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Positive feedback and / or constructive criticism always welcome. Disclaimers: Pet Fly. Owns. Boys. Gina. No money. No rights. Forgiveness begged please. ///Three bullets struck the window above Blair's head. "Shit! They found us!" Several more bullets whinged the opposite windowsill. "Chief, we gotta run -- *both* gangs know we're here. " Naomi protested, "It's all open space out there." Jim counted bullets, then handed Blair the gun from his ankle holster. "I'll run that way and draw their fire. Then you two go that way -- the parked cars will give you some cover." "Jim, no!" "We have to -- there are too many of them, and they're all headed this way." Blair seized Jim's collar and ravaged his mouth. Not a farewell, but a promise. Their faces parted an inch. Jim looked a Blair searchingly, finding what Blair had hidden before. "Live," Blair breathed. Jim ducked his head, accepting the command, then turned away, bursting out of the shack into a whirlwind of bullets; a red spray shot from his body as he fell -- /// "No," Blair said as he jerked his head off the stack of students' papers. "You okay there, Chief?" Jim called from the kitchen. Blair scrubbed his face, discovered drool in his beard, and wiped the little puddle from the coffee table with his sleeve. "That dream again. I was helpless..." "You did everything you could, Chief." //If I had, she might still be alive.// He'd told Jim that he dreamed about the day Naomi died. Jim had assumed that Blair dreamed of what actually happened. "What's for dinner?" "Spaghetti." "How exciting." "Bitch, bitch. I should make you cook *all* the time, Chief." Scratching his cheek, Blair grinned. "Hmm, I could do something about your diet..." "Forget it!" Blair kept up with the banter, but at the back of his mind, he thought, //Naomi, I'm sorry. If I'd given in, if I hadn't kept him there arguing, you wouldn't have been standing by the door when they broke in... I was so afraid of losing him. And he's not even mine.// ***** |
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Around midnight, the stakeout unexpectedly turned into a bust, and Jim spent a couple of hours at the station finishing up the paperwork, so that he wouldn't have it to do Monday morning. Before he left, he had a chat with his captain over pizza in the break room. "How's the kid? He seemed all right in the bullpen this week, but..." Jim shrugged. "Walking wounded,Simon." "Bad?" "...I think so." "You don't know?" Simon Banks narrowed his eyes. "Usually Sandburg's transparent as glass. When you guys got to the hospital that day, he was... I figured you'd still be dealing with some of that at home." "Over the edge. He was over the edge. But since then, he's been -- almost normal. A little unfocused." "He hasn't been crying on your shoulder?" Jim shifted uncomfortably. "He doesn'tcry. He doesn't talk about it. Or yell or throw things -- he doesn't do *anything* I would have predicted, except look slightly unhappy. Sometimes. And he has constant nightmares." "You know, usually I want the kid to tone down, but this..." "I know what you mean, Simon." Jim took another bite of pizza. Then he snorted. "I think Brown's remark about his 'sharp new look' got to him." Jim hated the 'new look' -- which wasn't that sharp, anyway. With the shorn hair and the untamed beard, and the veil over the bathroom mirror, Blair had posted mile-high signs of his loss, yet otherwise hardly acknowledged it. Jim wondered if his partner's relationship with Naomi had not been as close or as positive as he'd thought. He'd found himself rethinking everything he thought he knew about Blair Sandburg. Sometimes he looked at his partner's hair and silently commanded, //Grow,// as if that would make anything better. "He muttered yesterday that he was thinking about dyeing his hair green." Simon chuckled and wiped his eyes. "Better warn him before he gets carried away -- I don't think the department renews ride-along permits for chia pets." ***** At that moment in apartment 307 at 852 Prospect Avenue, Blair finished folding the last of Jim's fresh, hot laundry and lugged it to the bottom of the loft stairs. //You're not fooling anyone,// he told himself. A dozen times in the past three weeks, he'd found an excuse to go up to Jim's room and poke through his things. He hadn't been sleeping much, and as a consequence the loft was spotless and sparkling, including his room and even his desk. As another consequence, he'd become next to useless at the station. Jim had not invited him to tag along on this week's stakeouts, and Simon had forbidden either of them to get involved in the search for Naomi's murderers. //I want to take my marbles and go home,// he thought, tucking away a stack of boxers. But there was no way to stop, no way to go home, because this was his home, and his life, his life that now included the irrevocable fact of her death. //What's this?// "This" was a plaid flannel shirt that had had a sleeve ripped to shreds on some memorable adventure and been thrown out last year. At least, Blair *thought* he'd thrown it out -- it was his, after all. //So what's it doing in Jim's sock drawer?// As he fingered it, he realized another revelation waited within its folds. Nestled inside lay six inches of brown curls, bound together with one of Blair's hair ties. And the truth was as simple as that. //He's in love with me.// ***** Jim heard the Rachmaninov album as he parked. The speakers played the last movement of the last piece, and then started from the beginning without pause. Perhaps you could call this an improvement; the last time Blair had fallen asleep with the CD player on infinite repeat (a few days ago), it had been Tori Amos. He opened the door to the loft and immediately focused in on the lamp glow upstairs -- upstairs? He hadn't left his light on. And Sandburg's sleep-sounds... He froze. //There has to be a reasonable explanation for Sandburg to be sleeping in my bed,// he thought. Then he thought at his dick, //Some *other* explanation.// Jim bolted the door, hung up his coat and shoulder holster, and walked oh-so-normally to the stairs and up. Blair lay spread across the black satin sheets Jim hadn't used since the divorce, wearing the maroon dress shirt which he always looked sexy in -- unbuttoned -- and nothing else. His right hand cupped his balls, his left lay under his furry cheek, and as Jim watched, Blair's lush mouth softly parted. He wanted to shake him awake and look into his eyes, he wanted to make love to him so gently he never woke, he wanted -- he wanted to be able to *move*, but anything might wreck the moment. Or at least end it. Jim opened his mouth, tasting the air, the scent of Blair's pheromones in the air. He listened to the steady thump of Blair's heart, watched chest hairs play catch-and-release with the light as lungs expanded and contracted. His hands ached from stiffness when he finally started to undress. He eased onto the bed, pausing when Blair's head rolled with the sloping of the mattress. He supported himself over his partner's body, straining as he tried to decide how to lay down. Then his rock-hard cock brushed against Blair's thigh, and the young man woke, and smiled breathtakingly. Arms giving out, Jim landed on top of his partner with their mouths touching. Blair's laugh became a kiss, his limbs winding around Jim in a four-point hug. Running his hands down Blair's body, Jim explored his lover's mouth, pushed his legs down and spread his own legs so that he could feel Blair's thighs on the insides of his. A drop of moisture trickled down Jim's spine and met the sweat from Blair's palms. Jim broke from the kiss and *looked*. "How was the stakeout?" Blair asked around a Cheshire grin. "Uh..." Jim couldn't seem to stop smiling, himself. "Fine. You know. We got the bad guys." "My hero. Whatever could a grateful citizen do to reward you?" "Lay back, Chief." Jim kissed his way down to Blair's middle, rimmed his navel, then sucked Blair's cock into his mouth and did what he'd been dreaming of for years. "Oh, Jim..." Blair panted and writhed, but Jim had trapped his hips. "Jesus, James, you're killing me!" Jim lifted his head. "You want me to stop?" "Kill me, you evil bastard, kill me now!" With his lips tight and Blair's cock sliding deeper into his mouth, Jim suffered a moment's disorientation: //This isn't finally happening.// Then he inhaled the heady scent of sweat and arousal rising from the younger man's groin. Lightly he drew his fingertips up Blair's thigh, memorizing the texture of his skin. Blair moaned as Jim suckled, and ran his hands through Jim's hair. "Oh... God... yeah... Oh! Th-that..." Jim undulated slightly, rubbing his cock against his lover as he licked his balls, twined his fingers with Blair's. "Jim... I'm gonna c-c... *JIM*!" Blair's hand slipped out of Jim's grasp. He kissed his way back up his lover's body, pausing to tweak his nipples (he'd play with them more next time,he decided) and pressed his lips to Blair's. Blair pushed his tongue deep into Jim's mouth, tasting, devouring, his arm around the back of Jim's head. Jim allowed himself to get lost in the kiss; moments later he groaned and lost himself again as he felt the (harsh/soft/pain) pleasure of facial hair on his testicles, the tentative licks at the tip of his cock. "How difficult can it be?" Blair muttered before eating Jim alive. ***** |
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"Can I touch your hair?" "Any time you want." Jim threaded his fingers through brown ringlets. "I love you." "I know." Blair leaned in and breathed into Jim's ear, "I love you, too." Laughing, Jim settled his lover against his side, kissing his forehead. "What's so funny, man?" "Sandburg, I love you," he chortled. "Okay. Loving is good. And you're laughing because..." "I love you, sweetheart." "'Sweetheart?' *Sweetheart*?" "There are worse pet names." "Like hell." "I could have called you 'muffincakes', sweetheart." "...You're right. That's worse. Infinitely worse." Jim went in for some more tonsil hockey. The game went well until he felt Blair's attention wander. "Where are you, Chief?" "Here." But Jim knew that Look. "You're thinking about Naomi." "I miss her." "I know." "Then why don't I feel it?" ***** Blair watched Jim react. //There ought to be more going on inside me at this moment,// he thought, but he couldn't *find* anything else. And poor Jim was just learning he'd declared his love to a hollow man. A finger touched his forehead, traced down his nose to the tip. Funny how it focused his attention. He'd have to try it on Jim sometime-- "I thought repression was my trick." Repression? Whoa. "You think that's it?" Jim resettled his weight. "Remember how you felt that day?" Blair shook his head minutely. "Remember the hospital? What you did, what you said, what you were thinking -- " "No. I can see it -- like it's happening to someone else." "It's you, Blair. Remember." Blair shook his head again. "She died while you held her hand, in the ambulance. I was in the truck -- I wish I could have been there for you -- and when I reached the -- hospital you were in the waiting room -- " "Stop it!" He held up his hands, palms out. "Why?" "Fuck you," and threw a half-hearted jab. Jim grabbed his wrists. "My words hurt you?" "Yes," he hissed. "And you know it." "You can feel it, Chief. You do feel it." "No." He twisted his arms free and rolled away, but Jim caged him again, this time with his whole weight over Blair. "You *want* to forget?" "Yes. Get off me." "You think forgetting is *right*?" Blair brought his fists to his head. "I bet you've had such a good time repressing, you can't even remember what you were doing when I got there -- " "Sitting in the waiting room. Holding her purse. The one with the stupid purple daisies. There was blood on-- fuck you, Ellison, she's had that thing since I was five --" His voice crumbled. A soft, terrible noise emerged. Jim rolled off him and gathered him close. Another strangled noise tore from his lover. "That's it, Chief, let it out, I'm here, let it all out..." Tears leaked from the corners of Blair's eyes. He sobbed, twice, tentatively, as if he didn't know how. Then, following a deep breath, he let it out. He cried like nothing Jim had ever heard before, and when he could talk again, Blair told a story about Naomi. Then more -- tears and stories, both. Jim listened, cradling Blair's head. //If he can show this much passion, the least I can do is learn not to run from it,// he thought, though it had been a long time since he'd needed that mantra to keep himself from withdrawing from Blair's open displays of emotion. This was his lover: a man who felt strongly, courageously, and all the way down. About two hours after dawn, Blair faded into a steady hiccuping. Jim eyeballed the clock, and thanked god it was Saturday. They'd hardly moved away from each other through the hours, and Jim's muscles had long since cramped. "Chief?" "Hm-hic-mm?" "You up for a shower? And then breakfast, maybe?" "Okay-hic. I could eat." They disentangled themselves from each other and the satin sheets. At the top of the stairs, the taller man stopped the shorter to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. "I love you." "I know." ***** Blair stepped out of the shower first. He hesitated before the mirror, then jerked the cloth away and looked at his own face for the first time in three weeks. //Jim thinks I'm too naive to know anything about pain, but I *know*.// He'd hurt for a while, badly, then feel better. Then one day he'd catch himself thinking that he ought to bring her to a certain restaurant when she got into town again, and he'd hurt some more, and then feel better again. Later, it would come back, worse than ever, in a sudden spike of comprehension: Naomi's absence. This was the beginning. He could feel all of the future Blairs leaning with him over the sink now, wanting Naomi alive in any of those futures, all of those Blairs wanting it now. Jim stepped out of the shower, glanced at the mirror, and smiled tentatively at him. Blair felt something break inside. //This is*a* beginning.// And smiled back. He reached for the shaving cream. Jim finished drying himself, threw the towel on the rack and took the razor from Blair's hand. "May I?" Blair angled his head under Jim's touch. He remembered that night, remembered struggling to sit still as handfuls of his hair fell to the floor. With each snip, he'd felt another piece of himself die. And during that hour, as he'd locked away the secret compartments of his mind, he'd missed what Jim was trying to tell him with the calm, sure movements of the scissors, what Jim was telling him now through the quiet scrape of the razor. Him and all the Blairs past. Blair's face was smooth again (for a few hours), and his hair had dried. //Grow,// he thought at it. He missed its weight. Jim wiped his lover's face with the washcloth, caressing his cheeks. "Thank you," Blair said. Which meant, I love the way you care for me. Jim grinned and put his hand on the back of Blair's head. "C'mere, my little chia pet." "'Chia pet?' *Chia* pet?!" His lips met Jim's, and they embraced, all longings, for the moment, forgotten if not fulfilled. **the end ** The BlairHair Duology: |
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