands had just discovered Sandburg's ass,
and all the implications of what might happen if he grabbed it and pulled
them together.
He didn't have to. Abruptly Blair was as close as he could get without
actually being behind him, hands pressed hard into his back, head pressed
even harder into his collarbone. "I just want you to know that this has
been... that I've wanted you for a long... a really long time. That's
all. I just wanted you to know that."
Jim felt his face go hot, and abruptly he was glad that Blair's head
was buried down near his chest. It was a bit like getting cut with a
knife in the middle of a fight—a knowledge of a wound inflicted and
an immediate prickly numbness, but no real pain, and no awareness of
just how bad the damage might be until later, after all the excitement
was over and done. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said
to him.
"Yeah," he mumbled quietly in response, "I know that, Chief. I know."
And then Blair was out of his arms and separate again, separate but not
gone, squeezing his hand gently. "You have to tell me—I know you
hate it, Jim, but you have to—you've gotta let me know when you want
or don't want something. I don't want to ruin this—I don't want to
scare you off. Okay?"
"Mm-hmm." It was the best he could do. Blair was stroking his hand now
like it was the only part of Jim he was allowed to touch, and Jim could
feel the blood moving through his veins there, the skin exquisitely sensitive
under the caress of a callused thumb, the eloquently poignant spur of
dragged fingernails. His nipples and his cock were achingly hard, and
he could feel something coiling low within him, some huge and terrifying
and deeply impatient thing, just waiting for him to let his guard down
so that it could take over and start making demands.
And Sandburg, goddamn it, wasn't making it any easier on him. Leading
him towards the bed as slowly and tenderly as if he were some blushing
virgin (well...), tentative kisses, tentative touches, light-years
away from what he really, really needed. He didn't know quite when he'd
started making that scary growling noise, but it seemed omnipresent,
a sound born of frustration so thick it colored the air around him.
Of course, now that Blair had tapped into some revoltingly bottomless
fount of restraint, he had to go and take it all wrong. "Okay, man, easy—I'm not going to... I'm not gonna go too fast here, Jim. Just talk to
me." Blair was petting his hair now, gentling him as if he were some
scared animal just waiting to bolt. (Great—he thinks I'm fucking Bambi...)
"Blair!" It tore out of him, much more harshly than he'd intended, and
he whipped his head away from that maddening, uncertain touch. Blair
backed away, palms raised, eyes big and concerned and irritatingly apologetic.
"Sorry—didn't mean to push you—"
"Sandburg—" Jim reached for the closest, upraised hand, slapped it firmly
against the back of his own, and then reached—all in a tangle, with
the surpassing weirdness of compelling Blair to force him—and (finally!)
down to that warm, hard place between Blair's legs. "For a smart guy,
you can be a real idiot."
He leaned close, enjoying somebody else's look of shock, for a change.
"Just fucking push me."
Never let it be said that Sandburg couldn't take a hint, at least, not
after it had been steamrollered into him—Jim found himself naked and
flat on his back almost as quickly as he could have wished. The thrumming
urgency of need backed off a little as he watched Blair strip, a mild
and wondering distraction over his own response; falling effortlessly
into fascination—(this? This short, hairy, naked guy sporting a big
ol' red hard-on? This makes me hot?)
Oh fuck yes.
When Jim saw the shallow, healing wound on Blair's thigh it touched something
in him, something that called up a piercing sense of gratitude for what
had been discovered here, for this moment. It drew him off the bed as
if in a dream—the hard floor might as well have been as soft as down
under his knees; he neither noticed nor cared. All he felt was the desire
to place a kiss there, which he did, softly; with his eyes closed.
"Mmm..." Blair touched his head gently, but there was no Bambi-ish hesitation
this time. When those hands tilted his head back Jim went along, his
muscles tightening a little as his heart started to pound. Blair had
that deliberate, intent look again, the one that said 'I'm doing this
to you totally on purpose', the one that sank into him like heat. "You've
never done this before."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a question but it did provide Jim with
some answers, as all of a sudden he realized his own position and what
Blair was talking about and what was about to happen here... and really,
he hadn't meant to... to offer what Blair thought was being offered;
but now it was about to be taken from him and really that was probably
for the best because he really felt terribly, horribly unstrung right
now...
He only shook his head. He didn't think he could actually speak, but
apparently he was wrong because while he was lost and staring deep into
Blair's eyes he heard his own voice, low and tense—"Does that turn
you on?" Jim pressed his lips together too hard, too late, and felt his
face glow warm.
Blair's answering smile was very faint, but his eyes were brilliant.
"Yeah, Jim, it does." Spoken as calmly as if Jim had asked if it looked
like rain outside. Jim shivered.
Blair leaned down to him slowly, and Jim opened his mouth for a kiss
but it was Blair's fingers that slipped into him, just blue eyes watching
him and warm, slightly salty fingers running across his tongue. He closed
his eyes and sucked.
"Everything... everything about you turns me on," husky and low, and
that, along with the gentle presence thrusting into his mouth, getting
him ready; drew a line of electricity through him that tingled everywhere.
Fingers out, thumb in, thumb across his tongue and he thought Blair stood
up again but he couldn't bring himself to look; and then he did what
the thumb told him to do and opened, opened wide for it. The scent of
musk filled him, and the first hot satin touch on his tongue made his
cock twitch and drip; and thank God he didn't have to snake himself forward
and take it because Blair brought it to him, gave him all he could possibly
handle and then a little more.
He choked briefly, and his hands came up in reflex to clutch warm, solid
thighs. He held still.
Ragged breath above him, a quiver in the muscles under his hands, and
his throat hurt with wanting as Blair pulled back, left him empty only
to fill him again wonderfully, even deeper. When insistent hands came
to rest on his head he felt illuminated by the perfection of it, held
in place; held open while the cock in his mouth rocked forward and back,
always gentle but always taking more, stealing upon him by degrees until
he was shaking and sweating and absolutely drugged with the knowledge
that he was actually, that he could actually do this—could get down
on his knees and offer Blair this, could take it when Blair worked himself
in deep, could give this kind of pleasure.
"Your mouth... your mouth, Jim, oh my God..." he heard Blair losing
it, heard it and didn't care because he wanted it, and in a moment he
was going to reach down and give himself one hard squeeze and that would
be enough...
"Don't!" Panted from above, rough and urgent. "Don't you even touch
your cock, Jim—that's mine." He wouldn't have thought it was possible,
but Blair dragged him up off his knees easily enough. His throat ached
with emptiness but it was only a moment, only a dizzy, quick moment before
Blair was on him and kissing him deep, toppling him onto the bed in a
wonderful, sweaty, straining tangle.
"That was so fucking good, Jim," mumbled around his tongue, barely
comprehensible, and for some reason Sandburg apparently felt the need
to hold Jim's arms down at his sides, pressing him with his full weight
into the mattress even though he wasn't going anywhere. He discovered
the reason for this when Blair slithered down his body like a greased
snake, eased down and swallowed him whole. Bright stars exploded behind
his closed eyes and then everything was wet; hot, wet, and pounding within
him as Blair sucked him down, sucked him hard, held him down and sucked
his cock like he was starving for it...
There were some strange noises going on, fading in and out; yelps and
sighs and groans that had to be coming from him because Blair's mouth
was very full, very full and very busy driving him out of his mind. His
head arched back, helplessly; he couldn't thrust because of the weight
on him but he could do this, he could surrender to that touch and give
it up and offer everything he was. "I'm..." he managed in a strangled
voice, "Blair... I'm... going to..."
Freedom was like a terrible, cramping pain as Blair rose up off him,
and he cried out with loss until his mouth was muffled with a kiss, slow
and sweet and a whole new kind of torment altogether. "No, not yet you're
not," whispered moist against his lips, and he was so fucking far gone
he didn't even care that his eyes were burning again, that he suddenly
felt lost and terrified and way too vulnerable to every awareness of
what Blair was pouring into him, desperately afraid to be taken to the
place where he knew he wanted to go.
"Trust me," Blair murmured in his ear, and then Jim was on top of the
fear, accepting it and not fighting any more as Blair let go of him and
rummaged in his bedside drawer, pulling out condoms and then diving back
in, searching. He let it happen—let his eyes run, let his heart pound,
let his body shake as hard as it wanted to. Trust. More right than probably
even Sandburg knew, because there was a lot more at stake here than just
his self-image and the truth behind his hidden desires—
Jim's wiped his eyes quickly before Blair could turn back to him. He
moved to turn over (easier not to look, much easier not to have to look),
but Blair stopped him, steadied him. "No, Jim. I have to see you. Hold
you and see you."
Strangely enough, that made everything simultaneously better and worse.
He watched Blair draw on a condom with an odd kind of detachment, knowing
only that he was afraid, and that he trusted. He was not alone, he remembered
that. Not alone.
Blair had found the old bottle of lotion he kept in his drawer, and the
scent of it—plain and prosaic, memories of cold, windy days and solitary
shifts and rough, chapped hands—tore at him in a horribly deep way;
what was he leaving behind, here? What was he turning his back on forever?
What would this do to him?
"Breathe, Jim," Blair reminded him softly, and he whooped for air he'd
been denying himself. Blair was close again, right next to him, lying
beside him so that he didn't feel quite so weird about being flat on
his back with his legs spread wide, something that was abruptly about
as erotic as going to the doctor. His erection had faded completely.
Sandburg didn't even seem to notice. He nuzzled gently against Jim's
neck while his slick hand slid up and over his flaccid penis, an incredibly
soft and intimate touch that felt like it went all through him, slow
and patient and achingly tender. He wasn't flaccid for long.
"Oh..." He couldn't keep the sound in. Blair nipped his throat and cradled
his balls at the same moment, and Jim curled up around him reflexively,
all the remembered heat flowing freely now as he buried himself in the
smell and taste and texture of Blair's skin, rough with stubble here
at his cheek, dizzyingly silky back near his earlobe.
Blair took his mouth and said things without words, licking the truth
of seduction out of him until his shudders of fear had become quivers
of need once again, nibbling a complex pattern on his tongue that made
his nerves sing. It was an abrupt shock to realize in mid-moan that Blair
was inside him now, that the low, satiny pulse teasing at him from
the waist down was because right this moment Blair's fingers were in
him, slowly taking him, stroking into him deeper every time he moved.
He froze for a second, afraid to even breathe, but then Blair brushed
over something inside that throbbed through him so intensely that all
the air left his body in a startled rush, and he pushed down without
thinking, knowing only that he needed more. Emptiness there, needing
to be filled. He gasped.
"Okay—we're okay, just hold me," Blair moaned, and Jim found that he
could do that. He held on as Blair moved above him—warm, soft skin,
trembling muscle, deliriously close scent of arousal, of musk, of Blair—and where there had been emptiness there was now pain, bright and sharp
and dreadful, and he couldn't believe that he was going through with
this but he knew, now, knew what was waiting for him on the other side,
and who would be with him on the way.
"Jim—breathe!" Apparently he wasn't the only one hurting, here. He
drew in breath obediently, and let it out in a stunned groan when his
body relaxed and Blair just slid deep into him, one simple thrust that
almost killed him as pleasure blazed up and took him over.
"Blair..." he murmured, squeezing tight, shifting, his hips lifting somehow
without his help, "that's... Jesus, Blair! Oh—"
"Yeah," Blair finished for him, voice shaking, limbs shaking, moving
inside him now so easily, so gently; "oh yeah, my God you feel so fucking
good, Jim... like home, you feel like home to me—want you want you
want you..."
Things fell apart a little then, and Jim found himself gnawing on Blair's
shoulder so that he wouldn't scream and scare both of them, holding everything
inside that wanted to pour out of him—he couldn't hold Blair anymore
because Blair had both his hands in a deathgrip, fingers tight together
and keeping him pinned flat to the bed, laying claim to him.
He didn't have to ask, he didn't have to try to find the breath to ask
for a single thing because Blair gave it all to him, took him with wild,
deep abandon that left him simultaneously filled and hungry, unable to
believe that he had taken so very, very long to find this. He held on.
Blair moaned breathlessly in his ear, paused one heart-skipping moment
while he released Jim's hands and fastened instead on his hips, and then
Jim felt his thighs stretch as Blair moved them further apart and started
pounding into him—and oh dear God he was getting fucked by a man
here, getting fucked hard—by Blair, by Blair—and he never, ever
wanted it to stop but the top of his head was going to explode... and
then Blair grabbed his cock and he did explode, sobbing; twisting up
to get more of it while Blair stroked him and squeezed him and bit him,
crying out against his neck while crushing him deep, deep into the bed.
There was a rushing moment of awareness that Blair was coming inside
him, and then everything went back to hot and wet as liquid spread on
his stomach and sweat trickled down the crevices of his body. He went
lax with residual pleasure and just absorbed it, soaked up Blair's essence
and his sounds and his wonderful, trembling, ecstatic body; drinking
in all that was there for him.
He was aware, excruciatingly aware, that he was not alone.
And that, perhaps not surprisingly, was the part that gave him a hard
time. In the dark, soaked aftermath of slowing breath and quiet sighs,
when Blair's hand moved softly over his face as if reading him by touch,
Jim kept waiting to feel them move apart, and it kept not happening.
At first, afterwards, he'd simply fallen into Sandburg's heartbeat; focused
in on it as if drawn there because it was a familiar sound, a known sound,
and one that he cherished. He realized with sleepy awe that it was different
now—not the sound itself but his hearing of it—he'd never heard it
quite so clearly before... never heard it descend from a peak of having
just come inside his body...
A very different sound, and, God help him, he didn't really know what
the hell he was supposed to do about that. He could handle the parts
of this that were about himself—truths uncomfortable but nevertheless
bearable; bearable because, underneath it all, he knew he'd lost nothing,
and gained a world. But this wasn't just about him (like he could do
that on his own!), but about both of them, about the man (partner,
friend, Blair) lying on top of him right now so heavy and sated, so
beautiful in the faint light. About him. Blair wasn't inside him anymore,
he'd felt him go very clearly; but...
But he kept waiting for them to move apart, and it kept not happening.
It felt very strange, to be this close to somebody. Of all the strangeness
of this incredibly fucking strange day, that seemed to be the worst of
it—he'd adjusted to so much, and apparently his adjust-o-meter had
just fried itself out because suddenly he couldn't at all make sense
of what he was doing here, lying naked in the dark with Blair in his
arms, quiet and still and close. He was starting to panic a little, and
he was drowsy, and it was really kind of interesting the way he couldn't
be sure if he was about to pass out or bolt for the shower. He didn't
want to bolt—it would be better for Blair to move away first, better
and easier—
"Jim?" Soft but tranquil, no hesitation evident, and that in and of itself
calmed him a little.
"Yeah?"
"You know—what you said earlier, about how you kind of expected this?"
"Yeah."
Blair shifted against him, lightly. "Well, I... I didn't."
"Mm." What the hell did that mean? (Silence, Ellison; let the motormouth
elucidate.)
Sure enough, Blair had further information to impart. "I've wanted this—I've thought about it for so long, but, like, I never thought it would
really happen, you know?"
"Yeah, it does seem kind of unlikely, Chief." (What's your frigging
point, Sandburg?)
"Yeah." Blair sighed, and shifted again. "But it did happen, Jim; and
it was... it was nothing like what I expected. I didn't expect that."
Jim had such overwhelming empathy with that statement that he managed
to persuade his arms to actually move, a last hug before this little
interlude was over and he had to figure out what the hell he was supposed
to do next. "Me either, Chief. Me either."
Blair seemed to perk up at that and nuzzled him happily, sniffing his
ear. "Really?"
Jim tucked the ear hastily into his shoulder, twisting away before it
could tickle. "Do you think I'm some kind of fucking compulsive liar,
Sandburg? I just told you—"
"Twice. I know." Blair appeared utterly unperturbed by his surliness,
but only settled closer to him, sighing peacefully, going slowly, bonelessly
limp. "I know you, Jim Ellison."
And Jim realized right then that Blair wasn't waiting for an opportune
moment to move away from him—Blair had made himself at home and pretty
much settled in for the duration, and Blair was evidently not concerned
at all about his status as a solitary creature, but was perfectly happy
to lounge on top of him until they got glued together by the mess trapped
between their bodies.
(A slob even in the sack. Just my fucking luck.)
He smiled. "I know you too, Blair Sandburg."
Things might have happened in a very different fashion if Blair hadn't
been so damn susceptible to the Teenagers From Outer Space. What had
been idle speculation would have remained as it should be—both idle
and speculative, a dreamtime distraction left down at the level of a
soft background hum.
