It was the sound of snowflakes hitting the window that awakened me.
I lay there for a few minutes, eyes closed, slowly gathering and identifying the sounds surrounding the loft. The typical middle-of-the-night street noise was there, filtered the way only a rare and significant snowfall in Cascade could accomplish. The weather forecasters had gotten it wrong again, stating not six hours ago that the white stuff was only a slight possibility at sea level, but when I'd stood outside at my dad's earlier, I could taste the coming snow on the back of my throat.
Opening my eyes, I was unsurprised to see the loft bathed in cold, violet light from streetlamps reflecting off the snow. I rolled onto my stomach, pulling my pillow beneath my chest and peering down past the living room and out the balcony doors where a good four inches covered the railing. In a matter of hours, kids were going to be pouncing on their already exhausted parents with the double announcement that it was both snowing and time to open presents.
A soft, distressed sigh coming from somewhere near my left elbow made me turn my head and I immediately saw the problem. When I'd rolled over, I'd yanked the covers with me, leaving Blair's shoulders uncovered. He was facing away, one of his hands moving over his exposed skin in an unconscious effort to get create some warmth.
I shifted to my side and arranged the covers back over both of us. He mumbled a little bit and snuggled down into his pillow, and I watched with amusement as he sank effortlessly back into a deep sleep.
Part of me wondered how he could do that, after the huge step we'd just taken together. Even after I'd dozed off tonight, my sleep was light and easily broken. Every movement, every noise from Blair wound its way into my dreams and I found myself skating on the edge of wakefulness in some kind of effort to insure that it really was him sleeping beside me.
I closed my eyes but they popped back open immediately. Looked like it was going to be one of those infrequent times when I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, so I needed to decide what to do. Do I get up, do I lay here and listen to the snow fall—or do I wake up Blair and see if he's revived enough for round three?
Forget that last one—I'm not revived enough for round three.
Just laying there didn't sound attractive; besides, as I came more fully awake I began to realize how thirsty I was. Until I install that mini fridge next to my bed, that meant a trip downstairs.
But first, I decided to indulge myself.
I leaned up onto one elbow until I was almost directly over the mess of curls that rested on my other pillow. Slowly, carefully, I reached over and brushed away the hair from his ear, then bent down and pressed my mouth to his exposed neck.
"Merry Christmas," I mouthed against his warm flesh, so low even I could barely hear it. Although the sentiment sounded awkward and I could feel my cheeks turn pink, I meant it. The surprisingly sweet tang of his skin filled my mouth and I couldn't resist stroking my tongue against the strong pulse that throbbed beneath its surface. It was a place I'd visited over and over during our first night together and it was still flushed from all that previous attention. I left it reluctantly, giving his ear a soft kiss as I straightened up.
Blair never moved a muscle.
I sat up and rolled to my feet, then turned and pulled the blankets tightly around him. Slipping on my robe as I moved downstairs, I paused on my way to the bathroom to crank on a little more heat. A few minutes later, with my finger pressed against the button to keep the light off, I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and headed for the couch.
Once there, the afghan wrapped around my legs, I thought about the last twelve hours. Somewhere in that very short span of time, Christmas had become my all time favorite holiday. Up until then, I'd be the first to tell you that I mostly responded with a grunt or a sullen "you, too", when anyone spouted that ubiquitous "Merry Christmas" crap at me. But it's not just Christmas—I'm not big on holidays period. It's not like I hate them—it's more a case of severe indifference. Growing up, celebrating Christmas and Easter was simply pro forma. In the army, one day was pretty much like the next, since I didn't have a family to celebrate anything with. Next came Peru, then my stab at a normal life with Carolyn. She wasn't into holidays either, which was one area where we were compatible.
And then came Sandburg. Of the many things he's passionate about—and God knows there's a ton of them—holidays aren't necessarily on that list. Oh, he likes to analyze them, explain them, compare them, basically dissect the hell out of them—but only participate in them if there's a kickass party involved. The thing is, Sandburg thinks a room full of toddlers playing jacks is a kickass party. Thus my Cliffs Notes introduction over the years to Kwanzaa, Makar Sankrant, and Pi Day—but I still swear he made that last one up.
You would've thought that I'd gotten a clue when I realized how much I've always liked inviting Sandburg to parties. Having him at my side pretty much insured a good time, whereas many actual dates were a lot less enjoyable. He's funny and charming in an over-educated, dorky kind of way and I readily admit that he possesses more social graces than I do. So, it got to be a kind of game for me. If I had a social event coming up, I'd try and figure out if it looked okay to bring him instead of that new prosecuting attorney that I'd eventually ask out anyway. In those early years, I'd try anything to distract myself from the instantaneous, improbable attraction I'd had for the scraggly-haired mutant who lived in my storage room. We both felt it but we knew it would be best just to ignore it—but that didn't stop me from dragging him along to a lot of social functions where a date would've been more appropriate.
Sometimes I look back on those first couple of years together and it's—bittersweet, I guess is the right word, although I'm not too keen on labels like that. Blair gets called naïve all the time but to be fair, we both were. We were playing with fire, trying to keep our friendship on one level and denying the undercurrents that colored every decision we made, right up until we threw it all away. After all the wrong choices and mistakes, after all the mistrust—God, everything was so damn complicated that I'd figured we'd never be able to untangle the mess we'd made.
This year was different. Maybe it was the fact that we'd had almost six consecutive months of relative normalcy, or what passed for normal around here, anyway. Somewhere in there I began to think that Blair really wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. I'd just flat out given up on seeing other people. Hell, what was the use? My life was just about perfect as it was—I had Sandburg as a partner, I had my senses pretty much under control and I had as close to a happy home life as I was likely to get. Just because, once again, I wanted something more from Blair didn't mean he was interested in offering it anymore. Granted, we always knew there was more between us than friendship, but wanting something doesn't necessarily make it yours.
However, an assumption is no fun unless you can turn it on its ass. One day in late October, we were cleaning out a closet because I thought I'd smelled rot in the wood. I was rummaging through a box that Sandburg had handed me and I ran across a brass menorah. Handing it to him, I couldn't miss the way his eyes lit up as he took it.
"Pretty sure this is yours," I said with a little smile.
Sandburg pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and nodded. "Yeah. Naomi brought it back from Tel Aviv. I think I was about nine or something."
I looked into the box where I'd found it. "How did it get mixed up with, uh, a set of old mixing bowls, a Tupperware lid—" I pushed the bowls aside "—and a cracked mug with a leprechaun on it?"
Sandburg suddenly wouldn't meet my eyes as his fingers reverently stroked the menorah.
"Who knows?" he said, shrugging. My eyes narrowed as I looked from him to the box—and then it hit me. A fragment, no more than a painful shard of recollection, cut through the dulling effect of time and I saw it all—I saw myself, yanking boxes out of the alley, coming up here and grabbing things in sheer mindless panic, knowing only that everything hurt and that there were enemies hiding in the corners. With a sick twist in my gut, I remembered the metallic taste in my mouth and dull red edges around my vision as I fought to get away from the terror that had suddenly consumed my life.
And the worst part of all—I remembered the look of stunned pain in Blair's eyes when I shut the door in his face.
I squeezed my eyes shut and then reopened them, determined to beat back the bad memories by replacing them with the reality of my living, breathing partner. Blair was reaching for some bubble wrap and I stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Why don't you put it in the kitchen with the other candle stuff so we know where to find it this year."
Sandburg looked up at me. The dark eyes behind the wire rims were meditative as he considered the implications of what I'd just said—we'd never celebrated Hanukkah together. Holidays had been hit or miss with us and the traditions behind them were usually ignored. I waited, hoping he'd catch the drift of my statement and wondering what his reaction was going to be.
Finally, a smile broke across his face and he nodded. "Okay. Let me take the rest of this stuff and put it in the Goodwill pile—unless you're attached to this St. Patrick's Day mug. Which is, of course, totally cool. Emotionally stunted, socially backward and vaguely creepy, but okay by me."
I gave him a half-hearted whack on the forehead and we continued our cleaning—but we'd moved a little further in the right direction.
As the holidays got closer, a strange thing happened. I began to get the feeling that the one thing I was missing, the one thing I'd begun to want above all else, was about to be given to me. It was by no means a done deal; after all the hoopla had died down, I'd thought there was a fifty-fifty chance I'd be solo again by the end of the year and I didn't just mean on the job.
Right after he made detective, Sandburg became strangely restless. It was as if he had a new way of looking at the world around him and he wasn't sure he liked what he saw. I blamed a lot of things for this new attitude of his—the way the world treated him about the dissertation, the new awkwardness in his relationship with his mom, the loss of trust between the two of us. So I stood by and watched, waking up each morning dry-mouthed with the fear that this was the day Blair told me he was done, that he'd found another path. I know I should have called him on it, or at least asked what was going through his head, but the truth was that I didn't want to hear him confirm what I dreaded most. There was no denying that if I didn't have the job to bind him to me, he may not be able to find another reason to stay. However, if he was going to cut me loose, I wasn't going to help him by handing him the scissors.
But on a warm day in September, it occurred to me that he hadn't seen anyone in a while, that in fact he seemed to be as content in my company as I was in his. More importantly, his brief bout of restiveness was gone. Now, instead of watching him watch the world go by, I'd catch him watching me. Where once that used to mean some bizarre test or off the wall theory, now I felt as though he was waiting for something—a sign from me, I think—that would make him feel like I was thinking the same thing he was.
True to form, Blair started telegraphing his feelings, maybe even without him knowing it. Never one to be shy, he was in my space more than he'd ever been, sometimes demanding that I pay attention to him. It surprised me at first but then I began to look for ways to subtly encourage this new behavior. Instead of pushing him away with a teasing comment or a cutting remark, more often than not I'd play it out, taking a great deal of pleasure from the renewal of what had once been so easy between us.
So we did the Hanukkah thing and I enjoyed it a hell of a lot more than I expected. Sometimes, despite my bitching to the contrary, there's a very real pleasure in listening to Sandburg but most of the time, it's work or senses related and I only pick out the relevant stuff. Having him to myself was something I didn't take for granted anymore; I had his entire attention that first night and it felt—well, it felt natural. It also opened up a pit of longing inside me, because that's the way I wanted to feel the rest of my life.
Soon after that, Blair mentioned that he wanted to make a special Christmas dinner, just for the two of us. All I had to do was supply the wine. Outwardly, I'd played it cool, trying not to act like it was a big deal. I gave him a nod, rattled off something about Best Cellars and that was that. But just the look of surprised pleasure that I'd seen in Blair's eyes had told me what I needed to know—this was not going to be any ordinary meal.
Then, things went south. Not in the usual way—no bombs, no bank robberies, no prison escapees—just the day to day stuff that can mess up your life just as thoroughly. First came the call from Curt Walker a couple of weeks before Christmas. Sandburg and I had worked later than usual and we'd grabbed dinner on the way home. I was straightening up the kitchen and Blair had just gotten settled on the couch with his laptop when the damn phone rang.
"Ellison."
"Jim? Curt Walker."
"Hey, Curt. What's up?"
Walker sighed before answering. "God, I hate to ask this, but can you work my swing on Christmas eve?"
I looked over at Sandburg; he was getting his legs folded beneath him and pushing his hair out of his eyes as he searched the cushions for the remote. He and a buddy were going to instant message each other while they watched "It's A Wonderful Life", a concept that was totally beyond me but what the hell—at least maybe this time I wouldn't have to listen to him recite all the dialogue with Jimmy Stewart.
Damn it—no, I thought immediately. Christmas eve was supposed to be our night—no way was I going to give that up. But before I could reply, Walker was talking again.
"I know it's short notice and all, but my grandmother wants us all to come over. She's getting pretty frail and I swear if I don't go, my mom is gonna kill me. Look, I wouldn't ask, but this is probably the last time we'll all be together and, uh, I've skipped out on the last couple of family gigs. Think you can save my bacon on this one?"
There was a smile in his voice but also a hint of begging. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him to forget it, but then it hit me—I owed this guy, no doubt about it. I glanced again at Blair, who was busy pouring M&Ms into his bowl of hot popcorn. He was healthy and in one piece tonight—but as usual, the job had taken its toll more than once this year.
It had been a freak thing that had landed Sandburg in the hospital in April. Major Crime had been assigned backup on an undercover assignment, covering a colleague from Idaho as he investigated a drug connection that went from San Francisco all the way to the Canadian border. We'd been working eyes and ears in the van, listening to the meet go down in the warehouse behind us. Things were just getting interesting when a new player arrived and made our guy. Sandburg and I got separated in the ensuing confusion, and somehow he ended up back in the van with Henri Brown as they pursued two of the suspects through the wharf district. The driver took a wrong turn and hit a patch of oil that sent their car into the water; Brown hit the same patch but managed to stop the van by crashing it into a retaining wall. Sandburg and H got rammed up against the dash; Sandburg walked away with the clavicle break and Brown a slight concussion. That was the worst of it; even the idiots who ran off the pier managed to swim out just in time to get taken into custody.
But it wasn't the cracked collarbone that had us heading for the emergency room in the middle of the night. Sandburg had been released right after they'd taped him up and we'd gone back to do the paperwork before going home. He'd been in some pain, but nothing too bad; he took some ibuprofen to take the edge off, so we'd finished up and grabbed some dinner before finally getting a chance to go home. We'd watched a little TV before he'd finally given in and taken his prescription and headed off to bed. I helped him change into a pair of loose sweats and then I was pretty much right behind him, heading upstairs and falling asleep almost immediately.
Only a few hours later, I was awakened by a gentle squeeze on my ankle. Before I'd even opened my eyes, I was assailed by the odor of sweat—not the healthy sweat of a man just risen from sleep but the sour, thick smell of illness and fear. I sat up and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes before catching a good look at my partner. What I saw frightened the hell out of me—his face was pale and shiny with perspiration, the whites of his eyes standing out starkly in the moonlight filtering in from the windows.
"Jim," he choked out, "Sorry to wake you up, but I think I'm in trouble here."
No kidding—his breathing was high and quick and as I grabbed his elbow to guide him onto the bed, I could feel light tremors shaking his body.
"Okay, okay, tell me what's going on," I soothed, sliding my fingers down to his wrist to gauge his racing pulse.
"I think it's the drugs," he panted. "Feels like my heart's gonna explode."
Shit—he was having a reaction to the goddamn painkillers.
"Okay," I repeated, pushing away the hair clinging to his wet forehead with my thumb so I could get a good look at his eyes. "We need to get you to the ER and get your meds straightened out, that's all. Give me a minute to get dressed."
"'kay," he whispered, swallowing rapidly.
"You gonna be sick?"
"No way," he said, and gave me a tentative grin. I grabbed the same clothes I'd discarded the night before and yanked them on, taking every opportunity to touch his good shoulder as he sat slumped on the bed. I grabbed my shoes with one hand and levered him to his feet with the other.
"Upsy daisy, Chief. Let's get something on your feet." He swayed and the fear in my stomach went up a notch. "You need me to call 911? Only take me two seconds."
He rested his forehead against my shoulder and shook his head no, so I wrapped an arm around his waist and walked him downstairs. I sat us both on his bed and tied on my Nikes, then went and grabbed our wallets and the pill bottle so that by the time he'd slid his Doc Martens on his feet, we were ready.
Once we got him to the ER, things improved almost immediately. They counter-prescribed something that settled him down and knocked him out, leaving me to watch the sunrise from behind the reinforced windows in the emergency waiting room. I waited until seven to call Simon, who told me he'd get someone to cover the shift; with the bust going down the previous day, all that meant was paperwork and being available for new calls. Simon may have mentioned who he was going to get to fill in, but I don't remember the conversation. It wasn't until the next day—after Blair was back home and recovering—that I'd found out who it was and got a chance to meet up with Walker and thank him.
So now it was time to pay him back, and I couldn't say no.
Sandburg was disappointed, but no more than I was. But Christmas eve was traditionally a slow night, and if anyone could salvage a situation, it was my partner, so I tried to look on this as not a total bust.
That was until my dad called. Talk about your bad timing—of all things, he wanted me to come to some party he's having on Christmas eve. I hate to say it, but I was relieved that I had to work. Leave it to Sandburg to make me see it another way. He really wants my family to connect; I think his fatherless upbringing makes him look at the relationship I have with my dad with less than objective eyes. So, more to make Blair happy than anything, I'd accepted after Sandburg said he'd work that night. I felt crappy about it—I didn't want to go in the first place and Dad was clear that I could bring a date and Sandburg if I wanted, but that wasn't the point.
So Christmas eve came around and I watched Sandburg reluctantly go off to work. There was a tacit agreement that we'd meet up back at home; I'd taken care of my end and gotten some really good wine and Sandburg had been using his free time to prep something special as well. There's no hiding food from a nose like mine, so I could tell he'd gone all out.
Personally, I was hoping to defer all that rich food until after Sandburg and I had come to some sort of accord on what was happening between us.
Sandburg's shift started at four, which left me plenty of room to get ready for that stupid party. At one point, I broke down and called him, making up the excuse that I needed advice on a tie, which was a lie because I was dressed and ready to go. But sure enough, Blair guided me through a change of clothes, which, when I thought about it later, made perfect sense. I'd seen a certain look in his eyes when I'd worn this one particular suit at a trial a couple of weeks prior, but I'd forgotten what shirt I'd worn with it. The fact the he knew my wardrobe better than I did said a lot about what went on in our house.
The party at my dad's was pretty good, all things considered. Dad had invited some single women when I told him I was coming stag, but none of them were overbearing, so conversation stayed nice and socially neutral. I did get to know Jenny, Stephen's officially announced fiancée, and I ended up liking her quite a bit. Beyond that, I tried not to glance at my watch too often, but apparently I failed—Stephen kept rolling his eyes and grinning at me as if he knew I was just waiting for a call from work to get me out of the rest of the evening.
When I called Sandburg the second time, it was right before everyone sat down to dinner. I'd been feeling guilty all night but that phone call almost had me reaching for my keys. I never even thought about what the shift was going to do for food, and for me to be enjoying some kind of holiday fantasy feast while he was trolling for Slim Jims in the vending machines seemed more than a little unfair. The least I could do was hit Sally up for some leftovers, which she was more than pleased to provide. It was way too late to cook at home, so I figured Sandburg could catch a break on that and we'd start over the next day when Daryl and Simon came for dinner.
Third time I phoned, Sandburg and his partner for one night, Chavez, had taken a call. I know Sandburg's a good cop and I wasn't worried—exactly—but I was reassured when Carter told me it was just a water retrieval. Since it wasn't one of our current cases, I still didn't have an excuse to leave the party.
Having had all night to think about what the rest of the my life could be like if things went right for once, to have the battery die in my truck was the last thing I needed. I lucked out in the timing, though—Sandburg hadn't left work yet so asking him to come get me was easier than if he'd been at home, waiting for me. God—and he would've been, too, if work and family hadn't conspired against us. Just the thought of Blair being as anticipatory as I was gave me an odd, almost feverish feeling, as if I didn't hurry up and make this real, it would all be taken away from me. I'd honestly had no intention of kissing Blair for the first time at my dad's house, especially beneath a bunch of overpriced fungus. When he'd arrived, I could tell he was disappointed, even though he tried to hide it. His eyes remain true no matter what comes out of his mouth, and I figured he thought the night was unsalvageable.
Despite opinions to the contrary, I can be spontaneous when I need to be—and in the semi-darkness of my father's house, I chose to lay everything on the line. It was a gamble that I almost lost when Stephen showed up but in the end, I still had Blair in my arms and—finally—in my bed.
Memories of our first hours together as lovers came back to me as I sat there on the couch, watching the falling snow thicken until it looked like a curtain of white beads strung against the balcony doors. It'd been so clumsy at first, even hesitant, as if a wrong touch or misplaced caress could shatter everything. The whole night had felt that way, a series of starts and stops that kept us off balance and constantly second-guessing ourselves and each other. But when I'd let out a frustrated laugh and yanked Blair to sprawl full length on top of me, he'd responded with a sheepish chuckle that quickly turned into a low moan as our bodies finally quit listening to our heads and starting doing what comes naturally.
It was no surprise to me that once wasn't enough. With very little recovery time, my appetite whetted by the brush of his hair against my chest and the earthy fragrance of his sex-warmed body, I began making love to him with all the skill I had. Blair's response was spectacular, to say the least, and afterwards, as he fell asleep within the circle of my arms, I remember feeling incredibly humble—to have years and years of this kind of happiness ahead of me seemed completely out of my league.
I don't know how long I remained on the couch; the frigid light outside never varied. I'd slipped into a semi-awake state with the vague thought I'd be more comfortable with that warm body next to me but without the energy to actually do something about it. But I was awake enough to hear the creak of the bed as Blair shifted and that was the impetus to get me moving. I was just about to set the afghan aside when I heard Blair speak softly from the bed.
"Ah, Jesus," he mumbled. "I knew it."
I lifted my chin to speak over my shoulder. "Blair? You okay?"
There was a pause, longer than it should have been, before he answered. "Yeah, I'm fine."
His voice had an odd catch to it but I figured everything was okay when I heard him push away the covers and slip out of bed. A little pre-dawn necking sounded like the beginning of another great tradition so I scooted back until I was upright but still facing the windows, already anticipating the heady feeling of Blair pressed against me as he had been earlier that night.
When Blair didn't join me right away, I listened a little closer and was surprised to find that he hadn't come downstairs at all. I started to turn around but his voice floated down to me, soft and filled with unease.
"What are you doing down there?"
This time I did turn, shifting around on the couch until I could see him. He was perched on the top step with the bedspread clutched tightly around him so that only his curly head was visible. He was looking at me strangely and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
"Couldn't sleep," I answered carefully.
He nodded and looked away, a brief smile ghosting across his lips. "Yeah, guess I figured that out."
I frowned, really not liking the tone of this conversation. We remained silent for a few minutes, me staring at him while he refused to meet my eyes. I thought back to the first words I'd heard him say when he woke up—and I began to think maybe not all of our hurdles had been crossed.
"You wanna join me down here?"
That brought his eyes back to mine. "You, uh, want company?"
The way he said it told me my instincts were right on, but I decided to play it casual until I got a good read on what was bugging him.
"Of course I do, you idiot. C'mon, get your ass down here before your butt freezes to the hardwood."
An unwilling grin twisted his lips as he rose and came downstairs, but instead of sinking into the inviting space I'd cleared between my legs, he bypassed me for the chair across the room. He'd kept possession of the bedspread so that when he sat down, it filled up the chair and floated over the sides as he got his legs beneath him.
"That's a whole lot of snow out there," he commented with a tilt of his head toward the window.
"A whole lot," I agreed.
"So," he continued, then stopped.
"So."
"Couldn't sleep, hunh?"
"Nope."
He nodded like that was the answer he expected, his eyes fixed on the falling snow. "Any particular reason?" he asked offhandedly, but I wasn't fooled. He was dealing with a very real fear here and it didn't take a lot of brains to figure out what it was.
I pushed off the afghan and stood up, giving my body a good stretch before walking over to the windows. There was the faintest hint of light beginning to penetrate the atmosphere, making the snow look almost liquid as it continued to fall in thick, heavy flakes. The cold permeated the glass and flowed through my robe, chilling my skin and making me long for warmth—the warmth it seemed only one person could provide.
"It's the damndest thing," I said quietly. "Guess I'm just not used to feeling this way."
I heard Blair's throat work at swallowing and forced myself to stay where I was instead of going to him like I wanted to. Sandburg is nothing if not intellectual, but physical touch seemed to get him off track. I wanted him to figure this out with his head, not his hormones.
"What way is that?"
I finally turned and looked at him. The bedspread had slipped off of one shoulder but he seemed completely unaware of it as he stared back at me, eyes wide with curiosity and apprehension.
"I'm not used to feeling—to being this happy."
He flushed and made a dismissive gesture beneath the bedspread. "C'mon, Jim, you don't have to—"
"No, I mean it," I interrupted. "Listen to me. I woke up and I knew it—I knew I'd never felt this way in my life. That's not something you just take in stride and then roll over and go back to sleep."
I stepped away from the window and reached down to plug in the Christmas tree lights, filling the room with a soft glow that bounced off the snow on the balcony. Blair didn't say a word as he watched me cross over to him to kneel at his feet, bracing my hands on the arms of the chair next to his elbows.
"Look, I know you thought I'd left the bed because I regretted sleeping with you or I thought it was all a big mistake. You're wrong, but I don't know how to convince you of that." I reached up and gently knocked my knuckle against his temple. "Let me know if you have any suggestions."
Blair took a deep breath and then looked down, giving his head a slight shake.
"You're right," he murmured, "that was the first thing I thought of." He looked up at me, apology in his eyes. "I guess I am used to feeling this way, you know?"
I burrowed beneath the heavy folds of the bedspread until I connected with his cold hand. Threading our fingers together, I gave him a little squeeze and tilted my head to one side.
"What way is that?"
"Like it's all going to be taken away," he said with a shrug. "Like we're caught up in a moment that can't possibly last."
I slid my other hand beneath the spread and rested it on his bare knee, my decision not to distract him with touch blown away by my own need to connect with him. I think he expected me to downplay his fears, to give him all kinds of promises in order to get some reassurance of my own in return. Instead, I nodded in agreement, since I could honestly say he had a point.
"I know what you mean, but this isn't just a moment for us,
right? Where we are right now isn't because of some weird impulse or God forbid, some damn instinct that we have no control over."
I leaned in closer, making sure I had his entire attention. The dark shadow of beard on his pale skin made me want to rub my fingers against his cheek and test its texture, but I held back. "You and me, we've earned this. Fought for it. Fought against it, for that matter. You know as well as I do we could've done this years ago—but we didn't. So, you tell me—what's different?"
His eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. "Different?"
"Yeah, different. We could've become lovers half a dozen times over the past four years. Why now?"
Seconds ticked by as he worked it out, long seconds that played hell with my emotions. When his answer came, I felt it through my hands before he ever verbalized it. There was a deep quiver beneath the surface of his skin, an influx of energy that quickened his pulse and smoothed away the doubt in his eyes.
"Trust," he breathed, a little smile beginning to play around his lips. "It's gotta be trust."
"Yeah," I said on an answering grin. "Only thing we needed to make this work."
His smile widened. "We're gonna make it this time, aren't we," he murmured with a shake of his head.
I removed my hand from his knee and gave in to my desire to stroke his beard-roughened cheek.
"Yeah," I whispered with a noticeable crack in my voice. "This time, I think we're okay."
The lights that rose in Blair's eyes shone brighter than any damn tree. Releasing my hand, he shrugged out of the bedspread, letting it pool around his hips as he reached up to wind his arms around my neck. His mouth took mine and I slid my arms around his bare waist, pulling him up tight against my chest. He uncurled his legs and the next thing I knew, he had them wrapped around my thighs, tugging me close as his hands began working at the ties of my robe. Unlike before, when we'd tried so hard to be even in the give and take of sex or I'd led the dance, Blair became the aggressor, as if he wanted to physically underscore the point we'd just made together. He shoved me away but then instantly fell to his knees next to me and gathered me in, resuming an assault on my mouth that I was only too happy to allow. Our mouths barely left each other as he peeled the robe from my shoulders and stripped the sleeves away from my arms; I helped him as best I could but my own hands were busy working the bedspread away from his legs. Since it was a pretty good bet we'd be making love on the rug in a matter of seconds, I figured the extra padding would come in handy.
And make love we did, right there in the middle of the living room as Christmas day dawned around us in waves of blue-shadowed light. We'd slain the demon that had invaded Blair's imagination in those first few moments of waking, when he'd found me gone and thought the worst.
We both knew there'd be more bumps like this, more ways to screw up and miscommunicate and take each other for granted. But the trust was there—unblinking trust that was the foundation for everything in our future because love—which had always been there—wasn't enough.
It was trust that allowed me to lie back and let Blair make love to me with all of his considerable skill—and not worry about giving back in kind. In fact, any attempts on my part to equalize things were playfully but firmly rejected. Up until that morning, that moment, I'd always been an equal participant if not the dominant partner. But Blair was having none of that—he spread me out like a Christmas banquet and proceeded to create a sensory feast for both of us. Each touch of his hand and stroke of his body against mine was planned out and maximized, sending intense jolts of unbelievable sensation flying through my body. He found surprisingly responsive places on me that most lovers pass over, but that didn't phase Blair—he exploited them. Places like the outer curve of my thigh, the base of my spine, the top of my ribs—I'd never thought of them as particularly sensitive, but in his talented hands, they became vast territories of nerve endings, alive to every caress. Furthermore, he found these spots unerringly, as if he'd been thinking about making love to me for years, studying what would bring me the most gratification. That thought brought the sting of tears to my eyes, but I blinked them away before he saw them—I was in no shape to explain anything at that point and the last thing I wanted was for Blair to get the wrong idea.
His mouth, his body—these were his gifts to me on this snow-soaked morning, his answer to the revelation, restitution for his doubts. I trusted him each time he pinned my wandering hands to the floor, using his mouth to pound waves of pleasure through every inch of me. Finally, when I couldn't hold back anymore and I arched up into his arms with a hoarse cry, he was right there, the act of giving me that pleasure setting off an explosive response of his own. The momentum of our bodies thrust us upwards and I finally grabbed him as we strained against each other, prolonging the ecstasy.
When the breath-stealing sensations racing through me began to subside, I slumped forward with a shuddering sigh. I caught a glimpse of laughter mixed with the love in his eyes before he lowered his head and kissed me, as if he'd just heard the punch line of a private joke. I tried to ask him what was so funny but there wasn't enough breath to spare. He probably wouldn't have told me anyway, the little bastard.
So this was the year that I found I had a favorite holiday, one that had its share of traditions like any other family. We ate too much food and drank too much wine, watched a lot of football and opened an overload of presents. The unusual snowfall added an element of fantasy to the whole thing, enhanced by the vision of Simon and Daryl showing up on our doorstep for Christmas dinner—with Simon decked out in a Santa hat and Daryl sporting felt antlers and a red plastic nose. The only reason we let them in the door was the bottle of Bailey's that Simon started waving in front our eyes.
But after all the ornaments were put away and we'd stretched the leftovers until even Sandburg said it was time to give up, the lesson of that first real Christmas together stayed with us. Whether we were slogging through a back load of case files, disagreeing over the reliability of a witness or arguing over the best way to unclog the kitchen sink, that bedrock of trust was there to see us through and keep us honest. Some day I'll tell Blair that Christmas is my favorite day of the year. He won't have to ask why—he views it as our anniversary as much as I do, although neither of us has actually spoken the "a" word out loud.
But I know he does—trust me.
Steadfastness: attribute of the holly plant, according to Druidic lore
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