Love Heals, a Sentinel's epiphany by Glacis. Rated
NC17 for language and adult themes. Set during the episodes Remembrance
and Love Kills. No copyright infringement intended to Pet Fly et al. For Pam,
finally, for everything … thank you, with love.
The scent was out of place. A university should smell of grass, and
concrete, and water; of sweat, leather, paper, and stale French fries. Not
this, whatever it was. Not blood. Not excrement. Jim Ellison, staring down at
the mortal remains of one Professor Robert McCaine
and trying not to let his partner's elevated heart rate and labored breathing
affect his watchfulness, nearly fell into a zone out trying to isolate that one
elusive smell.
"Hey, man, are you with me?"
Always. Sandburg's quiet,
insistent voice pulled him back from the edge of the void. "Yeah,
Chief," he replied absently, nodding at Simon as his captain held out a
small square of paper toward him. "That was all you got from his
wallet?" he asked, reaching absently to touch his partner lightly on the
shoulder. I'm okay. It's all right. Calm down, I'm right here. All in a touch. His hand fell and he went cold as he stared
with confusion at the little picture.
A little picture of himself.
Thirty seven year old Ellison eyes stared down into ten year old
Ellison eyes, and the world began its descent into madness.
He'd be seeing the world as it was, as he was, then abruptly, he was a
kid again. Colors were brighter, sounds were crisper, everything
smelled sharper. But it didn't drown him, not this time, not as a kid. It was
just the way things were.
The way he was.
The feeling stayed with him through the day, and lingered into the
evening. He rolled a football around from one hand to another, feeling the
pebbled surface under the pads of his fingertips, caught
in a weird little memory fugue between what he was and what he had been. The
hardwood floor beneath his bare feet became grass under cleats, the chill air
warmed with the last summer sunlight. Perspective shifted, and the world was
big, scary, trees towering over him, roots grabbing him by the ankle and
sending him on his face.
Looking for something, something important, didn't like it out here,
had to be a man about it, almost there, was that it?
Oh, god, oh, no, not -- The ball shot out of his tense fingers and slammed
against the wall, bringing him out of his memories and back into the present.
Shaking off the tension drawing his shoulders up to his ears, he retrieved the
ball and paced in front of the fireplace, idly tossing it from hand to hand. By
the time Sandburg came home, he was able to calmly relate the newly retrieved
memories. A forest, a football, a body.
"No doubt the trauma you suffered as a child caused you to repress
your memories, Jim," Sandburg explained earnestly.
He stared at the ball and thought it over. His partner continued, hands
weaving pictures in the air.
"Similar to what happened in
Among other things, he thought, but he just nodded. Sandburg brightened
at the implied consent and went on.
"Remember the exercise we did that helped you remember the phone
call from Jack? There's that theme again, man, death and repression.
Okay," Blair hurried on, as Jim glared at him, "the smell. You got it
from Professor McCaine," Blair swallowed, and
Jim leaned forward in unconscious support. "Then you remembered it from
the body you found as a kid." Jim nodded again. Nothing
new here. He cocked an eyebrow, silently asking Blair to get on with it.
"So use that, man. Take that scent, focus on it, follow
it back. See where it leads you."
There was such an encouraging look on the kid's face Jim didn't have
the heart to tell him he didn't think it would work. So he did what he did
every time Sandburg came up with a weird idea about his senses. He went with
it.
Damned if it didn't work. You'd think after almost three years he'd be
expecting it, but it never failed to surprise him. Sandburg always came
through, one way or another.
Bud.
The only one who'd believed in him. The only one who'd said he could do
anything.
The one who hadn't thought he was a freak.
More memories followed; a football championship, nobody there watching,
as usual, except Steven, and little brothers didn't count. The grass was
greener, the wind was sharper, the sunshine was warmer, the snap of the ball
was louder, the tackle was harder, and it wasn't just memory. It just was.
It had been easy then. For a little while, at least.
Then something happened.
Bud? The flash was gone, and he let it go without a fight.
The next day, there was another body. Another taunt.
The son of a bitch was making it personal.
Throughout the case that followed, Jim was in a near constant state of
panic. Not that anyone could tell. He snapped often enough and loudly enough
that no one got close enough to see the fear behind the anger. No one, except perhaps Blair. Sandburg was like that. A terrier with a rat. Track it down, chomp down on it, shake
it 'til it was dead and still not let it drop. He'd pushed, and pushed, until
Jim found himself staring up at the front of the house he'd grown up in,
putting on his best game face, doing his damnedest to ignore the way his belly
was trying to crawl up into his throat.
Quick punch to the bell, a few deep breaths to keep himself
calm. "Hi, Dad." When had he gotten so old?
And why did he look so glad to see him? In that restrained, never let 'em see you enthused Ellison way
he'd always had.
Well, unless it would get you a better profit margin.
Jim shrugged off the residual bitterness as wasted effort, and got down
to brass tacks. "I'm working on the strangler case." And if I have to
tear open old wounds to do it, then so be it. I've done worse.
By the end of an uncomfortable half hour, he wasn't sure he had. He was
angry, angrier than he could ever remember being. It had been important, damnit. It all had. He shuffled through the
clippings his father dug out of the old boxes, a little amazed that the old man
had actually kept all this stuff, but not at all surprised that it was stuffed
up in the attic. His dad had the strangest way of looking at the past. All good times and fun. He didn't remember ever having
either. Fights, yeah, arguments, yeah, put downs, a whole hell of a lot,
absence, even more. Fun? Not with his father.
Pointing at the group shot from his team championship game, almost
twenty years ago, he asked, not as calmly as he had hoped, "Where were you
then, Dad?" It came out an accusation. He didn't hear the justifications,
because the memories popped up again and drowned the old man out.
The game. Another kid. A bully. Stepping between Steven and the punk with the attitude.
Feeling scared, but not showing it. Aaron. How he had hated that little creep.
It ended and he found himself staring at his father, who was staring
back, having run out of words. He shrugged irritably. This was getting him
nowhere. He had a case to work. He tried a smile, gave it up as a bad deal, and
pocketed the picture. It might come in handy.
Gratefully escaping his father's house, shivering a little at how the
emotion hadn't changed in the last thirty years, he sped to the station. He had
to get back to work. Part of his mind whispered that he had to get back to Sandburg, maybe the kid could make some sense of
this. He sure as hell couldn't.
Things went from bad to worse. Simon almost pulled him, but the strangler
had already made it personal, and he was on the case whether he was assigned it
or not. Blair backed him up all the way, and he was grateful for the support.
He was feeling a little rocky ever since seeing his Dad. But weakness admitted
was weakness exploited, a lesson he'd learned the hard way at a very young age.
So he'd contented himself with a light touch to Sandburg's arm, a reconnection,
a grounding. It helped.
He didn't look too closely at why it helped.
No time to go there. Not now. Maybe not ever.
They headed out on a lead, a guy who'd been working with McCaine, to find out who the dead professor might have
stumbled upon that had opened up this can of worms and cost him his life.
Coming in the door, he'd sensed something off, and tried to get Blair behind
him. As usual, his attempts at protection were stumped by the unbound
enthusiasm of his partner. Barking at the kid to stay put, he followed a shadow
out around the corner into a railway yard.
He had the man in his sights when it hit him again, harder than ever.
Horror, loss, grief, anger tumbled through him, paralyzing him, making him
vulnerable to danger. The body in the woods had a face, and two mouths, the
open one pulled back in a scream that no one had heard, the other below the
chin, drenched in blood. He could smell the blood, the grass, the bark, the
weird smell that didn't belong, like the blood didn't belong.
Carl Haidash was Bud.
Memory collided with the present as strong fingers dug into his skin,
and a harsh voice whispered in his ear. "You're mine, Ellison. You lose.
We got a score to settle." Weak sunlight glinted off the knife heading for
his throat, and survival instincts kicked in, muscle memory fighting off the
attack. His hands reached out, wrapped around the wrist holding the knife, and
twisted. He could hear his pulse in his ears, and he lost his grip on the
killer as his eyes fritzed out completely and his
fingers went numb. The rusty squeal of wheels on track finally cut through the
confusion, as a train, released from its moorings, lurched toward him. He
scrambled for enough control to throw himself out of
the way, then lay there for a long moment, panting, trying to figure out just
what the hell was happening to him.
"Jim!" Sandburg's voice, Sandburg's feet nearly skidding
out from under him as he careened around the side of the train car and threw
himself at Jim, Sandburg's warm hands cradling his head. It felt incredibly
good. The pressure behind his eyes eased off, and he was finally able to
wrestle some control back over his senses. The gravel digging into his side
didn't feel like nails any more. His heartbeat was back in his chest where it
belonged, and his partner's voice was getting all the dials back down where
they belonged.
"I'm fine, Sandburg," he rasped out, but he didn't pull away,
and when those hands drew back from cradling his head, he put his own up to
grab hold of them. Using the excuse that he was still wobbly from the near
escape, he held on to his partner for balance, and kept an arm slung around the
younger man's shoulders all the way back into the office. Blair let him, didn't
seem to mind. He stayed that way until forensics got there.
The next day was a jumble, memories fusing with facts mingling with new
developments until a clear picture finally emerged. He forced himself to return
to his father's house, picking the old man's brain for what few clues were
there, given the total lack of interest the man had shown when Jim was a kid.
Of course, when they found a clue, it was related to business. But it was
enough. They were able to identify Mick Foster as Scott Jeffries, and a pattern
began to emerge. Other things came to the surface, too, and the anger
mushroomed as he remembered the rest of the fall out from Bud's murder.
'I know what I saw!' Too young to
understand willful ignorance, too frustrated to let it go in silence. The need for justice for Bud too strong to just give it up. 'I
can see things, and hear things, Dad!' His father glaring down at him,
shaking him, telling him it was nonsense, not to be stupid. Telling him to wise
up, stop making things up, or everybody would think he
was some kind of freak. The voices echoed in his head, and he had to explain,
again.
"I have a gift, Dad. It can be a burden, sometimes. But it's who I
am." Why couldn't you accept me as I am? Why did you teach me that being myself meant being a freak? Why did you make me believe that
my abilities, who I was, all of it, was a big lie?
"I always knew you were special, Jimmy, but the world doesn't like
people who are different. I didn't want you to be hurt."
Stone silence.
He'd known. His father had known, and had done it to him anyway.
He watched his father wander out of the room in search of a glass of
water, and didn't know whether to hit something, throw up, or yell at somebody.
His eyes bounced around the room, desperate for distraction, trying to slow his
spinning thoughts. Finally his gaze fell on the old photo album his dad had left
sitting on the table. Idly, he flipped at the cover, then
froze.
Photos. Clippings. His wedding photo with Carolyn,
from the newspaper. The Plummer family had made sure it got in; he was
sort of a celebrity. His dad hadn't gotten it from him, that
was for damned sure. Write ups from different newspapers in Cascade and
"Captain, I've got a link here. Mick Foster is Scott Jeffries.
Could you run a check on Aaron Foster for me? I think he might be our
killer."
His dad came into the room, and he made his good-byes quickly, anxious
to get out of there. He didn't need Sentinel hearing
to pick up the mutter about "used to be my excuse." He couldn't quite
decide if that was disappointment in his dad's voice, and right about then he
didn't have time to try to figure it out.
He told himself he was relieved. Then he got too busy to think about
it.
Events escalated as it all came to a head, and Aaron made his end run.
Sally was terrified, his Dad was brutalized, and in a weird replay where past
collided with present, he tackled the bastard again. This time the stakes were
higher; this time he was stopping a killer, not winning a championship. But the
results were the same. And this time, he had someone to share the triumph with.
Not his dad. It had felt good, in an alien sort of way, to hug his dad and make
sure the old man was all right. But it was the light of approval and affection
in Sandburg's eyes that made him feel good clear through. It clicked everything
back in place, the way it should have been all along. For a second, he had the
wistful thought that he wished he'd met Blair years ago, when he was a kid, and
they'd been able to deal with this all along. Then he chuckled as reality hit.
A baby wouldn't have done much good to a headstrong ten year old and his
oblivious father.
"What's up, man?" Sandburg gave him a questioning glance,
grinning along with him even without being in on the joke.
"Just relief, Chief," he shrugged, but gave the kid a
one-armed hug anyway. Turning from that comforting warmth, unsettled by how
grounded he felt by that touch, he put a steadying arm around his dad's waist
and helped him back to the truck. "Catch a ride with Simon?" he
tossed over his shoulder. Sandburg beamed at him.
"Sure thing, man, look after your Dad."
"Thanks, Jimmy," his father said as Jim settled him into the
passenger seat. Not knowing quite what to say, he just nodded and shut the
door, stretching some of the kinks out of his back before climbing behind the
wheel. The drive back to the house was a quiet one.
"You okay, dad?" The bruises were starting to come through
clearly. Even without using Sentinel sight, the old man was a mess.
"So the paramedic said," his father returned dryly, before
turning his head and staring at Jim. "I should be asking you that,
Jimmy."
"I'm fine," he answered automatically. He glanced sideways at
the older man. Faded blue eyes stared back unblinkingly. "What?" He
found himself getting irritated again, and concentrated on his driving.
"Nothing." But it was something, Jim could hear it in
his voice. After a short pause, his father started speaking again. "Your
partner seems like a nice kid. Sort of wild looking for a policeman,
though."
Jim didn't answer until they were on the walk on the way up to the
front door. "He's not."
William pushed the door open and looked over his shoulder at his son.
"Not? Who's not what?"
"My partner's not a policeman." There was another
uncomfortable silence as they continued into the living room. Jim watched his
father trying to get his mind around the concept, and let him stew on it for
awhile. Let him think whatever he wanted to think. He stared out through the
side window as William went into the kitchen and poured coffee. Following the
old man's progress with his hearing, he could almost hear his dad thinking.
"Then what is he?" William finally managed to ask when he
returned to the living room.
Jim settled onto the couch cushions and accepted the cup of coffee. "My partner." His dad sat on the other end of the
couch and stared at him. Taking pity on the total confusion he read in his
dad's face, Jim gave a pithy explanation. "Anthropologist.
Studying 'freaks' like me. Helps me deal with my senses.
Keeps me from going nuts. He's my partner." He
didn't understand the relief that crossed his dad's face.
"Oh. Okay." They sat in silence, until Jim started to fidget.
"Why?" he finally asked. "What did you think he was? A
vice cop?"
"Well, I wasn't sure," his dad answered haltingly. "You
said partner, but he wasn't a cop. And he's … I guess pretty's
the wrong word, but he's not a normal-guy-looking man." He took a quick
sip of his coffee and stared into the cup, not looking up at Jim. "And you
did get divorced rather quickly from Carolyn. Now, you two are very close. I
could tell by the way you were touching him, the way he looked at you."
Conflicting reactions kept Jim frozen in place. "So," he
asked quietly, staring holes through his father's down-bent head, "what,
you think, because he's got long hair and earrings, he's got to be gay? And
because I'm a failure in the relationship department, something I come by
honestly," with a pointed look at the naked ring finger that hadn't worn a
wedding ring since his mother left, "I'm queer, too?"
William's head came up and he stared at Jim, looking a little anxious.
"No, no, that's not it. I just didn't know where he fit, Jimmy. I'm not
accusing you of anything!"
Jim studied the earnest expression staring back at him, and wondered at
the unexpected, nearly overpowering urge he had to laugh. He'd felt protective
and righteously angry at the implied slight to Blair, especially given his
partner's ability to get a date with a marble statue. And get the statue to
spread her legs. But when the accusation, however quickly denied, was about himself, it seemed funny. Not because it was so obviously
bullshit.
Because maybe, just maybe, it might not be.
Well. He hid his grin behind the rim of his cup. Hell of a bunch of
revelations this case was turning out to be.
His dad mistook the relaxation for forgiveness and quickly changed the
subject. "Glad that's cleared up. And I'm glad that you've got a friend on
your side in this, Jimmy. It can't be easy."
At that, he lost the grin, and the anger, even the last remnants of
frustration. Suddenly, he was completely exhausted. "It never was."
Setting his cup on the coffee table, he pushed himself off the soft cushions.
"Let me know how Sally's doing, okay, dad? And call me if you need me. I
have to go. Paperwork," he offered the short explanation on the way to the
door. In truth, he just had to get away from there. Go home.
To Sandburg.
His mind chased itself around in circles on the drive back to the loft
until he gave himself a headache. This case had dug up a lot of stuff, things
he'd just as soon not have remembered. Not Bud -- his friendship had been a
gift, and he appreciated the chance to remember that. But
other things. Rejection, first of his talents by his
father, then by himself, in response to his father's reaction. Loss, for
the first time, of the only person who'd actually encouraged him to be himself.
Had Bud been a Guide? Of a sort? He'd certainly seemed
to understand what was going on in Jim's mind, and had done his best to bring
his potential out. Maybe just a mentor -- but in the environment he'd grown up
in, there was no just about that.
Where did that leave him now? He felt raw, open in a way he hadn't
since he was a kid. All his experience, all his training, screamed at him to
shut down, to pull back, rebuild the defenses before he got the shit kicked out
of him. In the middle of the call for full scale retreat, a tiny voice was
calmly, logically telling him to shut the fuck up and go listen to his partner.
Blair would know how to handle this. Blair always knew what to do. Even if Jim didn't want to admit it. Didn't
want to have that kind of reliance on another person. Especially
a person with the proven flaky qualities of his partner.
Not that it helped. The reliance was already there. Had
been from the start. Jim was a protector, trained from the time he was a
kid looking after his baby brother to take care of those weaker than himself.
The fact that Sandburg didn't often let him look after him didn't lessen the
instinct. And it seemed particularly strong with his partner,
too, in a way it wasn't with anyone else.
That scared him even more than the reliance.
He looked up at the light coming from the windows of their apartment,
only then realizing that he'd been sitting in the parking lot staring up at the
window for god knew how long. That prompted another line of thought. How long
had it been 'their' instead of 'his'? When had his life stopped
being his and become so tangled up with another person's that he couldn't tell
the difference between the two? His dad had a point. He was all the time
touching Blair. Leaning into him. Crowding
him, even. But the kid didn't protest. Seemed to
expect it, in fact. And Jim needed that contact. It anchored him, kept
him focused.
Staring at the whites of his knuckles as he clenched the steering
wheel, he wondered with a touch of panic when reliance had changed to need. And
why he hadn't noticed at the time.
And why he was noticing now.
Peeling his fingers one at a time away from the hard plastic, he forced
himself to go up to his … their home. Walls were slamming up in his mind
stronger than armor plating on a tank, but he had the nasty suspicion it was
too little, too late. Then the door swung open in front of him, he saw the
bright, open smile on his partner's face, that warm voice pouring question
after question at him, deft hands stripping his jacket from him and pressing a
beer in his hand, and he took a deep breath.
Much too little. Much too late.
The dragon was in the keep on the wrong side of the drawbridge.
"It went fine, Chief," he inserted into the torrent of
questions, and headed over to flop on the couch. Without asking, seeming to
know by instinct what was needed, Sandburg came up
behind him and started to rub the knots out of his neck and shoulders. As the
strong fingers dug in, a groan nearly escaped clenched teeth.
"C'mon, man, this is s'posed to relax
you, not make you even tighter. You're one big muscle cramp, Jim. Just take it
easy, let it all hang out, let it go, man." The voice continued on, quietly,
in perfect time with the hands working magic on his shoulders, and his head
fell forward.
"Thanks," he managed, staring down at the beer bottle
balanced on his knee, at the pattern in the throw rug under his feet, at
anything but the bulge that was coming up in his pants.
Christ. The power of suggestion. Thanks, dad,
he thought wryly.
Shifting unobtrusively, he brought the cold bottle against his crotch,
and almost whimpered, dialing down his sense of touch immediately. The frosty
glass had felt like a branding iron against his erection, perversely making him
harder. Or maybe that was the feel of Sandburg's hands smoothing over his head.
"What are you doing?" He tried to snap, but he felt too good
to put much bite in it. The stroking didn't pause.
"Scalp massage, Jim. Feels good, doesn't it? My friend Cindy does
these, at health fairs and at the natural remedies store where she works. Felt
so great I asked her to show me how to do it. Relaxes you down to the core, and
you, my friend, need some deep relaxing."
Jim almost told him that his core was anything but relaxed, but he bit
his tongue until he tasted blood to keep the words back. His eyes closed, and
he concentrated on not saying anything, just turning into a puddle of mush
under the kid's talented hands and thinking about polar ice caps to try to get
his cock to subside. Gradually, he tuned back into the voice behind him,
responding to the gentle understanding in Blair's words.
"I know this must have been hard on you, bringing up all this stuff
from your childhood. Threatening your family. Being
targeted like that. It must have been really tough, but it's good that you were
able to connect with your Dad like that. Saved his life, and maybe there's hope
for the future, you know?"
"I know, Sandburg," he cut in. "But right now all I want
is to finish this beer and go to bed. Okay?"
With a final pat that felt oddly like a caress, Blair stopped massaging
him and slid over the back of the couch to plop down beside him. "I hear
that. Been a long day. Longer for you than me, and I'm
wiped, man. You must be totally wasted."
Jim found himself smiling, at peace with the world, completely content
to be exactly where he was. "Totally," he teased, then drained the
last few swallows from the bottle and pulled himself up from the couch. Tossing
the bottle into the recycle bag on his way to the stairs, he called,
"'night, Chief."
He felt Blair's eyes on him, smiling at him, all the way up to bed.
That feeling of contentment lasted until he fell asleep, and the dreams
started.
He was in the damned jungle again, and the cat was there. Only this
time, the animal was ignoring him. It was peering into the underbrush, watching
with a hunter's intent concentration, tracking something Jim couldn't see.
As the thought crossed his mind, suddenly, he could see …
because he was the cat. The wet underbrush snagged on his belly fur, and his
ears twitched at the rustle in the leaves ahead of him. A flash of white, gray,
deep blue fire … something moving with grace but no attempt at stealth through
the vines ahead. A compulsion took him to follow, and he was on the move,
slinking low to the ground, silent as a shadow. The light colored blur ahead
moved faster, and he responded in kind, until they were practically skimming
the jungle floor, weaving in and out of the trees in a dizzying dance.
They broke through into a clearing, the unexpected light blinding him
to the form of the animal he had been hunting. When his vision cleared, it was
gone, but a temple stood there. A figure, some sort of half cat, half man
creature, stood at the door to the temple, and he reared back on his hind paws,
instinctively lashing out. The cat's head howled at him, welcome, not
challenge, and the door disappeared, along with the strange mutated being.
He stretched out a paw, only to see it transform to a hand mid-reach.
Then he was inside, somehow, without walking, and he was lying on his side,
staring into deep blue eyes, staring back at him. Laughing,
but somber beneath the laughter, glittering at him. Blair's
eyes. Blair's hands reaching out to him.
Blair's mouth covering his own.
Those strong hands held him, turned him onto his back, and he felt the
warm weight as Blair climbed on top of him, lying full length against him. They
were naked, and it felt like every nerve ending was bare as well, as if his
skin had been abraded and his flesh was nothing but one huge sensory receptor.
He could feel the whorl of each finger pad as Blair ran his hands over his
chest, his torso, along his flanks, up his back. Tiny pinpricks of sensation
were the taste buds on Blair's tongue as his neck was licked; flashes of sharp
fire were the trail Blair's teeth left as they scored along his jaw, closed
over his pulse point. Crisp body hair brushed up against him, and he could feel
each one, a thousand, a million lashes of electricity against his skin. A voice
that sounded like Blair's told him to dial it down, but he was flying on it,
couldn't have stopped it if he tried.
So he didn't try.
Lips left his ear and latched on to his, tongue invading his mouth,
stealing his breath. He gasped in through his nose, and the scent overwhelmed
him, made him drunk. Musk, pheromones, spices, oil -- he flew higher, and his
body writhed closer, trying to devour Blair as he himself
was being devoured. The taste of Blair exploded across his tongue, following
Blair's tongue, and he wanted more. Sucking, moaning, he arched under the
weight pressing into his groin. His eyes squeezed shut, his mouth strained
open, and he came, flying so high he flew apart.
As he slowly came down, he was disoriented for a wild moment, senses
completely off line. He stretched out his hearing and found his anchor, the
strong, steady beat of his partner's heart.
Too steady. Too calm.
Too far away.
With a start he sat bolt upright in bed. His own bed.
Alone. Sandburg was downstairs.
Of course.
He dabbed at the semen spread across his belly and grimaced. There was
something a little too Freudian, in a reverse gender sort of way, about his
father making him realize that he found his partner attractive. And as for the
panther … god only knew what that crazy cat was trying to tell him. One thing
was for damned sure. He couldn't let Sandburg find out about this.
Not that he was afraid the kid would be turned off by it, or threatened
by it. But he had a good thing going with his guide, and he wasn't going to let
hormones fuck it up. He'd seen how Blair was with his women, and he knew his
own track record with relationships. The Sentinel - Guide connection was too
important. It had to be his primary consideration. He'd do like he had with
every guy he'd found attractive since he was fourteen.
He'd ignore it.
The thought stopped him in his tracks.
Every guy he'd found attractive? Since when had he found guys
attractive?
Staring at a crinkle in the sheet, he had another vivid flashback. He
was a freshman in high school, defensive lineman on the J.V. team. Best friend
was a kid named Rob, a little shorter than he was, just as tired of home,
caught up in football, and curious as he was. They hung around together, got
into trouble together, studied together, dreamed
together. One night over geometry, they'd gotten bored and started to wrestle.
For once, Rob pinned Jim. Then he kissed him. Startled the hell
out of both of them. Being pubescent boys, it also made them hornier
than hell.
Flash forward, a couple weeks of furtive groping and helpless cracking
up later. Sunday afternoon at his house, Dad supposed to be gone on yet another
business trip, Stevie out with the Cub scouts. All alone in his bedroom. With Rob.
Nobody to bother them, nobody to interrupt them. First
time he ever had his hand wrapped around another guy's penis. Shot off like a
Roman Candle, got all ready to do it again, and this time, as he came and came
hard, his father exploded into the room like a pissed off grizzly. Screamed at
the both of them, popped him so hard he saw stars, threw
Rob out almost before the other boy had time to get his pants back up. Then his
dad had laid into him, not so much with his hand, as with his tongue. Told him
what kind of a freak he was, what sort of a pervert he was, how stupid and
wrong and filthy he was.
It hadn't felt filthy. Not at the time. But afterward
…
Funny the things you block out. He pushed at the crinkle, slowly
flattening it out, smoothing the sheet. He'd never been attracted to guys,
although he hadn't hated men who were. Just hadn't had the itch. Hadn't been particularly successful with keeping a lady, either.
Maybe there was a connection there.
He had an itch now. He stared off into the room, listening to Sandburg
breathing, for a long time. Then he shrugged.
Repression might not be very healthy, but it certainly worked. This was
one itch he didn't dare scratch. It had only been his father, the first time.
If he went with it, and Sandburg did too, it would be a whole hell of a lot of
other people. Worse of all, and of over-riding importance -- he could lose his
partner. Would lose him, if his usual luck held out.
Nope. Wasn't worth the risk.
Decision made, he padded downstairs silently, cleaned himself up,
balled the soiled boxers up and buried them in the bottom of the hamper.
Pausing outside his partner's room, he listened to the sounds of Sandburg
sleeping for a little while, somehow reassured by the normal sighs, muffled
snorts and shifting, burrowing noises. Then he climbed back up the stairs,
changed his sheets, lay back down, and stared at the ceiling the rest of the
night.
'Don't fuck it up' became his motto for the next
few weeks. Sandburg didn't seem to notice anything wrong, but Jim felt the
pressure building. Which might have explained Lila.
Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe that was just the insanity kicking
in again.
He'd only really had a week with Lila Hobson, and
Having his senses go haywire hadn't helped.
He asked Blair, near the beginning of the latest round of madness that
was his life, if the kid had ever met a woman who, under different
circumstances, could have been 'the one'. Sandburg had stared at him, then
through him, and quietly said that he hadn't. But there'd been something there.
Something Blair wouldn't say. Something Jim had a hunch he needed to hear.
Then they'd been interrupted by a monk with doctored prayer beads, and
he'd woken up in the hospital feeling like a truck had run over his head. He
could feel his pulse in his tongue, his eyeballs felt like spikes had been
driven through them, and his hands and feet were tingling so fiercely he wished
they were numb. When they finally let him go and he and Blair got back
to the loft, the orchids he'd sent Lila were propped up against the door. He
guessed that meant it was no, this particular minute. Blair came up close
behind him. Jim managed not to lean back into his partner's warmth -- by the
skin of his teeth. It felt too good.
"Why don't I just get some popcorn and a movie? Sam and I can come
back here, you know, keep you company?"
He could easily read the concern in those big blue eyes, and the
temptation to grab him and kiss him senseless bushwhacked Jim. He closed his
eyes, picked up the lilies, and used them as a shield, thrusting them toward
Blair. "No, you go ahead. Have some fun. Give these to Sam." Go. Now. Before I forget that it's Lila I think I might be in
love with and do something criminally stupid. Happily, Blair took the hint.
All he wanted by that point was a little rest. Unfortunately, every
time he closed his eyes, that damned cat was back. He was relieved by the knock
on the door. Surprised to find Lila on the other side.
Okay. Guess the no was back to yes.
He opened the door, and let her inside.
She was upset, and fighting demons she wouldn't let him see. Frankly,
he was too tired by then to care, much. But she meant something to him, even if
he couldn't quite figure out what, and when she turned to him for comfort he
gave it to her. His sight went off the map, and that fucker with the jackhammer
was back working on the inside of his skull, but he responded to her need and
pushed through the disorienting mess that passed for his senses these days.
There was something comforting in being able to put his body on
automatic and shut his mind off. She was soft, and wet, and there was a
desperate edge to her loving. Her skin shivered under his touch, and he mapped
every tiny jolt through her muscles, tuning into her reactions to the exclusion
of everything else. His fingers twined with hers, and he held her gently,
completely, turning her inside out with his touch.
Opening his senses to her as much as he dared, he inhaled deeply,
enjoying a heady combination of musk and desire. He burrowed between her thighs
and licked, delicately then more strongly, until she writhed under his mouth.
When she had come twice, and was panting and moaning above his head, he rose
above her and entered her, licking the taste of her from his lips, painting her
breasts with the moisture smeared across his cheeks.
Her thighs parted and long, slender legs wrapped around his hips,
pulling him in harder, deeper. He lay more fully across her, letting go of her
hands to wrap his fists in her hair and pull her face up to his, then following
her down to the mattress. She convulsed under him a third time, and he let the
warm movements around him pull his own orgasm from him. Kissing her deeply, her
taste magnifying in his mouth, he slowed and gradually withdrew.
Leaning over her to toss the used condom in the trash can next to the
bed, he could feel her heart slamming into her chest, hear the labored rasp of
her breath in her lungs. Her body was trembling, and she burrowed into his
arms. He responded with typical protectiveness, cuddling her near, soothing her
with long strokes of his hands along her back, up and down, until she finally
fell asleep.
Lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling with sight that made the
shadows as bright as daylight, he wondered how he could lie next to a woman
after loving her unconscious, her scent in his head, her taste still coating
his tongue, and think about Blair Sandburg.
Daylight was breaking through the window before he finally hid his face
in her hair and fell asleep, still wondering.
Reality hit with the force of a sucker punch to the gut. She was off
and flying down the stairs as Blair was letting himself in and Jim was trying
to get his pants on.
Guess the sex hadn't been as great as he'd thought. She was back to no
again. Lila was out the door before he could get his shoes tied, and Blair was
grilling him about the previous night's activities. He came up with something,
he didn't know what, too distracted by Sam's smell on Blair's skin and Lila's
on his own to notice. Until Blair asked, voice scaling up to match his
eyebrows, "You took pictures?" Then he ran the conversation
back in his mind and almost laughed.
Almost.
Blair's face changed when he reached up to rub at the pain that still
lingered behind his left eye. Persistent as a terrier again, Jim was finally
worn down and admitted that his senses were still giving him hell. All sympathy
and concerned logic, Sandburg pointed out that the spikes only hit him when he
was with Lila. "You think, maybe, you might be in love?"
Jim just looked at him. For a second, he felt like he was in a comic
strip, and a light bulb had just been drawn over his head. Hell, yes, he was in
love.
But he had a bad feeling it didn't have anything to do with Lila.
He shrugged off the question, and they headed into the station,
Sandburg surprisingly quiet beside him. Jim knew he should dig a little, find
out what had his partner thinking so hard, but his head was still hurting, and
he took the peace for the gift it was. Several times Blair started to say
something, then stopped. Finally he just sort of
leaned over, invading Jim's personal space the way Jim
usually invaded Blair's. It felt good. Neither of them said a word.
Later that day, he tracked Lila down, and to his surprise her answer stayed
no. Determined to get to the bottom of her wild mood swings, and trying to keep
his mind off his partner, he was ambushed by another sensory migraine while
following her up a flight of stairs. The world tipped on its axis, his hands
went numb, and everything he saw melted, blending into everything else until
the world seemed like a watercolor left out in the rain, all the paint running
together. Sounds rippled through his ears, and he knew she was talking to him, there was urgency in her voice. Before he could even
try to respond to it, something took hold of him and tossed him against the
wall. The pain reverberated through his skull, mixing with the sounds he was
tasting and the sights he could smell. He had no hope of defending himself
against an attacker he couldn't sense, and curled into a fetal ball,
instinctively trying to protect the soft spots. Then the pain was gone, and the
sensory spikes were gone. He could feel the ground beneath his cheek, feel the bruises coming up on his body.
Lila was gone.
So was his attacker.
He pulled himself painfully to his feet and headed back to his truck.
This was getting pretty damned tiresome.
Simon gave him a look that would cut glass,
but he managed to pass it off as nothing important. He was mildly amused when
his boss called his partner back in and grilled him on Jim's condition.
Listening in, he had to agree that the sensory spikes were somehow connected
with what was happening with Lila, but he couldn't help thinking that she was
secondary. What was happening with Blair, or rather, what wasn't
happening with Blair, was more to the point. He
hurried to look busy when Sandburg left Simon's office. Before either of them
could say a word, the phone rang.
Lila.
It was back to yes.
Damned tiresome.
As an afterthought, he tossed his jacket to Blair before he left.
"See if forensics can get any prints off this, Chief."
All the way to the Chinese gardens he argued with himself. Was it Lila?
Was he in love with her? It didn't sound right. Didn't feel
right. He'd always known himself pretty well, or thought he did. All
kinds of things were coming to the surface lately, but still, he trusted his
instincts. And right now his instincts were arguing with one another. Part of
him wanted to go to Lila, get her out of whatever the hell kind of trouble she
was in, try and see if they could make a go of it. Another part of him was
telling him to run far and fast, away from Lila and straight to Blair. Blair
wouldn't say no.
He might laugh, might not believe it, and might ask what sort of
mushrooms Jim had put on his sandwich that afternoon. But he wouldn't say no.
His headache was back by the time he parked the truck, and he
ruthlessly squashed all the voices yelling at him. Later.
Not now. No time for it now.
Jim wasn't in any mood for more wishy washy
yes-no-maybes, and this time when Lila spun a tale of a jealous fiancé and an
over-protective bodyguard, he simply told her that it was nuts, they should end
it right then and there. Turning on his heel, he left her still talking to his
back. He had work to do.
That, at least, made sense.
Monk number three had come in from the cold, and they made good use of
him. He fingered Tate as the head man for a drug ring centered in Cascade under
the aegis of the Shang syndicate, and he and Blair
dirtied themselves up and made like winos in a back alley waiting to bust him.
The wait was pure torture. It wasn't the cold, or even Sandburg's whining about
the cold. Wasn't the smells that assaulted him and
threatened to turn the mild headache into a skull-crusher. It was the proximity
of temptation. He wanted Blair Sandburg, and it was threatening every ounce of
self possession and independence he had.
Of course he was grumpy about it.
Then when the bust went to shit, and his senses
freaked out until his eyeballs felt like they were exploding, and Tate got
whacked, and he couldn't stop the killing or the killer.
Grumpy degenerated into snarling in the blink of one watering eye.
His mood wasn't improved by another sleepless night of listening to
Blair breathe. Every time the kid moved, he could trace the shifting of the
sheet over his body, hear the cotton catching on his chest hair, practically
see the skin and muscle sliding around in the material trapping it, sigh in relief along with Blair when the sheet was finally
kicked off.
Then the shivering started, and he clenched his own blanket in his
fists until Blair, still asleep, burrowed back under the covers. Kept him from going downstairs and using a little old fashioned
body heat to warm the kid up.
Brown bouncing all over the fucking bullpen didn't do a thing to make
him feel cheerier. If anything, it just pissed him off. The fact that the news
he brought tied Lila into the murders of the monks didn't make him happy
either. Lila was tied up with Lo Min, who'd beaten the shit out of him the
previous day, who was tied to Tate who got murdered, who was tied to the whole
drug smuggling ring.
If he hadn't already had a headache, this would have given him one.
Then, of course, Sandburg had to be helpful, and point out that the
last monk was still a target. Which led to a lovely dog and
pony show all through
Sandburg cannoned into his back, and Jim reached back instinctively to
steady him. His hands reacted like they'd hit glue when they came in contact
with Blair's skin, and he could feel his fingers not wanting to let go. Blaming
the sensory spike, he gave in to the demands of his body and leaned against his
partner as long as he could get away with it. Then he gritted his teeth,
ignored the throbbing echoing in both his head and his groin, and headed back
to work.
He never knew how they made it home, but next thing that made any sense
didn't make much at all. He was sitting at the table in the loft, Simon pushing
a cup of coffee at him, Sandburg trying to get him to look at a picture one of
his academic buddies had sent over. Every time he tried to look at the picture,
the jackhammer would go off behind his eyes, all the colors he could see turned
into a kaleidoscope, his stomach tried to crawl out his throat again, and the
air felt purple. Glancing away from the picture that he couldn't focus on, he
stared at what should have been nothing, but he could see all the dust motes
dancing in the air, and could follow the air waves brushing against his skin.
They were purple in the dim light, and he could actually feel the color
purple.
Shaking off the weird sensation, not about to share it with Sandburg
for fear of what the kid would do to measure this new ability to feel colors,
Jim forced himself to follow his partner's urging and try to figure out why the
dagger should give him a hangover without the benefit of any booze. Ignoring the
strong urge to add a dash of whiskey to the coffee rapidly going cold in front
of him, he tripped off down memory lane.
Son of a bitch.
It was the smell that tripped the memories. He hadn't done the laundry
yet, and he could still smell Lila on the sheets that were stuffed in the
hamper less than twenty feet away. The smell of her, the shape of the dagger,
the tactile impression of her skin beneath his fingertips, the taste of her
mouth … getting ready, reluctantly, to leave bed, that
last night in
She kept it to protect herself.
So she said.
She lied.
He found himself reaching out with his senses toward Blair, replacing
her scent with his, calling up every memory he had of touching Blair's face,
his hair, patting his back, holding him closely, no matter for how short a
period of time. He purged her from his system so hard and so fast he nearly
choked.
When he could breathe again, he looked up at his partner and his
captain. The phone rang before he could do much explaining, then, once again,
there was no time to explain.
He did the best he could, told her to turn herself
in, agreed to meet with her, was doing his best. Then the spike hit again, as
his instincts told him to get out of there and he ignored them once more. He
found himself dodging bullets, calling out to her as she ran, screaming at her,
don't be an idiot, get back here. Swinging out, drawing fire. Protective instinct strong, even toward this one, who was a threat,
but who had not been able to hurt him. His bullet went true, even
through the pounding headache threatening to rip his brain apart.
So did Lo Min's.
The headache disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he ran to
her side. Quick check to the carotid artery, pulse
fluttering, fading, light dying from her eyes. He knelt there, her blood
soaking into his pants legs, staining his knees through the cloth, and
gradually went numb.
It wasn't the waste. It wasn't the lost chance he might have had with her, that she might have had to make a new life for herself.
It was the fact that he had failed, because he hadn't cared enough to try
harder. And the knowledge, hard on the heels of that fact, that he wouldn't do
a damned thing differently if he had it to do all over again.
There was a hesitant touch to his shoulder, feather light, there, then
gone. Jim stared down at the corpse splayed out at his feet and bowed his head.
So much pressure, so much confusion. So many
possibilities, and he had a bad feeling none of the best ones were ever going
to happen. The second time that touch came, he looked
up into his partner's concerned face. For once, Sandburg was completely quiet.
He was communicating Jim's way, through proximity and touch. And Jim soaked it
up.
It didn’t stop the numbness. But it made him feel a little warmer.
Eventually the ambulance got there. No need to hurry with her already
gone. Blair drove them both home, Simon waving him off to fill out the
paperwork the next morning. No hurry there, either. Everybody, but everybody,
in this case was dead. Except the third monk, and he'd be on
his way back to
He shivered, and was starting to noticeably shake by the time Blair
guided him upstairs. Waving off offers of soup, tea, coffee, a fire, an extra
blanket, everything except what he really needed, he plodded upstairs. Stripped off his clothes. Fell in bed.
Wished Blair was up there with him.
He really was cold.
Jim didn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knew it was
six in the morning. He rolled out of bed, feeling twice his natural age and
ready to be put out to pasture. He needed a vacation. From
his life. Desperately.
Knowing what his partner's reaction would be if Blair found out he was
running, he took the coward's way out for the first time in his life, and
waited until they were both at the station. Simon immediately started making
plans to go fishing. Sandburg simply stood there and stared at him.
"Jim?" he asked quietly. Jim tried to hide from those bright
piercing eyes. He couldn't. Par for the course.
"Yeah?" he growled. It was a pretty weak attempt at a growl.
"Let's go to lunch."
That stopped the captain mid-spate. "Lunch?
I thought we were going fishing?"
"No, Simon," Blair answered, still
looking straight at Jim. "Jim was going
fishing. Alone." He looked away toward Banks for a moment, and Jim
remembered how to breathe. "He and I need to talk."
"Is this a Sentinel thing?" Simon asked suspiciously. Blair
shook his head. Jim forgot how to breathe again.
"No. This is an Ellison thing." Those intense eyes swung back
at him, pinning him to the wall again. "And we need to get it sorted out.
He does have the time, doesn't he? I mean, the man never takes any time off.
And he's due."
Banks nodded grudging agreement. "Nothing big on
his plate. Go ahead and take some time, Jim." His gruff voice
softened. "Been tough lately."
Understatement. Jim just nodded. Then shook his head. This
wasn't what he needed. He needed to escape. Before he said something, did something, that gave himself away. He opened his mouth to
protest, but nothing came out. Blair wrapped a hand around his arm and towed
him out of the office, through the bullpen, down the elevator and into the
parking garage. He still hadn't found his vocabulary. He was too busy hiding
his incipient panic.
The ride up the elevator at the apartment building was quiet. When they
got in the loft, he kept his keys. Turning, he stopped at the sight of Blair
spread out against the door, blocking his escape. Jim's tongue flicked over his
lips. Too tempting.
He was too close to the edge. Control was about to snap.
His mouth opened and words started falling out. To his surprise, he
could babble almost as well as Sandburg when he had to. "What does a guy
have to do to get a little time alone, here, Chief? You know, I was a big boy
before you found me, and I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. All I
want to do is go to this little town up north I go to when I want to get away
and spend some time fishing and get my shit together. Alone.
Where I'm not Simon's bull dog or your test case or anybody's
savior."
In the quiet that followed, he could hear Blair swallowing, once,
twice, before the younger man could say anything. "Is that how you feel,
Jim? I'm in the way? I only see you as my dissertation subject?"
Faced with the honest pain in his partner's face, Jim couldn't keep it
up. He couldn't hurt Sandburg. Not even to save himself.
"No, Blair," he answered softly. "It's not. But there are times
when I have to … I was alone a lot before you came into my life. I lived alone,
worked alone, spent a lot of time in silence."
Blair flinched, and Jim cursed himself under his breath.
"Are you trying to tell me I talk too much?" There wasn't a
hint of humor in the question.
"I like your voice. I like your presence." Like was such a
weak word. "I love you." Oh, shit. That was a slip. Blair stared back
at him seriously.
"I love you, too."
Oh. Good. Then maybe if Blair thought he meant fraternal, platonic sort
of love, he'd be okay.
"Why are you running from me?"
Maybe not. "I'm
not, Chief. I just need some down time, you know?" Please, please let me
out of here before I crack. I will never bring this up again as long as
I live. It's dead and buried. I promise, if you'll just let me the hell out
of here.
Before Blair could answer, Jim felt the world tip, and some bastard
shoved an ice pick through his left eye. Everything was distorted, as if he was
underwater. His hands and feet went totally dead, and his tongue felt twice its
size in his mouth. His eyes were wide open, and he couldn't see a fucking
thing.
Jim made a noise then, Blair's name, or at least it was supposed to be
a cry for his partner. Through several layers of cotton suddenly stuffed in his
ears, it sounded like some sort of wounded animal bellowing. Then his balance
gave, and he ended up curled up in a ball on the floor. Somebody was trying to
rip his head off, and he couldn't feel his body, and he was floating in a black
sea with no sound but the distant groaning echoing in his head.
He was more scared than he had ever been in his life, and so totally
lost he knew he would never make it back. He fought harder, then, trying to
find his anchor, knowing if he didn't, soon, he never would. The first
indication he had that he was back in the world was a single point of pressure
against his upper lip. There was no warmth, yet, but he knew something was
there.
A finger.
Then another.
A third.
Motion. Circling the base of his skull. Reining in
the fire in his brain.
Weight. Pressing against his chest. Diffusing the
darkness pushing against him.
He raised dead arms and wrapped them clumsily around his life line.
Smell kicked back online, and he filled his head with shampoo and salt.
Somebody was crying.
Damned well better not be him. He hadn't cried since he was fourteen.
Taste clicked into place with the salt on his tongue. Not tears, after
all. Sweat.
Feeling came back with a vengeance, as the hand on his mouth suddenly
burned him. He'd been licking the fingers, that's
where the salt had come from. The groaning had died to a whimper, and over it
he heard a gentle, panicked voice, and a well known heart beat, currently
racing too fast for comfort. Hearing was back. Thank god.
He opened his eyes to find huge, worried azure ones staring back into
his, not two inches away. Giving up on denial as being too damned painful to
handle, he leaned forward, dodged the fingers falling from his lips, and kissed
Sandburg.
Taste was not only on line, it was in over-drive. He found faint traces
of algae, mint, baking soda, and coffee on his tongue. Not to mention Blair's
tongue, pushing back at his own. He fell into the flavor and forgot everything
until it dawned on him that not only was Blair not kissing him back, he was
actively struggling to get free. Jim let go so fast they both nearly fell over,
and Blair grabbed hold of him to keep his balance.
"Whoa, man, not so fast! I'm not complaining,
I just need to breathe!" That was obvious from the gasps for breath he
took in between the words. Jim could feel himself turning beet red. Everywhere.
"Sorry," he mumbled. Blair shook his forearm, hard, and moved
up close to Jim again.
"I'm not."
Jim brought his head up to stare at his partner in shock. Blair wasn't?
Why not? Why the hell not? He was sorry!
Wasn't he?
Before he could sort it out, Blair grinned up at him and visibly
bounced. "When I said I loved you, Jim, I meant it."
Jim opened his mouth to agree, to say he meant it too, that it was
everything, but Blair's tongue in his mouth got in the way of his words. It was
just as well. Jim had always spoken much more clearly with his body than with
his mouth.
He was drowning again. This time, he remembered to breathe, once in
awhile. They made it over to the couch, somehow, and his keys hit the floor
somewhere on the journey. He wasn't going anywhere. Not now.
Not ever.
"How long?" he managed to ask before closing his teeth over
the side of Blair's neck. A low chuckle rumbled past his ear.
"Forever, man. Been dropping hints like atom bombs for years. Thought
you might be interested."
He nuzzled deeper, and could feel the vibrations of the words as they
fluttered Blair's vocal chords. They tickled. He liked it.
"But you never took me up on it. So after awhile I figured it was
just your way. With me, anyway." A hot mouth
closed over his shoulder, and bit him through the cloth of his shirt. It felt
like a brand. "Then, with Lila, I thought for sure that was it, I was
history, no chance at all. 'Til
you told Simon that you had to get away. And you wouldn't look at me."
Jim drew back then, stared down into hazy blue eyes, pupils so enlarged
they nearly swallowed the irises. "Couldn't. Or I'd've lost my nerve."
He was rewarded for his honesty with another kiss that seared his taste
buds. That was addictive.
"You scared the hell out of me, Jim, when you lost it like
that." A hand came up and cupped the back of Jim's skull. He rubbed back
into it, and Blair leaned forward to lick along the side of his mouth.
"One minute you're fine, you're you, the next you go white as a ghost and
curl up in a fetal position screaming your head off. What happened?" The
hand never stopped stroking him.
"Tried to push it all the way down, Chief. Couldn't." The attempt had nearly
destroyed him. "Guess repression doesn't work as well as it used to,"
he tried to joke. Blair nodded.
"Why'd you try, man? You know I love you." Another
quick lean in, another lick, this time on the other side of his mouth.
One of Blair's thumbs was running gently over the laugh lines at Jim's temple.
Somewhere, somehow, that crazy cat was purring, he just knew it.
"Scared." A look of blatant disbelief met his confession. He nuzzled along the
side of Blair's jaw and mouthed the earrings dangling from one lobe. "Really. Not good at this stuff." It was the best
he could do. Sandburg knew all about his crappy track record. If he was willing
to take the risk--
"I'm willing to take the risk."
Cripes. The kid was psychic now. Something in the words went straight
to his gut, and broke through a wall he hadn't even known he'd had. Jim found
himself kissing Blair voraciously, pouring all his need and his reliance and
his long denied lust into the touch. Saying he loved him without saying a word.
His partner heard him clearly. He always did.
They struggled out of their clothes, not wanting to lose any more body
contact than absolutely necessary. In less time than either would have thought
possible and much too long to their minds, they were naked against one another.
Jim nearly came the first time Blair blanketed him with his body. It was like
his dream, only without the temple or the voyeurs, and it was too much. He was
zoning on the warmth, zoning on the soft fur, zoning on the weight and the
hands and the mouth. Dimly he realized that Blair knew precisely what was going
on, and was pouring a litany of sound in his ear to counterbalance the sensory
overload on his skin.
"So fucking beautiful, man. First time I ever saw you I thought, shit, Sandburg, you've hit the
jackpot, but he's gotta be straight. Look at that
jaw, look at that chest, look at that mouth, oh my god, look at those
eyes." A strong, square palmed hand swept over his chest as Blair turned
them on the couch and straddled him. The other hand cradled his erection,
working it steadily, rubbing them together. His groin was on fire, matching the
fire in his head, racing along his veins, burning him up everywhere he touched
Blair.
"Legs like tree trunks, man, and of course you gotta
run around in your shorts all the time. You think I don't notice? All that
gorgeous skin, those incredible hands -- you know what it's like when you touch
me? I live for that, man. All of you. That beautiful
back, those shoulders, just want to run my tongue over every inch of your body,
eat you one bite at a time."
He could barely manage a whimper in response, but his own hands were
busy, mapping Blair's spine, the firm roundness of his buttocks, up into the
springy curls at the back of his head. Jim wanted to kiss him but didn't dare
interrupt the flow of words. It was the only thing keeping him from zoning on
the pure sensation of Blair's hands on his body.
"And it's not just the package, man, oh, god, that's good. It's
the man behind the eyes." Blair's voice was getting breathy as their
thrusts sped up, but he kept going, both with his body and with his voice. Jim
gave himself up to both. "Strong, but not hard, not at all, no way, man,
you care. Jesus, Jim, you feel so incredible. You don't say much but when you
do open yourself up to me, oh, Christ, yes, right there, come on! When you do,
you show me your heart, and you just blow.
Then it was too much, not enough, never enough, and he was flying again. Blair convulsed against him, bathing him
in blood hot fluid, and he pulled that beautiful face down to his and covered
that wide mouth with his own, swallowing the scream of completion that finally
stopped the words. His own orgasm hit him, and he roared, head falling back
against the couch cushions, Blair flopping limply on top his body.
He felt like he'd been boiled until he was boneless. He'd never felt so
complete in his life.
Threading his fingers through Blair's hair, Jim gently lifted his
partner's head until he could see his face. "You okay in there?" he
asked the exhausted, glowing man sprawled across him.
"I love you." This time, Jim got it.
"Always." A commitment, not a question. Blair nodded.
"So. You wanna have some lunch, then do it
all over again?" There were definite signs of life from the mid-quarters
of both of them.
Jim couldn't help but grin his agreement.
After all, he was on vacation. Getting naked with Blair beat
fishing any day of the week. It had taken him long enough to figure it
out, and to believe that it could actually happen. A little voice inside him
informed him that this honeymoon would be the one that would last. As
always, when it really mattered, he listened to his instincts.
finis