The Two Hearted Path --------------- SVS-06: The Two Hearted Path by Maggie, Part 2 The rain began. It pelted the windshield as they pulled to the curb outside the Regent Hotel. The drive from the wharf had been silent, both men lost in their own thoughts. Blair caught the gaze of a mutt near the entrance, brown fur, matted tail and mournful eyes. He felt something twist in his chest. Charlie had called three times. He followed Jim from the truck into the building. The mask was in place, emotions in check as Jim trudged up the stairs ahead of him. Blair took a breath. The air seemed thin as they walked down the corridor toward the room at the end. Silver numbers were hung in an uneven slash along the wall beside the doorframe of room 207. An officer stood outside the door and nodded as Jim flashed his badge. In the last second before entering the room, Blair allowed a wish to bloom. It might not be Charlie. But it was. The room stank of mold and cheap air freshener. A fly banged into the light fixture. The heater groaned and a flashbulb snapped twice as the crime scene was photographed and a uniform took notes. In the center of everything on a double bed lay Charlie with his eyes closed. He could have been asleep except his skin looked like wax and his chest was still. A tourniquet trailed from under his left arm which lay outstretched, palm up, fingers curled around nothing. A needle rested on the bed near his elbow at the end of a small trail of blood, dry now and dark as brick. Charlie had a tattoo of a heart on his arm; it was red with the name "Rosalita" spread across it like a banner. Blair had always meant to ask him about Rosalita. Blair looked away from the bed. He focused on Jim, so calm, so detached. Blair took a breath then regretted it as the air made his lungs feel heavy. Everything felt heavy, his clothes, this room, and the world as it fell upon his shoulders. "Detective Ellison." Jim nodded at the female officer near the foot of the bed. "I'm Dannon, the one you spoke to." She shot a glance at Blair. "I'm with him," Blair said. Jim nodded and Dannon seemed disinclined to probe further. Instead she asked Jim what he knew of the victim then filled Jim in on the brief amount of information she had. Blair watched a drop of rain work its way from Jim's hair to his temple then down. The muscle in his jaw twitched as he turned from Dannon and canvassed the room. Blair watched someone bag the needle and tourniquet. He thought of the details Jim might pick up and considered the misery of sentinel sight in a room of decay; the thought shot ice down his spine. "Who's that?" Jim tipped his chin toward the hallway. Blair followed his glance to a man in a dirty white T-shirt and jeans who was propped against the wall, giving a statement to another officer. "He's the manager of the place." Dannon checked her notepad. "Says the room was rented by the victim around midnight. He entered alone and as far as the manager claims to know, no one joined him." She shrugged. "This place sees a lot of action, so it'll be hell finding anyone with a memory about names or faces." Blair felt a sudden shift in the room as if a breeze or current brushed over him. The hair on his arms stood up and he looked toward Jim. He stared for a moment, stunned by the look of absolute horror on Jim's face. In an instant he was at his side. "Jim?" Jim seemed frozen in place, eyes glued to Charlie's body until a tremor passed through him and he backed away from the bed. "Hey." Blair moved into Jim's line of sight and grabbed his arms. "Talk to me. What's wrong? " Jim looked through him as if he were transparent then clenched his eyes shut. His breath took a ragged edge as he swallowed and nearly gagged. Blair dropped his voice to a whisper. "Easy, Jim. Calm down." Jim blinked and gripped Blair's shirt in both hands. His eyes blazed. "Leave," Jim said. "Leave now." "What?" Jim was in motion, pulling Blair to the door and into the hallway. "Jim, what're you doing?" "I want you out of here now, Sandburg. Outside. Get out!" Blair opened his mouth to protest. "Goddammit, I said NOW!" A flush spread across Jim's face like a burn. Blair stumbled backward until his back hit the wall. The officer in the hall walked up to him and grabbed his arm, ready to escort him from the scene. Blair shook the arm off. He struck the wall with one fist then turned and rushed to the stairs. --------------- Jim stood still, staring down the hallway, listening to the heavy pound of Blair's shoes on the stairs, the ragged hitches in his breath. He waited until the bell rattled above the door outside the front desk and shoes scuffed against pavement. A soft thud meant he had reached the truck. Cursing. Blair was cursing him. Jim pulled back to the sounds of the hallway: scrapes of Dannon's thumb along her notepad, a low comment from the manager, film whirring back in a camera. He stretched further into the room behind him and heard the panther moving, pacing back and forth. "Something going on I should know about, Detective?" Dannon stood next to him. "No." Jim turned toward the room. "Everyone done in there?" "Yeah, pretty much. The body just needs to be bagged and taken out." "Give me a minute." Jim held his keys and squeezed until they dug into his palm. He needed one look to be sure. With a sharp breath he walked through the door and heard the buzz of flies. He shuddered. There were a handful of them swarming near the light. Not hundreds. None on the face. Sweat beaded Jim's forehead as he neared the bed. It was Charlie, not Blair. He took a deep breath of relief. The musty stench of the room rocked him like a blow and beneath it something lingered, another odor, faded and out of place. The air crackled. It shifted within him. No. Around him. The room began to change. He had to get out of here. Get to Blair. A fly banged against his cheek, they circled him now. Jim turned toward the door and nearly fell as the panther rushed him, rising on its haunches to slam him back. "I can't look at this!" he yelled but his words were silent as if never spoken. The panther lifted its head and roared. Jim's own cry merged with the sound as he stared into eyes covered with a film of white. Then he flung himself away from everything, into the hallway, down the stairs, toward Blair. He burst through the door into sheets of rain, falling sideways, slicing the world into angles. Blair stood by the truck, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. Jim took a moment to look at him and absorb the pink flush of his skin. "Blair." He jerked at the raw sound. "Please." As he spoke, the cloud of anger in Blair's eyes changed to concern, then he was moving forward, toward Jim. He said something and Jim strained to hear it but all sound seemed muffled and held a tinny ring like the moment after a gun fires when the only constants are vision and touch. Jim reached out and pulled Blair in, hugged him close. He nestled his face in the crook of Blair's neck where hair curled in wet ringlets and skin held the scent of new rain. He breathed deep and clung, squeezing tight enough to pull Blair onto his toes. In return, Blair held him, cradled his neck in the bend of one arm and stroked his head. Warmth blew in puffs against his ear and finally Blair's voice emerged. "Easy, I've got you. It's all right. Everything's all right." Tension drained from him and he sagged against Blair. "Come on, let's get out of this rain." Blair wobbled a bit under his weight then shifted until Jim's arm hung about his shoulders and they were pointed toward the truck. "Hand me the keys, Jim." His fingers cramped as he tried to open them and the keys fell to the curb. Blair propped him against the side of the truck and picked them up. He maneuvered Jim into the passenger seat and pulled back to close the door. As the warmth of Blair's body receded, the world began to shrink into black. Jim lunged forward, grasped Blair's face in both hands and tugged him back, nearly toppling him into the truck. "Blair." He crushed his mouth to Blair's, forced his lips apart and dove in. Blair tensed, forced a startled sound around Jim's tongue and pushed against his chest. Jim held on. Nothing mattered but the warm, writhing battle of their mouths. They shared breath that tasted of coffee and Sandburg's weird bread and it all felt normal, so wonderfully normal. "Shit," Blair said as he managed to tug free. "This is not the best place to explore my tonsils, Jim." A smear of blood marred Blair's cheek. He touched it and thought of bullets and faces blown off. "Blood." Jim ran his thumb across the smear, over and over until it was gone. Blair pulled Jim's hand back and turned the palm up. Jim looked down and saw the scratch his key had made. It stung now and he tossed out a small grunt of surprise. "I'm taking you home and you're going to tell me what the hell is going on. We work together, Jim." Blair's eyes were dark, the color of deep ocean, and his voice shook. "Charlie's dead. I fucked up. I get that but you don't get to shove me out because..." He rubbed his thumb across Jim's knuckles and his touch felt bare. "You need me." "Blair." "Just sit there and try to relax. I'm driving." Blair dropped his hand and pulled away. "Blair." The door creaked as Blair shut it and moved through the rain to the driver's side. Jim focused on the warmth still lingering on his hand, the trace of Blair's flavor in his mouth and felt calmer. Once inside, Blair blasted the heat and Jim suddenly noticed his own shivering. "Take a deep breath, Jim. Try to focus on my voice." The breath sliced him but he took another and another as Blair said to do. "Good." He swallowed and the pain in his chest eased into an ache, something tolerable and familiar. "Charlie wasn't your fault." He spoke to Blair's profile. In the silence, he listened to the shush of water under their wheels and the hiss of air from the heater and Blair's soft breath as he pulled it in, held it then let it go. "I doubt Charlie would have agreed." Blair shrugged and pain flashed across his face. Jim shook his head and struggled for something to say but his thoughts swirled around the panther and he couldn't focus. Instead, his senses spiked as he tried to watch everything, grasping pieces instead: the tan Chevy weaving through traffic, rain in the beard of the jogger crossing Twelfth Street and branches from the trees in the median as they bent in the wind. Beside him, Blair was talking as if Jim was listening, gesturing too much. Jim looked to the pavement beyond the windshield for something solid and unlikely to shift in the next few seconds. He was shaking less now, probably only noticeable to himself, but he couldn't get it to stop and that pissed him off. "...can't believe you fucking pushed me out of the hotel," Blair was saying. "You scared the shit out of me. What brought on the panic attack?" Blair assessed him now with glances thrown his way between stoplights and lane changes. "Talk to me. Panic is my area." "I did not have a goddamn panic attack," Jim ground out, "and don't start with your psychoanalytical crap, Chief. I'm not in the mood." Blair took a quick breath and set his shoulders. His face twisted from the effort involved in holding back what was undoubtedly the smart-ass comment of the decade. Instead, he held it in, glued his eyes to the road and let the breath out slowly through his teeth like steam sliding through the top of a volcano. "Yellow." Jim pointed to the traffic light shifting to red as Blair blew through the intersection. "Jim..." Dangerous calm. Jim swallowed at the masterful tone and wisely remained silent for the rest of the trip home. His senses settled back to a level closer to normal. By the time they reached the loft, the spikes were gone, replaced by an overall sense of alert. The loft was warm as they pulled off wet jackets and shoes. Blair pointed to the table. "Sit." Too tired to argue against a good idea, Jim sank onto a chair and rubbed his neck. Blair brought antiseptic and cotton balls from the bathroom and sat beside him. He pulled Jim's hand onto the table and blotted the scratch. The sting felt oddly good. "Just a scratch," Blair said. "Yeah." Blair held his hand and stared into it like a palm reader. Water dripped from his curls. They hung heavy about his face, sliding forward as he looked down. Jim reached out with his free hand and pushed them back. Too heavy to stay, they fell forward again and Jim clutched them, squeezing until water splattered the table. He held them in a loose fist, felt the pliant lift of strands, a slick-soft swirl like wild things. His breath hitched and a burn began low in his belly. Something dark pulsed through him. He pulled back then surged toward it, recognizing the heat and shadow of a place within, a place seated deep, holding greed and black cravings and permission. Blair glanced up and his eyes grew wide. Jim pulled his other hand free and thrust his fingers into those curls, seized them like lifelines, wrapped one hand behind Blair's neck then tugged him off the chair onto his knees. "Want you." Blair's lips parted on a small sound. He gripped Jim's forearms and leaned back, but Jim tugged harder and pulled him forward between his legs. With a twist of his wrist, he tilted Blair's head back then dove in. Their teeth clicked as he pushed Blair's mouth wide and possessed it. He absorbed Blair, devoured him, felt power surge through his fingers into his core. Blair moaned and the universe shrank to that sound. Jim collected echoes of Blair's noises in his mind and let them roll inside him, over and over, filling his need, making him huge. Untouchable. Jim pulled back and stared at the flushed face tilted up at him. Blair's lips were red and wet and suddenly all Jim wanted in the world were those lips on his body, surrounding his cock. "Your mouth. I want your mouth." He sounded rough, almost fierce. "What?" Blair looked dazed. "Do it." Something flared in Blair's eyes. For an instant the blue became black and he tugged at Jim's wrists. With effort, Jim released him then stood. He towered over Blair and felt a strange sense of having been in this moment before. Blair scrabbled at his belt, yanking it open. Jim staggered a bit and Blair paused, closed his eyes as if to gather himself, then opened them to reveal something new, something bleak and not quite realized. It brewed now within his glance and spoke of willingness and skill. It made Jim's cock ache. "You want my mouth, huh?" Blair seemed detached as he popped the button on Jim's fly, pulled the zipper down slow, leaned in and mouthed the hard shaft through the fabric of white briefs. Jim moaned. Blair pulled the slacks open and down. Jim found his hands twisted in Blair's hair again, pulling his head back. Blair looked up and Jim saw his own reflection tossed back at him from Blair's eyes. The room darkened, shadows moved at the edges of his vision and he spoke without meaning to; and his voice was deep and mean and not his voice at all: "My show, boy. Remember that." For an instant, he was frozen, watching as if outside himself as Blair nodded, touched Jim's hips, petted them, fingered the elastic of his briefs, lifted his eyebrows. Jim quivered with the need to move and the darkness expanded until shadows stretched from the corners of the room to the circle where Jim stood with Blair kneeling at his feet... kneeling with blank eyes and a slack expression. Jim heard it then, the low moan of a cornered animal. He caught the image of blue-black fur weaving at the edge of the darkness and a growl shattered the silence. It rose from within and Jim suddenly found solid ground. He threw his head back, roaring into the light where the loft was real and the shadows receded. He looked down to find Blair sitting on his heels. His eyelids drooped and he listed sideways. Jim dropped beside him and pulled Blair into a tight hug. He nuzzled his hair, kissed his temple, his cheek, his mouth. "Blair," he said, "my God." Blair rolled his face against Jim's chest and yielded to the hug. He felt boneless and heavy. Jim pushed curls back and looked at the quiet face. "Blair? Open your eyes. Look at me." Blair's eyes shifted back and forth beneath closed lids and he began to whisper. Jim listened and the words became a chant. "The time of Powaqa must end. You are the one." The words repeated and the chant grew louder. "Blair!" The chanting stopped suddenly. Blair's head lolled back and he hung limp in Jim's arms. Jim's chest grew tight as panic lapped at his defenses. Light flashed to his right and he looked up to find sunlight glinting through the wolf panel in the window of Blair's room. Jim blinked at the bright beam and Blair stirred. He rolled in toward Jim, curled his fingers in Jim's shirt and sighed. The sound was full of peace and the weight of deep slumber. It settled Jim a bit. He looked down at the calm face, drew in a shaky breath and wondered what the hell had just happened here. --------------- Blair felt the warm weight of a palm on his forehead. Coupled with the scratchy rub of a thumb back and forth across his brow and a soothing stroke of fingers along his side, it made him want to go back to sleep, to settle into the soft cushions beneath him and drift off. But he heard drumming and made an effort to lift eyelids so heavy the air itself seemed to press them down. The drum grew loud, persistent and he struggled toward it, listening as if it spoke to him. "Blair." Soft tap to his cheek. Harder. Again. "Ow." "Chief? Come on, open your eyes." Jim's voice sounded strained. Blair forced his eyelids up and found Jim staring at him, intensely concentrating. Blair wondered what was so fascinating. And, he wondered how he had ended up on the couch. "What's wrong?" He reached for Jim and found his hand crushed in a solid grip. "Thank God." Jim seemed to shrink as he slumped and pushed out a breath. "I couldn't get you to wake up. It's like you were dead to the world." "You okay?" Blair asked. Jim seemed to think this question was funny. He snorted at least, then pulled Blair up and plastered him to his chest, wrapping him up, folding him close like a long lost teddy. Blair circled his arms around Jim's waist and squeezed hard. Jim sighed and Blair thought of long drinks of water as Jim's breath blew across his hair. Jim settled his chin on top of Blair's head and they held each other for a moment. Great space this was, this space of no distance, this tight, tight moment of Jim uncensored. "Hey." Blair spoke and squeezed Jim's middle. "Hey." Jim carded fingers through Blair's hair. "...think I missed something here," Blair murmured. "Yeah." Jim huffed out a shaky breath. "A pretty big something." "You're going to tell me." His voice held steel despite the groggy tinge. "Yeah." Jim took a deep breath. "I'm going to tell you. I don't know what the hell it was, but I'm going to tell you all about it." Jim sighed and pulled away slightly. He pushed Blair's hair back and scanned his face. "Are you with me?" He tapped Blair's forehead. Blair pursed his lips and considered himself. He felt buzzed and heavy like the hour or so after a marathon sleep, the kind he used to get after posting final grades. But he also thrummed with energy, a kind of expectancy, of what he wasn't sure. All in all, he felt great. Considering the misery at work on Jim's face, he almost felt guilty. "I'm with you," he said and pressed a kiss to Jim's mouth for good measure. "What do you remember?" Jim asked. "I was cleaning your scratch. You kissed me." He smiled and ran a soothing hand up Jim's back. "It was a hot kiss. I landed on my knees and then..." He paused and closed his eyes for a second. "Shit. I'm not sure after that, things start to get fuzzy." Jim looked worried. Blair huffed in fond exasperation. "I'm fine. I just don't remember everything. So fill me in." He quirked an eyebrow and set his mouth. "Starting with what happened at the hotel. And give me the full version, not the Ellison version." Jim nodded, kissed his forehead and sighed. "Well, actually the beginning comes before then. I've been dreaming about the panther. I've seen him in nightmares about the bust in San Francisco. I dream that I screw up and you die. The panther is always there, skulking around like some fucking angel of death. I figured it was just me reacting to the whole scene and how it all could have ended differently. I didn't want to talk about it. Hell, I don't even want to think about it. What's the point? Why dwell on shit like that?" "These dreams are always the same?" Blair asked. "Yeah." Jim rubbed one finger across Blair's mouth. "I should have told you about them. Now it's worse. We've graduated from dreams to visions. Let me tell you about Charlie..." Jim's jaw underwent a workout and Blair's buzz melted away but eventually the story came out. Blair mulled the events over in his head as Jim heated up leftover lasagna for lunch. The vision at the hotel and the vision at the loft had to be linked. "Okay, let's try to piece this together." Blair walked to the kitchen, leaned on the island and watched Jim dish up two servings. "The vision in the hotel could mean all sorts of things. But you cut out before the end so we don't know what the whole message was supposed to be." Jim tossed him a sour look. "I'm not criticizing." Blair held up his hands. "I'm just pointing out that to get a feel for what was really up in that room, we'll need to start with your senses. We need to isolate the different senses you experienced during that time and fit them together. Like a puzzle." "Just tell me this, Darwin." Jim handed him a plateful and a fork and leaned back against the sink. "Where is it written in the great book of visions that they have to be vague and filled with hidden meaning. Why can't they just come out and tell you what the message is? Like 'Detective Jim Ellison, listen up, Mr. So-And-So killed your victim. He is currently living two blocks down on Windsor. Go get him.'" Blair swallowed a mouthful of lasagna then grinned. "Hate to break it to you man, but there is no great book of visions." "Figures." "You're a detective. You should love this stuff." Jim snorted. "No, really," Blair said. "It's like having clues dropped in your lap, well in this case, your head. And you don't even have to go looking for them or shaking them loose from a snitch." Charlie's face flashed in his mind and he flinched. "Chief, there's no way to know whether Charlie reaching us would have made any difference to how things played out. You have to let it go." Blair swallowed an acid taste. "That's not going to be easy." "I know." Jim's voice was soft and Blair looked up into gentle eyes. "But you will. It'll just take time." Something panged inside him at the weary knowledge in that gaze. Jim knew a lot about pain and regret and getting over things. Blair nodded and smiled. "Well, in regards to visions," Blair said, "you might try looking at them as messages from a foreign country. What would you do if you were alone in a non-English speaking country and needed to know what people were saying to you?" "Get an interpreter." Jim stabbed his fork in Blair's direction. "Very good." Blair grinned. "Now, lest you think I am driven by ego, I don't claim to be the interpreter for the spiritual plane. I'm just a good, not to mention handy, place to bounce things off. I might know what something means, or I might not. But when I don't, I can do research. I'm good at research." "You better be." Jim pushed lasagna around his plate and moved to the island. He leaned on his elbows and looked at Blair. "I still don't get why visions are so cryptic. And what was up with your chant about the time of the 'Powaqa'?" "If memory serves, Powaqa is a Hopi term. It can mean 'sorcerer'. A bad sorcerer who lives by the ruin of others," Blair said. "Hopi?" "And Charlie was Hopi." Blair nodded. "I'm doubting it's just a coincidence." Jim sighed. "We're still back to the fact that the message doesn't mean a whole lot to me." "That may have to do with the source of the vision." Blair shrugged. "Knowledge springs from all sources, not just the ones easiest for us to understand. You can't expect all messages to translate to your easiest frame of reference. I mean, to be able to understand your visions without having to think about them, you'd have to be omniscient of not only current history but all history and we'd have to be able to pull together a common language." "Take a breath, Chief." He took a breath. "Not going to happen. The closest thing we have to a common language is sex and people botch that up all the time." Jim paused and seemed to mull things over. "So where's the best place to start in figuring all this out?" "Well, the tools to understanding visions mostly lie within the person having them. You bring your own life experiences and perceptions to these visions." Blair reached out and smoothed his palm across Jim's arm. "The message gets filtered through your psyche so what you actually learn is limited by what you're willing to learn." "What I'm not afraid to learn, you mean. Calling me a coward, Chief?" Jim's voice held the barest hint of a challenge. "I'm saying you're probably repressing things." Blair made a big surprise face. "You're choosing to block out unpleasant emotions and to do that you must usually block out the stimulus producing them. In this case, I would say your mind is responding to fear- of loss, of failure, whatever. It turns what's really there for analysis into what could be there, thus clouding the feed of information." Jim set his plate aside, meal half eaten. He wrapped one arm protectively around his middle, rubbed his hand down his jaw and pinched his chin. "What's your suggestion for 'un-clouding' things?" "The usual, Jim." Blair smiled. "Trust me." One meditation CD and several sets of breathing exercises later, Jim looked relaxed. He sat on the couch with his arms limp at his sides, head resting back against the cushion. Blair began to guide his thoughts toward the hotel room, putting him inside the door. "Okay, Jim. Let's start with sight. What do you see?" Jim described the room in detail from the cracked and curling wallpaper to the sheen across Charlie's lips. Then they focused on sound and the steady rhythm of heartbeats in the people near the crime scene. They moved to scent and Jim's forehead wrinkled. "Stinks. That damned room deodorizer." "Easy, Jim. Pull back a little." Blair paused. "Okay, now filter out the deodorizer and focus on the other scents. One at a time." "Better," Jim said. "Apple. Someone ate an apple and the core is rotting under the bed." "Good. Next." "Something... something else." Jim grew agitated. "There's something there. I know what it is. At least, it's familiar. I've smelled it before. But what the hell is it? What is it?" "Relax, Jim. Pull back for a minute. Then we'll try again." Jim's eyes flew open and he suddenly sat up straight. "Aftershave!" "Cool!" Blair sat on the coffee table and faced Jim. "What kind?" "Damned if I know," Jim said. "I would recognize it if I smelled it again, though. It's expensive, I'm pretty sure about that." "That's great, Jim. You did great. One thing though. I don't know that aftershave in a hotel room is that out of line." "True." Jim rubbed his knee. "But expensive aftershave that I also smelled at the crime scene on the wharf this morning makes it pretty significant." Blair grinned and nodded. "Yeah. That it would." His grin faded. "It also means that Charlie was probably calling you because he had information about the killer." Jim slid his hand around the back of Blair's neck and squeezed. "Probably. It also means the son of a bitch we're looking for probably killed Charlie. I don't think he overdosed." He stood and pulled Blair up with him into a hug. "We're going to catch him, Chief. He's going to pay." "I know." Blair leaned back and looked up at Jim. "So where do we start searching?" "I want to check out Charlie's apartment. He lived down in the warehouse district, in some rat house not far from where I adopted you." Blair nodded. "Let's go." He pulled back but Jim clung and kept him snug in the embrace. "Listen, Chief. There's still the question of why I keep seeing you dead in my dreams and visions. Maybe it's like you say and I'm just afraid and clouding what's really there. But what's the harm in you lying low by sticking to the loft or the university until I get this case wrapped up?" Blair blinked once, opened his mouth then closed it. He felt a hot spot rise and tried to push it down. But, in an instant he was boiling. "Right." Blair shrugged and pushed away. "That's a great idea. You go off and wrap this up, Jim. No need for me to tag along. Hell, I wouldn't want to distract you from crime fighting. Just try not to trip on your fucking cape without me there to carry it for you." He turned away and headed to his room, suddenly anxious for a change of clothes, something dry and warm, something completely different. "Chief, come on." Blair pushed past the French doors and entered the room he had not slept in for weeks now. He pulled the dresser drawer open and hunted for clean socks and the heavy blue sweater Naomi bought him last birthday. He wanted jeans and tennis shoes, the old ones with the hole near his right big toe. Jim's shadow fell from the doorway across the pile of socks stuffed into his drawer. Blair tossed a glance at him, which was a mistake since Jim chose now to drop the defenses. He looked like Tommy Bonita after passing on Blair for his team on the last day of field hockey before school ended. Tommy's team always won and sometimes he chose Blair to play but usually he just had that look when he passed him up in the line, the look Blair knew meant later they'd get ice cream and Tommy would buy. "Chief, you know I didn't mean it like that. I just meant..." Jim walked toward him. "Can we just forget I said anything?" Blair pulled his pants off then the shirt. He sat on the futon and grabbed a sock. Jim knelt in front of him, pushed between Blair's knees, rubbed his hands, warm hands, up and down Blair's thighs. Blair couldn't bring himself to look up. This was not going to work, this rubbing-kneeling down-apology thing. No way he was going to fall for this. Jim tucked a finger under his chin and lifted. "I'm a moron." He brushed a light kiss across Blair's lips. "What do you expect from a throwback?" Blair stubbornly kept his mouth quiet. He stared defiantly into Jim's eyes, meeting passion with boredom. Jim squeezed the skin on his inner right thigh. "I have fears." Jim's eyes glowed with a faint dance of mischief. "I have fear of no sex for a very long time." Blair cracked. His lips twitched and he glanced away. "Those fears are reality-based. No need to be questioning those fears." Blair picked at a thread on the blanket under him. "Yep, I'd be feeling pretty sure about those all right." Jim brushed their lips together once then again. He moved to the soft skin behind Blair's left ear and licked. Blair shuddered. "Any chance of negotiations, Chief? You pretty much have me at your mercy here." Blair snorted and rolled his eyes. Jim cupped his palm against Blair's face and waited. "You have to stop pushing me out, Jim. For whatever reason you do it, you have to stop. I may not carry a badge but I'm your partner in the work of the sentinel. I can't do my best if you don't let me in." "Point taken." Jim brought his other hand up and framed Blair's face. "Now, speaking of partnerships, when are you going to move your socks upstairs?" "Why? Do you have big plans for this room? Is that why you want my clothes out?" "It's just something I thought you'd want to do, you know, mix your stuff with mine." Jim glanced away and his cheeks flushed. "Not a big deal though." He ran a warm palm across Blair's knee. "But this room could make a nice study, a place for a sentinel to go and think deep thoughts." "You don't need a room for that." Blair grinned. "You can get yourself in pretty deep without a special room." Jim feigned outrage. "Okay. I move my clothes upstairs if you can answer this question," Blair said. "When you were in school, if you were choosing players, would you have picked me for field hockey?" Jim quirked an eyebrow. "No way. You would have sucked at field hockey." He leaned in and ran his tongue along Blair's lower lip. "I'd pick you first for Guide, though. You're a kick ass Guide." He kissed Blair again, this time pushing his tongue in and rolling it around, scraping the tip across the roof of Blair's mouth until he shuddered. After a moment, he pulled back and looked down. "I'd pick you first for this too. Definitely first for this." Blair returned the kiss in what could have been interpreted as a shameless display of forgiveness. What the hell, he supposed he could live with that. Field hockey was highly overrated anyway. Now tonsil hockey, that was a sport. --------------- |