I don't want to live, I want to love first, and live incidentally. Don't ever think of the things you can't give up. You've trusted me with the dearest heart of all and it's so damn much more than anybody in the world ever has.
As usual, it was the first voice he listened for.
And, as usual, he felt the cool rush of relief when he heard it, its presence immediately calming the hot throbbing behind his ear and cheekbones.
"Yeah, sure, I've been shot," said the voice—nonchalant, probably accompanied by a shrug—but Jim wasn't fooled. There was hurt and worry embedded in that casual tone.
"Yeah? You?" responded another voice, familiar but less important—a voice crimped by pain.
"Oh, sure. Hurt like hell. Got me right in the thigh."
"Hunh,"—cough, cough—"little too close to the family jewels, I'd say."
"Man, no kidding! The scar's kinda cool though—hey, Jim? You comin' around now?"
Jim squeezed his eyes tightly shut in an attempt to relieve some of the pain that pressed against his sinuses, then cautiously squinted them open—to a world turned upside down.
Flashes of memory broke through the fog—a bright, late spring morning, a prisoner transport van—he and Sandburg moving their favorite con Harry Conkle from the state pen in Walla Walla to the Cascade Jail so Harry could testify at the trial of an old associate.
Then—ambush. Unexpected, horribly realized. In his head, he relived the sound of the shots, the sharp pings as the bullets danced across the back of the van before finally hitting both rear tires with thick, obscene pops.
Then came the heartstopping squeal as he looked up in time to become tangled in Blair's wide, terrified gaze. Their eyes locked as the van tumbled around them, caught together in some kind of void where the outside violence hadn't touched them yet. But when the van made its first of many bounces down the ravine, their concentration had broken and they were tossed uncontrollably. Jim remembered hearing a high-pitched cry and then feeling a blunt pain beneath his ear that had sent him headlong into darkness.
"C'mon, man, I saw you move—quit playing possum already. Harry's in kind of a bad way here." The offhand carelessness in the tone had disappeared and worry had full rein in its place. "Jim, c'mon, give me a sign you're ok, please?"
Jim groaned and lifted his head from where it rested on the rear window of the van. They'd landed on a severe downward slant with the left side of the vehicle pressed into the ground.
He had to look up to see anything and the first thing he saw was Harry Conkle's pant leg. His eyes traveled up Harry's form to meet the older man's pain-twisted but doggedly amused expression. Hands still cuffed to a ring on the metal bench, Harry was stretched out, his shoulders shaking with the strain of his own weight. Large circles of blood, some of it dry, most of it wet, outlined the cuffs where the metal gouged into the soft skin of his wrists.
"Doesn't look too comfortable," Jim mumbled through what felt like a mouthful of gravel. Harry made a minute adjustment of his arms in response, his face pale beneath the bald head. Chemo'd taken care of that, Harry had said when they'd picked him up. After that, it was just easier to keep it shaved off.
Jim craned his neck around, looking up towards the cab of the van—and Sandburg.
Jesus. Somewhere along the furious downward plunge, the right side of the van had folded in half, curving around Sandburg's body and pinning him between the front dash and the passenger seat where he'd been sitting. He'd ended up facing the rear of the van with his head at almost a ninety degree angle to avoid the branch that had shattered the passenger side window.
"Any of that blood yours, Chief?" Jim croaked, keeping his voice level with an effort. Sandburg's face and shirt were splattered with rusty brown, some of it matted in his hair.
Blair gave him a weak smile. "Not real sure. Head hurts, but not bad. Finn's out. Has a gash on his neck but the bleeding's stopped and he seems to be breathing okay."
Jim nodded and closed his eyes. A quick assessment found nothing broken, no internal injuries, just a lot of contusions and a badly twisted knee. As soon as he caught his breath, he'd be ready to move.
A choked off gasp above him had him moving sooner rather than later. Harry's breath was beginning to rasp painfully as his entire diaphragm was pulled out of alignment by the handcuffs.
"Hang on," Jim rasped, getting his feet beneath him and carefully balancing on his good leg. He dug in his pocket for the key to the cuffs but that presented a new problem. Between his bad knee and the sharp angle of the van, he couldn't reach the lock.
"Toss it." Blair had seen the dilemma and removed his only free hand from where it'd been resting on the driver's shoulder.
Jim nodded and lobbed it toward his partner. Blair grabbed for it with a grunt but the key bounced off the side of his hand and slid down the floor of the van to land at Jim's feet.
"Sorry, sorry," Blair hissed, white-faced. "Can you get it?"
"Yeah." Jim levered himself carefully down until the key was within reach. "Gonna try again."
"'Kay."
This time the key was caught securely. Jim watched as Blair had to contort his upper body around the gearbox to reach the latch that held the loop of chain binding Harry to the bench. It took several tries but he finally shoved the key home and gave it a twist.
Jim was ready and caught Harry around the belt to guide his legs to rest on the rear door. Harry brought his arms down stiffly, groaning as he slumped against the floor.
"You ok?" Jim asked, bending over carefully and putting a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm ok," he croaked, then nodded up towards Blair. "Kid kept me distracted while we waited for you to wake up. Took you long enough."
Jim looked back at Blair and inhaled sharply. Blair was still bent to the side and wedged between the two bucket seats, his forehead resting against the driver's side with his eyes closed.
"Sandburg!" he barked, fear giving his voice a raw edge.
Blair rotated his head, never letting his forehead lose contact with the seat. "What?"
"Stay with me, ok?"
Blair's mouth curved in a soundless laugh, then he grimaced. "Ow, ow. Oh, man, funny you should put it that way. Today of all days."
Before Jim could ask what he meant, he picked up the sounds of heavy boots sliding through loose dirt and the excited cries of their rescuers. He looked at his watch and was shocked to see that he'd been out almost an hour.
The operation was painstakingly slow, but Jim kept everyone on task, first making sure they knew Finn seemed to be the most badly injured. It went on like that, Jim calling out and directing the rescuers outside as they fought over the rough terrain and through the torn metal to get to them.
He tried to keep his senses on Blair but in the confusion he kept losing him. The heat, dust, loud voices and tangy, mechanical smells tossed his senses all over the place. Add to that the ebb and flow of the pulsing pain in his head and it was all he could do just to listen for the few remnants of Blair's voice that made it through the cacophony.
The van had folded around Blair like a crushed Coke can, making it difficult to extract him. Jim and Harry had been freed almost immediately by one team; another had hastened to get Finn up to the Medivac 'copter that had landed on the shoulder some fifty yards above them. Harry had to be turned over to local law enforcement and was taken to the nearby highway patrol office to await transport back to prison. Before they'd hauled him up the side of the ravine, he'd made Jim promise to get word to him about Sandburg.
Jim had nodded, never taking his eyes away from the firefighters as they cut through the metal to reach his partner. They'd thrown a thick, insulating blanket over Blair for protection, making it even harder for Jim to keep the tenuous contact he'd had up until then. The EMT who hovered at his side was a nuisance, but once they'd extricated a fairly unharmed Sandburg out of the van, Jim began to feel a little lightheaded and agreed to be hauled up the side of the ravine.
After all the excitement was over, the only one beside Finn who'd been relegated to staying at a hospital was Jim, so the rescue squad took them to the hospital in Yakima. Just for observation, he was assured—his head apparently wasn't as hard as it used to be. Once he'd grudgingly admitted to a little blurry vision, the ER doctor had called for a bed. He'd never concede it, but his twisted knee had made a trip home sound pretty unappealing as well.
When Sandburg had shown up in his room later that afternoon—bruised, scraped, sore and worried—he'd completely concurred with the doctor's advice, as Jim knew he would. They spent the rest of the day in the hospital room, watching baseball until Blair went out and found them something decent to eat. They watched movies and played backgammon until Blair was kicked out at eleven after several half-hearted warnings by an indulgent nursing staff. Blair got a room at the nearest motel, Harry's testimony was postponed and they were picked up by Simon and driven back to Cascade the next day.
That night, both of them rested from long naps after Simon had dropped them off, they regrouped in the kitchen, trying to figure out something for dinner without going to a lot of effort. Delivery was decided as the best course of action—strictly for medicinal purposes, they assured each other with serious nods.
Jim was leaning a hip against the counter and digging around in the menu drawer when Blair's remark in the van came back to him, the one about "today of all days."
"Barbecue?" he asked, holding up the Tony Roma's menu.
"Oh, yeah, perfect! Don't forget the—"
"Extra sauce, yeah, I know. Hand me the phone." Jim hobbled to the couch and propped his leg on the table, hitting the speed dial number written in pencil across the top of the menu. He got through and was immediately placed on hold.
"Hey," he asked mildly, watching as Blair began to empty the dish rack. "What was that thing you said yesterday about 'today of all days'? Hunh? Yeah, I can keep holding."
Blair turned to him with a distracted frown. "What? What thing?"
"That's what I'm asking you. You said something like, it was funny I should ask today of all days. Yesterday some kind of anniversary? Yeah, we want—sure, I'll hold some more."
Blair waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, c'mon. You know us anthropologists—we really get into that date thing."
Jim's forehead creased in confusion, although his insides did an uncomfortable little flip at Blair's offhand reference to himself. Badge or no badge, Sandburg would always think of himself as a scientist—and Jim wasn't really sure how he felt about that. He did know it wasn't something he wanted to explore. "That date thing? What, you have a date last night?"
"No, no, nothing like that. Geez, when was the last time you saw me actually on a date—like I have any time. No, yesterday—it was just a date I remembered and now I have another reason to remember it. Really, it's no biggie."
But it was a biggie—Jim saw that truth in the determined cant of Blair's broad shoulders as he turned away, the set of his jaw as he moved around the kitchen, tidying up. Jim had half a mind to pursue it, but the perky voice at the other end of the line was finally ready to take his order.
It nibbled at the back of Jim's consciousness for the rest of the evening. Blair was an enigma when he wasn't freely offering information, as if the constant Sandburg monologue was just an ongoing diversionary tactic. There was something going on and for whatever reason, Jim felt compelled to find out.
It didn't take him long.
It was funny how little the feeling had changed over the course of the year, he thought bleakly. Sitting at his desk the next day, the headline from the archived edition of the Cascade Times on his monitor, he was no more than twenty feet away from where he'd been a year ago. The sounds in the bullpen were the same, the smells as well—everything just the same, right down to the vibrations from the floor as people walked past him, all of them oblivious to the swift, staccato pounding of his heart.
And like that day, Jim felt his world telescope to a single face. Except now that face—that unlooked-for gift of a man—was seated at the desk across from him, head bowed over something he was digging out of his lowest drawer. Shortened curls were ruffled by the broad hand stroking through them as Blair grunted in irritation, obviously not finding what he was looking for. The fabric of his shirt was bunched and pulled by the brown straps of a shoulder holster, an addition that Jim still looked upon as incongruous, a shift in the universe that he hadn't quite dealt with yet, even after a year.
Keeping his senses focused on his partner, Jim hit the print button and hobbled over to retrieve the paper from the printer as soon as it came out. Three quick folds and the copy was tucked into his hip pocket.
He had no idea what he was going to do with it.
The day moved on slowly, both of them frustrated at being on the outside of the investigation of their own ambush. Knowing how his two high maintenance detectives would try to find a way to involve themselves anyway, Simon wisely pointed them in another direction, giving them a fresh case that had been bumped up from Burglary.
They arrived home that Friday night, going through their routine as seamlessly as ever as they began relaxing into the weekend. Somewhere between dinner and the sports page, that damn piece of paper began to bother him. But it was still upstairs, with the rest of the stuff he'd methodically cleaned out of his pockets, when they both rose from the couch after the late news.
Some things never changed, he though ruefully. The same empty longing would dog his steps as he made his way around the apartment, locking things down as Blair washed up in the bathroom. This was the time that he allowed himself, these brief few moments when he let himself feel the weight of his feelings for Blair. Each night before ascending the staircase to his lonely room, he'd walk past Blair's door and run his fingertips along the glossy wood, a tactile Ellison blessing of protection and a subconscious reminder of barriers unbreached. By the time he reached the foot of his bed, he'd have those feelings hidden far away, relatively assured of a decent night's rest.
It was a routine he'd had years to perfect.
This night, a cheery "Sleep well, Jim!" followed him up the stairs. He paused on the top step—and he suddenly knew without a doubt that tonight he would be unable to shed this nocturnal burden.
That damn headline. That whole goddamn day. The article was waiting for him, mocking him, reminding him of a debt that could not be repaid. It would follow him to his bed, taunt him in his dreams and be there waiting for him when he awoke—an ugly souvenir squatting in the middle of his keys, quarters and dimes.
Enough, he thought savagely, slapping his hand against the railing and relishing the resulting sharp tingle in his fingers. The key to everything now was the fact that Blair commemorated that day, had memorialized that one, hellish day—alone.
And that's what finally broke him inside. He knew it as he stood there, his eyes falling on the paper that represented both his ruin and his salvation. He moved quickly and within seconds he was standing in front of the French doors, the article clutched in his hand as he rapped lightly on the doorframe.
"Uh, yeah?"
Jim smiled at the curious response—there were only a few times that he'd asked to come into Blair's room, out of respect for their very tenuous privacy. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and stepped inside.
Blair had been reading on top of his still-made bed; he was on his side, his body curled around a hardcover book. Illumined by the low wattage bulb of a goose-necked lamp, he had his glasses on with his head propped on one hand. Seeing Jim actually coming in instead of talking to him through the door, he placed the length of old macramé in the book before closing it and setting it on the floor. With a little 'oof', he straightened up and curled his legs beneath him.
"You ok? You probably shouldn't be traveling those stairs so much. If you needed something, all you had to do was yell, you know. Not that I necessarily would have done anything, but hey—stranger things have happened." He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows, inviting the usual banter in return.
Jim shook his head, feeling suddenly awkward as the righteousness he'd felt on the stairs evaporated. He looked down at the now crumpled paper in his hand, then over at Blair who was waiting expectantly. His mouth dried a little as he gazed at him—Blair looked too much like that innocent student from years ago, wearing a faded blue tee shirt over a pair of clean, paint-daubed sweat pants that Jim had given him when they'd painted the loft.
Blair stood up when Jim remained silent. "Whatcha got?" He nodded at the paper.
"Oh, this. It's, uh, it's—shit. Look, you know me, once a detective, always a detective. I wanted to find out why that date was so important to you." He thrust the paper at Blair, who took it as he knuckled his glasses closer to his eyes.
Jim waited as Blair got a good look, relieved when the paper was handed back to him with a grin.
"Oh, man, not a good picture, hunh? Maybe I should sue. Oh, wait, I already did." They shared a quick smile, remembering the first few weeks after the dissertation mess, when litigation had gotten them a little breathing room—and eventually a settlement that went to pay Blair's outstanding student loans.
"So, this is it, right? The date you were thinking of?"
"What? Oh, yeah, yeah, the press conference. See—told you it wasn't a big deal." Blair took off his glasses and tossed them onto the bed.
Jim found himself staring down at the article, his heart in his throat as he felt his momentum slipping away.
"Of course it was a big deal," he said quietly, shifting his eyes to the threadbare rug Blair had laid down a few years ago—my God, that's ugly, he thought with a thread of desolate humor. "It was—it saved me. You knew that it would, too."
"Well, then it was worth it," came the equally quiet reply.
Jim looked up sharply, shaking his head. "No, no it wasn't. You had other choices—why this one?"
Blair rubbed the big toe of one foot along the instep of the other, clasping his hands behind his back like a chastened four-year-old. Whatever he felt, he wasn't letting go of it easily.
"C'mon, Blair," Jim pursued, his voice turning harsh. "Why'd you do it?"
"It seemed like the right thing to do at the time," Blair responded defensively but held on to his smile, as if by doing so he could keep the conversation lightweight. But the pat, expected response angered Jim, and as Blair turned away he grabbed his arm and swung him back around.
"That's not good enough," he spat, tightening his grip as Blair tried to jerk away.
"It'll have to be." Blair gave a good yank and freed his arm, taking a step back. Jim stared at him—those dark blue eyes were alight with anger and, to Jim's utter surprise, fear. "Jesus, what the hell brought this on?"
"Why? Why won't you tell me?" Jim held his hands away from his body in supplication, the fear in Blair's eyes deflating his own brief anger as thoroughly as a knife stabbed through a balloon.
At Jim's change of temper, Blair's own hostility faded to pale resignation. He shrugged and tendered a wistful smile.
"Man, Jim—why did it take you so long to ask?"
Each word of the softly asked question engraved itself onto Jim's soul, the half-smile still gracing Blair's face like salt on new cuts. He dropped his hands and raised his eyes, blinking hard before bringing his gaze back to Blair's.
"How many times did I second-guess you, Chief? Ten? Twenty? A hundred, over the course of three plus years? Hell," he added on a small laugh, "second-guessing you is second nature, isn't it?"
Blair shifted his feet, shaking his head in denial. "Yeah, so what? It wasn't that bad. I mean, that's just you, right?"
"That's my point." Jim took a step closer, but not so close that Blair took one away from him. "This, of all things, this—this sacrifice—I couldn't question that. To do so would've—I don't know—spoiled it, somehow."
Blair stared at him for a brief moment, then Jim watched in dismay as he lowered his eyes, closing himself off.
"Look, you really don't need to pursue this, ok?" Blair shrugged. "There ought to be some kind of exemption for stupid remarks delivered with a Dodge Caravan wrapped around your ass."
Jim's eyes narrowed. "So, if I'd asked back then—would you have told me?"
Bingo—that was it. Once again, Blair had turned the conversation around and thought he was just seconds away from extricating himself completely, but as Jim watched the color flood up Blair's neck and over his cheeks, he knew he'd hit on the one thing that Blair wanted to conceal.
"Well?" he prodded when Blair didn't answer.
"Just leave it alone, all right?" Blair's voice was low, laced with warning.
"No. Not anymore."
They stared at each other, Jim's eyes boring into Blair's as if he'd see the truth written there if Blair couldn't bring himself to say it. Beneath that implacable light blue gaze, Jim was praying as hard as he ever had in his life, praying that Blair would only have one answer for him.
It startled him when Blair moved instead of saying anything; he'd been expecting another verbal feint, a Sandburgian oral sidestep. Forcing himself to hold still, hands at his side, he watched as Blair took one step, then another, until he was close enough for him to feel the increased heat rising from Blair's flushed skin. Blair was watching him closely, his eyes falling to Jim's mouth before he stole his hand up around Jim's neck. Exerting gentle pressure, he started to guide Jim's head downward but then paused.
With a little hitch in his throat, Blair turned his head away, giving Jim a view of the two small holes in his earlobe. He had the irrational longing to press his mouth to that vulnerable flesh, to offer silent reparation for losses he didn't fully understand. He wanted the privilege to express himself like that, but the timing was now firmly where he'd so innocently placed it just moments before—in Blair's hands.
When Blair looked at him again, Jim saw the panic rising in his eyes and felt the hand at the base of his head begin to slide away. Without hesitation or even a valid thought, he independently completed the downward motion of his head until his lips rested against Blair's.
Blair inhaled sharply but didn't retreat. His initial response was simply to move his hand higher, threading his fingers through Jim's hair. Jim waited, his eyes open, endlessly patient as he registered the soft texture of Blair's mouth beneath his own. Blair's eyes were lowered, not closed, until Jim began increasing the pressure by tiny increments. Then dark lashes swept down onto curved cheekbones with a sigh, and Jim's eyes closed in answering, blissful relief.
He tilted his head, echoing that sigh when Blair's mouth opened slightly. Raising his hands to cradle the slim hips so temptingly near, he rocked them forward to meet his own as he touched the tip of his tongue to the center of Blair's full lower lip.
It was the lightest caress he could manage, but Blair shuddered and turned his head away to rest his forehead against Jim's shoulder. Jim let him move unimpeded, hands trembling where they rested above sharp hipbones.
"You weren't supposed to do that, you jerk," came the muffled words and despite the significance of the moment weighing on them both, Jim chuckled. When he felt an answering puff of laughter against his shirt, he grasped Blair's chin between his thumb and forefinger, guiding his face upwards so that he could see it.
"What was I supposed to do?" Jim murmured, an affectionate smile quirking his lips. "Knock you on your ass?"
Blair ducked his head away. "Nah, not really. Not physically, anyway."
Jim frowned but waited to say anything until Blair looked up at him again, repositioning his hands on Blair's waist. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asked the question carefully, knowing the wrong inflection would bring the clouds back to Blair's eyes.
The hand still tangled in his hair tightened slightly, giving the strands a little admonishing tug. "C'mon, Jim—you can do more with words—or the lack of them—than anyone I know. It was enough for me—you didn't need to know, too."
Jim gave him little shake. "That's debatable, Chief. Something we can argue over for the next forty years." He winced suddenly, uncontrollably, his knee protesting recent events.
Blair caught the pained expression and instantly shifted around, breaking Jim's hold as he offered his shoulder for support.
"Ok, Hopalong, let's sit you down."
"No, damn it," Jim moaned beneath his breath. "Not now."
"C'mon, lean on me if you need to. You want help out to the couch?"
"Upstairs." Jim draped his arm across that offered shoulder, pulling Blair close as his heart sank—he knew that the weakness of his body had muddied the moment, maybe irretrievably.
Blair sighed heavily, glancing up at the ceiling. "All the way up there, hunh?"
"Yes," Jim replied patiently, "all the way up there."
"And I suppose you think you need help."
He didn't, but if it allowed him just a little more time—"I suppose I do."
"Big faker," Blair muttered, but put his arm around Jim's waist anyway.
Typical, Jim thought as they made their way upstairs. He knew Blair was aware that he would have made it just fine, but where Jim was concerned, Blair had always been proprietary. It was one of the many annoying, confusing things that Jim loved about him.
"Well, here you are," Blair said, a weird cheerfulness coloring his voice that Jim recognized, even understood. The brief touch, the almost kiss, the embrace that didn't quite happen was now stuck between them, the proverbial elephant in the living room. But now Jim knew why Blair had stayed—and that knowledge fed his belief that this line, now crossed, would turn into a wall if he stepped back.
Blair ducked from beneath Jim's arm and took a step towards the staircase. Jim was ready, pivoting on his good leg and stretching out his hand, palm up.
"Stay with me, ok?"
Blair flinched, then recovered and looked back with a reluctant smile. "Isn't this where I came in?"
Jim canted his head, silently demanding more. Blair's smile dropped away immediately, replaced by a look of wary sadness.
"I'm still here, aren't I?"
Jim curled his fingers onto his outstretched palm and relaxed them, then repeated the gesture.
"That's not what I'm asking now," he stated quietly.
"Okay," Blair whispered back—and Jim felt the rapid beat of Blair's increasing pulse fall into time with his own. He stepped closer and once again offered his hand.
"Stay with me."
Like a man caught in a spell, Blair cautiously reached out until his fingers hovered over Jim's at a slight angle. Jim waited, holding his breath until that hand lighted upon his own. The grasp started out gentle enough but before Jim could react, Blair gripped him hard. Startled, Jim looked up into Blair's eyes—and gasped.
There it was—God damn it, there it was—all the love and longing and passion he'd ever hoped to see shining out from those honest blue eyes, coming at him in a wave that hit as hard as any physical blow.
With an inarticulate cry, he hauled Blair into his arms and found his mouth, seeking entrance that was instantly granted. The first sweet collision of their tongues wrenched moans from both of them as they each conquered and surrendered with the same breath. Jim buried his fingers in Blair's hair as Blair's arms locked around his waist—they drank of each other mindlessly, their bodies so far ahead of their emotions that they could barely remain standing, so fierce was the joy that fused them together.
In time, the frantic onslaught of kisses slowed, their texture becoming languorous and beguiling as the two men began fulfilling the most innocent of their fantasies. Hands roamed over previously forbidden flesh now straining to be touched, as lips tasted secret places—an eyelid, the shadowy recess behind an ear, a strong jaw. Jim found that earlobe that had caught his attention earlier and he indulged his whimsy, lavishing tiny kisses on it as they continued to clasp and stroke, Jim's satisfied purrs soon overcome by Blair's sighs of frustration as he pulled at Jim's shirt with hands made clumsy with desire.
They parted only as long as it took to remove the other's shirt, then came back together as if even that brief separation had been a heartbreak. The passion flew higher as more skin was explored in an erotic give and take that took on an edge of competition as each player tried to bring the other more pleasure. When Jim slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Blair's sweats to stroke skin far softer than his sweetest tactile memory, Blair slumped against his chest, enervated and temporarily ceding the game.
Jim's smile was smug as he planted a kiss against Blair's shoulder before stiffly bending down to peel away the loose pants. Before he'd made the trip back up, Blair's fingers were tugging at the zipper of his jeans and between the two of them, they stripped away the last of the clothing.
How they finally got on the bed, Jim would never be able to recall. They ended up across it sideways, the pillows bunched at Jim's back, until Blair rolled and pulled Jim on top of him. Their eyes met—a quick recon, a small gut check, a matched pair of besotted smiles—and then the kisses resumed, only now with purpose and direction.
This first time there was no expertise, none of the lovemaking finesse that both men possessed. As they wrestled and played, barely mindful of sore spots and tight muscles, Jim realized that everything he'd ever learned about giving pleasure had been only theory—with Blair, he let his desires run free, infusing every stroke and kiss with so much love that he was afraid he'd etch Blair's skin with it.
In return, he received offerings of devotion from blunt fingers that danced across his belly, in the warm air that Blair panted in his ear as they writhed together. It finally fell upon Jim—by no design other than he'd ended up on top—to gain enough control to complete the journey. He caught Blair's attention by framing his face with his hands, even the sweat-soaked curls a newly found addiction for his quickly saturating senses. Blair's eyes were fathomless, growing wide with heat and trust as Jim lowered his hips. Finding a fit, Jim twisted and rose again, urging Blair on breathlessly when strong hands captured him to help guide their rhythm.
Jim wanted it to endure, this heady abandonment to their years-in-the-making love, but found he couldn't control any of it. His usually disciplined body ignored his wishes, arching and flexing against the demanding body beneath it, straining to feel the peak of Blair's pleasure before allowing it to give in
to its own. And when it came, when Blair cried out in exultation as his body found its release, Jim was so near the edge that he fell into the light right behind him, the two of them paralyzed by the strength of their coming. Then the quivering muscles that had held Jim poised over Blair gave way, and he folded his body into Blair's embrace with the grace of an exhausted dancer.
The heat from their lovemaking floated in the air currents around them as they caught their breath, Blair stroking reflexively down over Jim's back even as his eyelids quivered with exhaustion. Jim licked blindly at a trail of sweat that meandered across Blair's collarbone, wanting nothing of this moment to be lost.
When he felt Blair slip into a light doze, Jim slid his body to the side of the bed that had more room, keeping one arm solidly across Blair's abdomen. He was drowsy, but he fought it off in favor of propping his head on his hand so that he could watch Blair while he dozed. He was flat on his back, his head turned towards Jim, so close he could feel the soft exhalations against his elbow. One hand lay lax on his hip, the other still pinned beneath Jim's thigh as his ribcage above Jim's arm rose and dipped in a sated cadence.
Jim let his eyes travel down Blair's body, acknowledging without surprise that his love for Blair was strongly protective—that had always been a given, but now he had the proprietary instincts of a lover. He catalogued every freckle he could see from his awkward vantage, promised himself he would keep watch over every mole. He frowned over the scattered scrapes and bruises, but it wasn't until he saw the old bullet wound from Quinn that he indulged himself with a touch. He fingered the little fold of puckered skin, wishing not for the first time that he'd let the bastard drop that day in the rain so long ago.
"Told you it was a cool scar," came the languid, amused voice.
Jim lifted his head to frown down into Blair's laughing eyes, then leaned forward and kissed him lightly.
"No, you told Harry. I had cartoon stars dancing around my head at that point, but I still heard you."
"Mmm," Blair sighed, turning onto his side as Jim lay down beside him. They traded nuzzling kisses, their arms coming to rest lightly on opposing hips, until Blair pulled back far enough to see Jim's eyes.
"So, what now?" he asked with a small smile.
Jim winced, flexing his sore knee. "I'm thinking a shower."
"Try and think beyond the next two minutes here, ok?" Blair gently poked him in the ribs, punctuating his words.
Jim caught the annoying finger and brought it to his mouth for an admonishing kiss. "Ok, how far ahead do you want me to think? Ten years? Twenty?"
Blair's brows came together as he gave the question serious consideration. "Yeah, sure. Ten years."
"Right here. Like this."
Jim watched with amusement as Blair's mouth twitched, unable to hold its stern shape as he contemplated Jim's reply.
"Right here, hunh? And twenty years—?"
"Same. I hate to point out the obvious, but didn't we clear all this up about half an hour ago?"
Blair's mouth opened, then shut abruptly as a look of wonder flooded his eyes.
"Yeah, I guess we did," he murmured slowly, then launched himself into Jim's arms, bestowing a searing kiss and demanding one in return.
Jim understood. God, how he understood. He clutched Blair to him, suddenly afraid that no one, least of all him, was entitled to feel this way, to be the recipient of such miracles. He responded in equal measure to the aching tenderness of Blair's mouth and hands, knowing intuitively that Blair was thinking pretty much the same thing.
An hour later, the two men lay spooned together between fresh sheets, neither of them willing to give in to sleep. After a shared shower that took a turn for the silly rather than the erotic, they'd conducted a midnight raid on the leftover ribs, a prosaic test of their newborn intimacy that they passed with flying colors. If Jim had been worried about getting Blair back into his bed, his worries were unfounded—after they'd cleaned up the kitchen, Blair had simply taken him by the hand and led him upstairs.
Sweats were tossed into a pile and the two of them came together easily beneath the covers. They talked for a while without using any words, instead letting fingers, lips, even toes carry on their own intimate conversations. But even that eventually quieted as they both became somnolent, and Jim started to drift away, his arms wrapped around Blair from behind, his cheek pressed to a bony shoulder blade.
Thus it was a bit of a shock when he heard Blair whispering. Fighting his way back through the mists of early sleep, he mouthed a kiss on Blair's shoulder.
"Hunh?" he grunted, blinking his eyes open. He felt the tickle of Blair's soft laugh before he actually heard it, and he smiled to himself as another small boon was given to him.
"Sorry," he muttered, tightening his arms. "Almost asleep."
"I said," Blair murmured, "you never answered my question."
Jim closed his eyes and nudged his knees forward so that Blair's legs fit more tightly against him.
"What question?" he asked around a yawn.
Blair tensed slightly and that alerted Jim that he'd better pay attention. He would've released Blair so that they could talk face to face, but when he tried to unwind his arms from Blair's middle, Blair just held on tighter. He settled for resting his chin on Blair's upper arm, giving him a clearer view of Blair's face.
"What took you so long to ask why I held that press conference and denied my work?"
"Ah, that."
"Yeah, that."
Jim paused, not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wanted to frame it so that Blair would understand.
"What would I have done if this—" he touched his lips to warm skin beneath his mouth, "—hadn't been your answer?"
Jim felt the breath catch in Blair's chest. He swallowed dryly, afraid he'd somehow failed to communicate what he meant, but when Blair shifted in his arms, drawing Jim's head down to rest against his heart, he realized he'd said it exactly right.
"Aw, jeez, Jim," Blair whispered, "didn't you know? Love was always my answer."
Variation on a theme, a little authorial experimentation and characters who never tire of the things we put them through. Written as an anniversary present for friends.
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