"So, what do you want for Christmas?"
Jim sighed and took a sip of coffee. "Sandburg, how many times do I have to tell you? Surprise me, I don't care. Just don't make a big deal out of it, okay? A package of T-shirts will be fine."
"Oh, yeah, that's great. Something you can buy at a Walmart for six ninety-nine is what you want for Christmas. Pass the Thermos."
"Okay, get me a mint condition Shelby Cobra. They run about ninety-five grand. Does that help?"
"Never mind, sorry I asked."
It was two hours into the stakeout before Jim noticed, and another hour before he said anything.
"Sandburg, where the hell are your gloves?"
Blair's shrug was more of a shiver, but he didn't take his eyes off the front of the warehouse. "I gave them away this afternoon."
Jim opened his mouth, then closed it. There was a lot to say to that statement, and as cold and as tired as he was, he knew it would come out all wrong if he wasn't careful. He was trying to put the days of speaking first and regretting later behind him, but sometimes Sandburg made it so damn hard.
Blair must've gotten some kind of subliminal signal anyway, because he glanced over at Jim just long enough to flash a knowing grin.
"Go ahead," he said, turning his attention back to the warehouse. "You know you want to."
"Want to what?"
"Tear me a new one for coming out on a stakeout without the proper gear."
"C'mon, that's not true—"
"Oh, please. Here, let me do it for you." Blair cleared his throat, shoving his bare hands deeper into the pockets of his corduroy coat. "'What the hell, Sandburg? Who the hell comes out on stakeout in late December without his damn gloves?' Then I'd answer with, 'There's a perfectly good explanation if you'd care to hear it instead of just getting all glare-y with me.' Uh, you do know that never works, right? And then you'd say, 'Quit trying to change the subject,' and I'd say, 'I wasn't, I was trying to explain,' and then you'd huff and pout and cross your arms and then you'd never hear the story. How'd I do?"
Despite himself, Jim felt a smile tugging at his lips, but he covered it with his own gloved hand. "You left out the part where I call you a moron, but since you've got possession of the Thermos, I figure we'll stick with the abbreviated version."
"Damn, Simon was wrong."
"Wrong about what?"
"You are trainable."
Jim reached out to bop Sandburg on his head, but Blair was already ducking away, his soft chuckle drifting away in the icy air. The aborted movement brought Jim's own gloved hand back into his field of vision and he frowned, because the subject had been changed, and Jim really wanted to know why Blair would give away his gloves in the middle of a Cascade winter.
He decided for an oblique approach. "Any coffee left?"
Blair shook his and stomped his feet on the floorboards, telling Jim that it wasn't just Blair's hands that were cold.
"Nope, all gone. Remember that trip I took to the 7-Eleven about half an hour ago? The one in the freezing cold rain? That was the last of the coffee."
"Thanks for the visual," Jim muttered. "7-Elevens sell coffee, you know. Come to think of it, they sell gloves, too. Maybe not the finest quality, but—"
"Not the finest quality?" Blair echoed. "Are you kidding me? Polyurethane and nylon, man-made fibers from some third world country, probably made by six-year-olds whose parents have never heard the term child labor—"
Jim held up his hand. "All right, I get it. Your conscience won't let you spend five bucks to buy a cheap pair of gloves because getting frostbite is somehow more politically correct."
Blair pulled his hands out of his pockets and clasped them together. "We only have another hour, right?" He blew on his fingers, then tucked them into his armpits. "I'll be fine for another sixty minutes."
Jim frowned at Blair's profile. Sixty minutes was a hell of a long time as far as he was concerned. He wasn't concerned that Blair was actually getting frostbite, but he extended his senses to scan the temperature of various portions of Blair's body. Fingers, nose, and toes were definitely on the cool side but not in the danger zone, so he relaxed a little and refocused on the warehouse that Blair was still watching so faithfully.
They both knew, but wouldn't admit, that Blair was there to keep Jim company more than anything else. Jim had refined his abilities to the point that they were an extension of himself—they worked almost independently of his consciousness. During their entire conversation about the gloves, as well as the preceding three hours, he'd been monitoring the warehouse, the docks, the adjacent businesses and to some extent, the 7-Eleven half a block away. This whole stakeout had been a spur of the moment assignment, based on intel that wasn't exactly trustworthy, but Simon wasn't willing to pass up the chance that it could pan out.
Which brought Jim back to Blair and his missing gloves. Blair had been out meeting an informant when Simon had authorized the stakeout earlier that evening, so Jim hadn't been able to give him much notice. They'd met up at the precinct for a quick bite before heading to the wharf district, and as Jim shifted his gaze back to the warehouse, he thought he could remember Sandburg leaving the loft with his thick wool gloves that very morning.
His thoughts scattered when Blair shivered hard enough to rock the truck. Jim started to say something, but then realized that the temperature had dropped dramatically. Jim took a deep breath and tasted snow on the back of his throat—snow that was supposed to hold off for another twelve hours.
Blair shivered again and Jim sighed. He disliked that that Blair was so uncomfortable—not that he'd ever admit it out loud. But the time to tell Sandburg to suck it up and deal with it was long past.
"Sandburg."
"Yeah?" The single word was gritted out between clenched teeth.
"Turn around."
Blair looked over his shoulder, yanking his watchman's cap down around his ears. "What?"
"I got the warehouse covered." Jim bit the end of one finger of his glove and peeled it off with his teeth, then stripped off his other glove. "Angle yourself around until you're facing me and give me your hands."
"Uh, Jim—"
"Just do it, okay?"
The words came out more gruffly than Jim had intended, but he didn't think he could handle Blair's shivers much longer. Blair shifted beside him, propping his knee up on the bench seat and holding out his hands as asked. Keeping his eyes on the warehouse door, he gathered Blair's hands between his own, startled at how icy they felt in his palms.
"Jesus, Chief, your hands are freezing."
"Brilliant observation there, Captain Hyper-touchy," Blair muttered.
Lowering his head, Jim raised their joined hands to his mouth and blew a draft of warm air across Blair's fingers. Blair recoiled slightly, his fingers tensing, but as Jim exhaled another breath against his skin, he began to relax. The trust inherent in that slight movement of muscle and bone raced straight to Jim's heart and he had to force himself to keep his gaze turned outward instead of looking at Blair.
It amazed him, the amount of trust Blair still placed in him, after everything that they'd been through. The fact that Blair was still beside him at all was a miracle—and Jim had thought they'd run out of their share of those one terrible day not so long ago, beside a sparkling fountain, on a field of green grass.
Eyes still on the warehouse, Jim's voice lowered to a rough whisper. "So what did happen to your gloves?"
Blair curled his fingers into his palms, so Jim breathed on his knuckles. "I gave them to Toothless Betty," he said, his words hoarse.
Jim laughed softly, sending more warm air gusting over Blair's hands. "First sneakers, now gloves," he groused. "Either we're going to need a new set of snitches or you're going to run out of clothes."
Blair's answering chuckle was strained. "Good idea, because naked isn't sounding so good right about now."
Speak for yourself, Jim thought, swallowing hard. A naked Blair was something he'd been contemplating in a very non-partner-like way for quite some time, but he'd learned to live with it, just like he'd learned to live with Blair's weird sprout addiction and insistence on organic cleaning products. But sprouts and cleansers didn't keep him up late at night, his body so taut with wanting that he knew he'd shatter into pieces by dawn.
It took Jim a moment to realize that Blair was struggling to pull his hands out of Jim's grip. He was so caught up in the intoxicating play of textures and scents between his palms that he was closer to a zone than he'd been in months. Reluctant to lose contact, Jim leaned back but kept Blair's hands between his, lightly chafing them. He could feel the muscles in Blair's arms tensing even though he'd stopped trying to remove his hands. The silence between them stretched out, but even with Blair's gaze resting on his face, Jim kept his own eyes resolutely on the warehouse. He was afraid that he'd give away too much, that he'd confess something without saying a word. Blair could pretty much weasel any information out of him at any given time, but some things he really needed to keep to himself.
"They're warm, Jim."
"Huh?" Jim turned his face and involuntarily looked directly at Blair. Blair's eyes were wide and clear, pupils slightly dilated, and the skin on his cheeks had bloomed with heat.
"My hands. Feel them, they're warmer."
"Oh. Right." Jim released Blair's hands, instantly aware of the cold air pressing against his own palms. He rubbed them on the surface of his jean-clad thighs, turning his attention back to the warehouse just in time to see the gleam of a flashlight flicker past the grime-encrusted windows.
"Crap." Jim was already reaching for the door handle. "Call for backup, Chief. Looks like that tip is going to pay off after all."
They got home just as the sun was cresting the horizon, its delicate light bathing Cascade in a lavender-tinged glow that danced over the frosty streets. Blair preceded Jim into the loft, tossing his keys toward the kitchen counter and sighing with disgust when they missed and fell to the hardwood floor. Jim brushed past him, rubbing his wrist where he'd used it to bust out a rotted wooden door frame that was foolish enough to get in his way.
"You can have the first shower," Jim said. "You must be an ice cube by now and I don't need you melting all over the floor."
"I'm okay," Blair answered. He ran a hand through his hair, obviously distracted, as he glanced over at Jim. "What's wrong with your wrist?"
Jim held it up so Blair could see the bruise that had blossomed just below the prominent knob of his wrist bone. "Had a piece of lumber try to make a break for it."
"So you taught it a lesson?"
"Hell, yeah."
"Let me see it." Blair held out his hand and Jim automatically rested his hand inside the curve of Blair's palm. When Blair looked up he tried to pull away, but Blair's grip tightened. "Man, your fingers are cold, too. What happened to your gloves?"
"They're still in the truck," Jim answered, voice thinned with something close to panic. He was tired, his defenses were down, and Blair was too damn close.
"Here." Blair lifted Jim's palm to his lips and blew a warm breath across its surface, his gaze never leaving Jim's face. "Trust me, it works. Warmed me up real good."
"Blair." Jim's voice cracked but he didn't move, captured by the odd combination of terror and amusement that shone from Blair's eyes. "My wrist is okay."
"Yeah, I know," Blair murmured. "And my hands weren't really that cold."
Before Jim could react to that enigmatic sentence, Blair looped his arm around Jim's neck. He still had hold of Jim's hand and he tucked it between them as he lifted up to press a light kiss to Jim's mouth. Jim took a step back out of shock, but found himself sliding his free arm around Blair's waist when Blair made a move to retreat. One of them murmured something and then Jim dipped his head, turning it just enough so that there was nothing tentative about their second kiss.
It became everything Jim had dreamed, and yet so unlike what he'd expected. Everything was familiar, welcoming, the scent of Blair's skin, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his body. Even the small groans of pleasure coming from Blair's throat weren't unexpected and yet they were totally new, completely enthralling, instantly habit-forming. When the kiss ended, it faded away slowly, a gradual separation that spoke of reluctance to be parted and fear of discovery in equal measure.
Jim lowered his head, blinking hard to clear his vision. "What the hell just happened?" He was waiting for the world to stop spinning, but not too sure he wanted it to if it meant acting as if the last sixty seconds of his life had never occurred.
"You started it," Blair whispered against his cheek, eyes drifting shut as Jim cradled him close. "Oh, man, this is good."
"Yeah, it is, and what do you mean, I started it?"
Blair leaned back, giving Jim a knowing, lopsided grin. "You totally gave yourself away in the truck, you big faker. You know you did, so don't bother denying it. And just for the record," Blair confessed with a sigh, "I was on my way to the co-op to buy some new gloves when you called with the break in this case. Ten more minutes and I would've shown up for that stakeout with a brand new pair of gloves. Your secret would've been totally safe."
"Yeah, well, maybe that was a secret I was tired of keeping to myself."
He watched with satisfaction as Blair's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"
"Don't I look serious?"
"Hell, Jim, you always look serious. It's sort of your trademark. There's just a little more riding on your answer this time."
Jim twisted his hand out of Blair's grip and rested his palm against Blair's cheek, his thumb caressing stubbled, fine-grained skin. "Then, yes, I'm glad that you figured out that I fell in love with you about a hundred years ago and now I'm finally ready to show you—hell, the rest of the world that doesn't already know—how I feel."
Blair swallowed, his eyes searching Jim's face. "Uh, wow. That's quite the declaration. Not really unexpected, but nevertheless a pretty good one for someone who doesn't do, you know, big emotional—"
"Whatever. Look, I'm planning on kissing you again, so unless you have any immediate plans, I'd suggest you pay attention."
"Fine with me," Blair breathed, "I'm good with that."
"And a hell of a lot more," Jim replied, lowering his mouth to Blair's.
"So, Jim, what do you want for Christmas?"
Jim lifted his head and examined the love bites he'd left on Blair's neck. "I suppose the Shelby is still off the table?"
Blair shifted beneath him, his fingers painting lazy circles on Jim's bare back."Sorry, yeah."
"Then I've got everything I need right here."
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