No Lothario

by Francesca

Jim Ellison rolled over and squinted at the luminous dial on his alarm clock. 2:47 A.M. Nearly three o'clock in the fucking morning. Pretty late for what's his bucket to be getting home on a school night.

He sighed and closed his eyes, settling back into the warm comfort of his bed, the dark quiet of his bedroom. Oh well, at least he was home now. Fumbling with his keys. Dropping his keys. Picking them up again — god, get in the door, already, Sandburg. Into the lock — good, just turn them now. Riiiight.

Welcome back and good night, Sandburg, Jim thought, shifting and nestling back into the —

He opened his eyes. Shit. Shit. Holy fuck — and he was staring into the darkness, re-cataloguing the scents. Alcohol. Cigarette smoke. And the coppery tang of — oh, jesus...

He shoved the comforter aside and got out of bed quickly, not even bothering with the light, just dialing up his sight instead. He descended the staircase quickly, wearing only his boxers, headed for the open door of the bathroom, where the light was burning brightly. He readjusted his vision as he approached, not wanting to be blinded by the light reflecting against the tile.

The water was running, and Sandburg was leaning over the basin, lathering his hands.

"Hey," Jim said, and Sandburg jumped, startled. Jim got a brief flash of his partner's face in the mirror before Sandburg jerked his head around to stare at him.

Jim's felt his chest tightening. "Jesus," he muttered, and Sandburg exhaled and looked embarrassed.

"Yeah," Sandburg replied quietly. "I had a bad night."

"A bad night?" Jim asked tightly, moving forward. Jesus, someone had done a number on the kid — he was sporting a hell of a shiner, and a ragged cut up near his temple; his face was streaked with grime and what looked like dried blood; his upper lip was split, the seam of his jacket sleeve had been ripped. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Oh, it was just bullshit, you know?" Sandburg said, reaching for the towel.

Bullshit, maybe, but the kid's hands were still shaking.

"Chief, come here," Jim said. He crossed the bathroom and took Blair gently by the arm. "Come on outside, have a drink."

"It was just a shitty fucking night, man," Blair said, conflicting emotions briefly contorting his face. He reluctantly allowed Jim to steer him out of the bathroom toward the kitchen table and sat down hard in one of the chairs.

"What the hell happened, Chief?" Jim asked, quickly moving into the kitchen. He had his hand around a cold beer, then took another quick look at Sandburg and poured him two fingers of scotch instead. "Here," Jim said, bringing the drink to him.

"It was just a bar fight," Sandburg muttered, reaching nervously for the glass. "Just stupid — stupid, the whole thing."

"Drink that," Jim said, stroking Blair's hair back from his forehead with an absent hand. "I'll be right back."

Sandburg nodded and brought the glass to his lips. Jim went into the bathroom, and grabbed gauze, tape, antiseptic, anti-bacterial creme, cotton balls, a washcloth and a towel. He brought the things to the kitchen table, earning himself an embarrassed glance from Sandburg.

"Jim, man," Blair protested, "I'm okay, I'm just — "

"Hush," Jim said, pulling a large bowl out of the cabinet and filling it with warm water. "Drink."

Jim carefully brought the bowl of water to the table, dropped the washcloth into it, and pulled a chair up close to Sandburg.

Sandburg put his glass down. "No," Jim said, "Finish it. Finish it," and Blair nodded and quickly tossed the rest of the scotch back.

"Okay, good," Jim said, reaching for the washcloth and squeezing it out. "Look at me," he directed, and Sandburg obediently turned his face in Jim's direction. "Tell me what happened," Jim said, gently trying to clean the dirt out of the cut on Sandburg's forehead.

"It was just — " Sandburg stopped and flinched as the rough terrycloth touched the tender wound.

"Sorry," Jim murmured.

"S'okay," Blair murmured back. "It was just this guy. At the bar. Fucking Neanderthal."

"Hey, I thought I was your only Neanderthal," Jim said, and Blair smiled, wincing slightly as it reached his split lip.

"Don't make me laugh, man. Not like you — nothing like you. Anyway, this moron gets it into his head that I'm looking at his girlfriend — which I was totally not — and he decides he's gonna teach me a lesson. Which I guess he did, huh?"

"Did he?" Jim asked.

"Yeah. Professional mop is a bad career choice."

"Well, as long as you learned something," Jim said wryly. The cut was looking cleaner now, and he rinsed the washcloth in the basin, then raised it to Blair's face again, cleaning the grime and blood off with broader swipes, being careful of the black eye. Blair squirmed a little under the attention but attempted to stay still.

Better, Jim thought, dropping the cloth again. Clean at least, but that eye was starting to swell.

"Don't move," Jim said. He got up, went to the freezer, and pulled out a pack of frozen peas.

"Where would I go?" Blair replied tiredly.

Jim came back to the table and sat down again. "Put this on that eye," he directed, and Blair nodded and raised the peas to his face and held them there. Jim drenched some cotton with antiseptic and said, "Now hang tight, this is gonna hurt a bit."

"Hurt is relative, man," Blair muttered, and Jim could see his point.

"So," Jim said, gently daubing the cotton onto the cut, "were you looking?"

Blair blinked. "Was I what?"

"Were you looking?" Jim asked again. "At his girl?"

"I said I wasn't."

"Yeah, but were you?"

"I was just looking," Blair said, and Jim's lip twitched. "I mean, just looking — -like barely — like, subtly — " and Jim's smile flared into a grin. Sandburg's idea of subtle, where women were concerned — well, it left something to be desired. When Sandburg was interested in a woman — well, you knew it, she knew it, neighboring towns knew it. He might as well have just hired a skywriter — he had this way of looking like he wanted to wrap his arms around a woman's legs and hang on.

Very subtle. Like Godzilla on a day trip to Tokyo.

Amazing, really, because Sandburg was a smart guy. And despite his air of naive earnestness, he was plenty cagey when he wanted to be. Sandburg knew how to play his cards close to the chest — hell, Jim had seen him spinning barefaced lies with nary a flicker of guilt or embarrassment. But as far as women went, the kid just lost it. Big time. Wore his heart on his sleeve, with a fucking target pinned right over it. Jim shook his head: Sandburg's love life was already one of the main topics of gossip at the station. They were gonna have a field day with this.

"So you were looking," Jim prompted.

"Yeah, okay, maybe I was looking," Sandburg admitted. "I didn't think there was any harm in looking. I mean, she didn't look like she was having a very good time, you know?"

Jim nodded, and put down the cotton swabs, picked up the tube of anti-bacterial ointment.

"I was just looking," Sandburg said again, frowning as Jim smeared the ointment into the cut. "You know, just a little eye-contact, just a little, 'hi there, how are you?'" and Jim could just imagine what the hell that had looked like. "And then bam, you know — this drunken asshole is all over me and — "

Sandburg was shaking again; shit, he was being brave about it, but the guy had totally done a number on him. Jim put down the ointment and tried to distract him.

"Was she pretty?" Jim asked.

Blair took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, man," he said, getting control of himself. "She was plenty pretty. Hell, she looked like a class act. And he was just this total zero, you know?"

"Damsel in distress, eh?" Jim smirked.

"Hey, well, nobody ever punched out Prince Charming," Blair said ruefully. "They didn't tell that part of the story in the fucking fairy tale."

"No, they usually cut out that part," Jim agreed, patting Blair's cheek gently.

"Hey Jim?" Blair asked suddenly. "Do you think I'm a wuss? You know: for like — losing?"

Jim glared at him. "Yeah, Sandburg, I do. So tomorrow, on the playground, I suggest you put a spider in his fucking lunchbox." Blair grinned again, winced again. "What the fuck is this, fourth grade?" He reached out for the gauze, cut a piece the right size to cover the cut.

"Okay, okay," Blair said, trying hard not to smile. "Thanks, man," he said, gripping Jim's forearm once and squeezing slightly before letting his hand fall away.

"Tilt your head back," Jim directed, and Blair obeyed and stared up at the ceiling.

"Fucking animal," Jim muttered, carefully putting the gauze into position. "Don't move — I'm gonna tape it."

"Okay," Blair said, and kept his head back, looking up at the ceiling.

Jim cut a piece of tape, then carefully taped the first of the four sides into place. "Where'd this go down, anyway?" he asked, ripping a second piece of tape with his teeth.

Blair hesitated for just a second, but that second was enough, and Jim froze.

Holy shit. This whole story was a crock!

"Greenstreet's," Blair was saying. "Over on Third." Which only proved the point. Greenstreet's — this kind of shit didn't happen at Greenstreet's. Greenstreet's had a yuppie clientele — young lawyers working late and getting trashed in their snazzy suits, doing blow in the bathroom. He couldn't see one of those guys beating Blair up like this. Those guys were all fucking talk. Fucking lawyers.

And suddenly he just knew that this whole damn thing was a crock. Jesus Christ, Sandburg was cagey! He'd almost gone for it, too. Hell, Sandburg was good — just enough detail, reluctantly admitting that he'd looked. Very good, really, the little bastard.

"Greenstreet's, huh?" Jim said casually, taping the second side down. "Was Sam there?"

"Who?" Blair asked.

"Sam. Big guy. Belly out to here," Jim said, stopping to gesture as he reached for another piece of tape.

"I dunno," Blair said. "Didn't see him."

"He owns the place, he's there most nights," Jim said, reaching to put the third piece of tape into place. "I know him from way back. I can't believe he'd let shit like this go on." Jim reached for the fourth piece of tape, listened to the sound of Sandburg's escalating heartbeat. Hah — Sandburg wasn't the only one who could do detail.

Give him credit, Sandburg stood his ground and kept his mouth shut.

"I should give him a call, " Jim added, and waited, pressing the fourth piece of tape into place. There. He could almost hear Sandburg mulling it over, weighing his options. Okay: time for the offensive.

"Why don't you tell me what really happened, Chief?" Jim said, throwing the tape back onto the table and ignoring the way Blair flinched.

"Hey, it was just like I said," Blair protested, dropping the icepack and looking hard at him.

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" Jim asked, meeting Blair's eye.

Blair sighed, shook his head, and looked away. Hah. "No, man, I'm fine."

"Because I'm thinking you're in trouble here," Jim pressed.

"Well, I'm not."

Jim waited.

"Look — it's just sort of embarrassing, you know?"

Jim sighed. "Sandburg, I told you: this isn't the fourth grade. And I'm a cop, remember? I've been around the block a few times. Plus, I thought we were friends, here."

"We are friends," Blair confirmed, and then he stopped and swallowed nervously. "It's just that — oh, man. Okay. I didn't go to Greenstreet's."

Jim crossed his arms and nodded, grimly. He knew that already.

"I went to Club Doom," Blair supplied, and Jim raised an eyebrow. "No, seriously, man, I did," Blair said, and fumbled in his shirt pocket, pulling out a crumpled slip of paper. "See, here — I parked in the lot on Beach. Hard evidence, okay?"

Jim picked up the slip; it was time and date stamped, had the Volvo's license plate number scrawled in. Okay. So far so good.

"You got beat up in the club?" Jim asked, frowning.

"Uh, no. There," Blair said tightly, nodding at the slip. "In the parking lot. See — " He stopped and closed his eyes. "Man, you're gonna think I'm so stupid. Just don't laugh at me, okay?"

"Okay," Jim agreed. How the hell was he supposed to laugh, anyway — what with Sandburg looking like this? Nothing funny about it.

"There was a guy," Blair began again. "Still a Neanderthal. I was going back to my car and he was bent over his trunk. And see — he was wearing this jacket."

Jim frowned. "A jacket?"

"Yeah, a jacket. Can you believe it? I got my ass kicked because of a fucking jacket. And because I couldn't keep my goddamned mouth shut." Blair pulled a face and sighed. "See, I went to go to my car, and there was this guy bent over his trunk, and he was wearing this jacket. Denim — with patches all over the back." Blair demonstrated with his hands. "And one of them, you know — it had this flame on it, like the top of a candle. Like just the wick. And then another one had this animal paw, and a third one had this tree — and, I thought, wow, you see, because those patches — "

Jim held up a hand. "Hang on, what're you saying? This some sort of a club or something?"

"Yeah, sort of. It's sort of a mystical association, actually." Blair explained. "That wear the patches. Naomi — but whatever, that's not the point. The point is that I got really juiced, and I was like, 'Hey, man, cool — what's your dominant Spirit?' because see, those patches, right? each of them represents — well, I mean, one is intellect, and one is strength, and one is anima and there are others — and usually when you see them together one is placed in a distinctly dominant position over the others because its, like, their leading trait and — "

Jim shook his head. "Sandburg, I'm not following you."

"Well, yeah — that's just it: he wasn't either," Blair said glumly. "He was like, 'I don't know what the fuck you're talking about,' and I was like, 'Your jacket, man!' and he was like, 'I don't know anything about the fucking jacket, it's not my jacket,' and I was like "Hey, sorry!' except he seemed really pissed off, and he was like, 'What are you stoned, or something?' and I was like, 'No way, man!' and then he was like, staring at me and — "

Blair was pink with embarrassment and he looked down at his hands. "And?" Jim prompted.

Blair sighed and continued to stare downward. "And he was like, 'What are you, some kind of fucking fruitcake?' and I was like, 'No, man — just chill out!' but then he was grabbing me, and I was like, 'Shit!' but it was, like, too late then, you know? I was up against the side of the car, and I couldn't — "

Sandburg's face was now a deep red and Jim sighed. This made a bit more sense — he could just see Blair happily blathering on about "anima" and "leading traits" to some thug in a parking lot. Stupid kid — but there was no point in saying that, because clearly Blair had figured it out, clearly Blair felt stupid enough already. Still, he had to say something.

"Chief, you've got to be more careful. You just can't start talking shit to random Neanderthals, you know?"

Blair nodded miserably. "I know, I know. But, I mean, hey — it worked with you," and then Blair grinned suddenly, and Jim burst out laughing, and Blair was laughing too and sort of muttering, "ow, ow," and clutching his abdomen as he laughed.

"Chief," Jim said, finally, "they call this 'assault', you know?"

Blair stopped laughing. "Yeah, I know."

"You want to file a report?"

"I don't know," Blair sighed. "Lemme sleep on it, okay?"

"Okay," Jim said, standing up and ruffling Blair's hair. "Go sleep."

"I mean, he was probably just some random drunk in a parking lot," Blair theorized, standing at bit unsteadily. "And I just..." and Blair was flushing red again, "...must have rubbed him the wrong way or something."

"Yeah, maybe," Jim said, moving the bowl to the sink to dump the water.

"Do you think I'm a dork?" Blair asked suddenly.

"I know you're a dork," Jim replied.

Blair reached up and touched his bandaged forehead. "Thanks, man."

"But you're my dork, okay?" Jim turned and shot him a warm smile. "So don't go messing around with other Neanderthals: they'll only break your heart. " Blair nodded, seeming pleased at this. "Go take an aspirin and lie down," Jim added, waving Blair away with his hand.

"Okay," Blair said, padding off into his room. "Sounds good — sounds great."

Jim left the first aid stuff on the table, checked again that the door was locked, and turned off the lights. He climbed the stairs and settled himself back in bed. Jesus. What a fucking night.

Poor fucking kid.

But he couldn't fall asleep; he kept thinking about the details of Sandburg's story. It was just preposterous enough to be the exact truth — Sandburg in a parking lot, trying to explain some damn mystical shit to a guy who was probably rummaging around for something to brain him with. And yet — there had been no bar, no class act of a girlfriend, no 'hi there, how are you' look — that had all been cut out of the whole cloth of Sandburg's imagination. Blair had tried to sell "Sandburg the Lothario" — why should "Sandburg the Dork" be any different?

Cagey, because he had an ability to play into people's expectations of him. Sandburg the Lothario, wearing his heart on his sleeve, letting everyone know — Sandburg the dork, explaining his crackpot theories to a Neanderthal in a parking lot —

See, that was it right there, Jim thought irritably. The parking lot. The crumpled slip, scrawled with the Volvo's license number. Scrawled by a guard — hadda be a guard there, why else put the car in a lot, anyway? He tried to picture the lot on Beach — guard booth, twenty-four hour guard. Hadda be.

So okay, it was unlikely that the fight had happened in the lot. No bar, no classy girl, no Neanderthal bent over a car — no jacket, probably. The only hard fact in the whole rigamarole was the parking stub. No Lothario, no dork — cagey, fucking cagey, that Sandburg.

The Volvo had been parked in a lot on Beach. Near Club Doom — had it happened in Club Doom? Fucking place was always packed, a nightmare for the senses — unlikely, that. On the way, then — but Club Doom was close to the lot on Beach, and there was an all night diner on the corner. Club kids eating hamburgers and cheese fries at all hours...

Lot on Beach. What else was there? Not much around there — well — Rudy's.

Rudy's was near there, and not much else. But Sandburg wouldn't — I mean, Rudy's wasn't — Sandburg wasn't —

Go with it, though. ("What are you, some kind of fucking fruitcake?") Rudy's — Sandburg leaves Rudy's and it's three long blocks back to Beach, nothing there but warehouses and abandoned —

A perfect spot, really, for an ambush ("fucking fruitcake" — and Sandburg had colored when he'd said it; his sweat had gone bitter and he had looked tortured) — so he'd been attacked on the street, coming out of Rudy's — he'd been coming out of Rudy's when — (that had got him somehow) — or worse yet, he'd been followed out of Rudy's — ("fucking fruitcake") — or god, worse still, he'd been attacked by someone he'd left with — ("fucking fruitcake," "fucking faggot) —

Jesus Christ. Sandburg.

And Jim got out of bed again, this time stopping to slip on his bathrobe. He went down the stairs and knocked once on the door to Sandburg's room and then pushed the French doors open. Sandburg was in bed, and he rolled over and squinted at him across the dark room. "Jim?"

"Chief, I think I'm sort of offended, here," Jim said quietly.

"Oh?"

"Gaybashing is a crime."

And he could hear Blair's heart suddenly pounding, pounding like a cornered animal's, but Blair didn't move, and when he spoke, his voice was oddly calm.

"Yeah, thanks, I know that."

"The police know it, too," Jim said, shoving his hands in this bathrobe pockets and leaning against the doorframe. "We're not Neanderthals. We've had sensitivity training and all that."

"I know," Blair said. His voice was quiet and steady in the darkness. "But I'm not going public. I've got work to do — at the station, at the U. Life is tough enough already, thanks."

Jim sighed and let his head fall back against the wood. "There are safer places, you know? Than Rudy's."

"It's low profile," Blair said, rolling away so that he faced the wall.

"I know, but still. I wouldn't think that's your kind of place, anyhow. It's mainly...you know." Jim stopped and swallowed.

"Military," Blair murmured. "And ex-military."

"Yeah. And its in the middle of nowhere, and that area is horrible around there."

"Low profile," Blair repeated quietly and Jim nodded.

"Yeah. But still, there are safer places." Jim took a deep breath, turned slightly, stared out into the living room. "Every now and then, you know — every now and then, lately, I stop in at Wax."

Because he was listening for it, he heard Blair's sudden inhalation. But that was it — just the one, sharp sound — and he found himself marveling at Blair's self-control. Steel — fucking steel under all that flannel. Jesus.

Blair let out a little snort of laughter. "Wax? Man, what do you see in those trendoids?"

Glimpses, Jim thought. An earring. A leather bracelet. A blue silk shirt. Bits and pieces, spread out over a room.

"What do you see in those military guys?" Jim returned quietly, having learned from Blair over three years how to answer a question with a question.

Blair didn't seem have any answer for that. But his heart pounded a little faster, and this time, it stayed there, beating hard and fast.

Jim just stood there, staring into the living room. He had dialed his sight down to normal, he was enjoying the way the dusky light from the street created odd shadows against the walls.

Close to the chest — dear god, that wasn't the half of it. The kid was made of fucking steel. Or maybe just encased in it. He understood that — -hell, maybe he understood that better than any man alive.

"We're just the same, you know," Jim mused.

"You think?" Jim turned; Blair was standing there awkwardly in his T-shirt and boxers, long hair wild around his face.

"Well, I mean," Jim said, feeling suddenly stupid, "you know — inside."

Blair looked down at himself, then back up at Jim. "Obviously," he said.

"Obviously," Jim repeated quickly. "Not on the outside."

"Not on the outside, no," Blair agreed. "But maybe inside."

"On the inside, exactly," Jim said; he looked Blair up and down and swallowed hard.

"Right." Blair was nodding slowly, staring up at him. "Inside."

"Yes," Jim whispered. Blair's hands were suddenly on his waist, and then Blair was stepping closer and kissing him. Blair's mouth was soft and warm under his, and Jim raised his hands to cup Blair's head, to grip Blair's hair in his hands. The kiss was gentle, and careful, and filled with silent tenderness, and Jim was breathless when Blair moved his mouth away.

"Inside," Blair murmured, and Blair was kissing his neck, fingers tightening on the fabric of his bathrobe. Then Blair was moving backwards, tugging him inside, and Jim stumbled forward, letting Blair pull him toward his bed.

"Blair," Jim said, a single word of caution.

"Shhh." Blair 's hands were unknotting Jim's bathrobe, pulling it open, shoving it down over his shoulders. Jim moaned slightly and dropped his arms to let Blair tug the robe off, then reached for the hem of Blair's t-shirt and pulled it up over his head.

"Beautiful." Jim slid his palm along Blair's neck, frankly looking at him now.

Blair rolled his eyes. "Hardly," he muttered, making a face.

"Really," Jim insisted. He turned Blair's bruised face toward his, ran his thumb along Blair's jaw. "Still."

Blair stared up at him. "I think you are," Blair replied with soft sincerity. Blair's hands were softly stroking his sides, strong fingers teasing his skin, and Blair leaned in suddenly and drew a gentle tongue across his collarbone, began to trace a swirling pattern on his shoulder. Shit, Sandburg was a Lothario after all.

And it was odd, really, because Blair's movements in the darkness had a quiet assurance that Jim had never seen from him before — certainly nothing like Blair's broad, exaggerated fumblings with women, which Jim now understood to be deliberately theatrical. "Sorry about the Shakespeare stuff," Blair had told him when they met, but he hadn't realized that that was meant to be a global apology, an organizing principle of Blair's life, of their relationship.

Jim looked down and Blair's boxers were tented out in front of him, and it seemed spectacularly wonderful that Blair should be hard for him — beautiful and hard for him and right here.

And then Blair's arms were tight around him, pulling him in for a kiss, and Jim leaned back slightly, aware of Blair's split lip, wanting to be gentle. But Blair was having none of it — Blair was clutching him, hot for him, hungry, even, and so Jim relented and let Blair take his mouth.

He tugged Blair down to sit on the bed, lips still pressed together, still kissing hard. Finally Jim broke the kiss and turned to take Blair's double earrings into his mouth.

Blair surprised him by reaching into his boxers to stroke his cock; Jim shuddered and tongued the earrings, delighted with Blair's soft gasp of pleasure. "What do you do?" Blair whispered suddenly.

"Mostly everything," Jim murmured into his ear.

Blair nodded and ran a thumb over the head of Jim's cock in a deliberate caress. "What do you want, then?"

"Wanna get fucked," Jim answered quietly, because he did, and Blair surprised him by laughing.

He flinched, and suddenly Blair's arms were around him, hugging him tightly, holding him close. "No, no," Blair protested, smiling helplessly into Jim's cheek. "No — I'm sorry — it's just that — me too, you know? I went out to — get fucked by you." He snorted slightly at himself and whispered, "Shoulda stayed home."

"Yeah, you should've," Jim accused, somewhat mollified.

"Should've. Stupid," Blair muttered, finding Jim's mouth again.

Jim gently licked Blair's lower lip and then tugged Blair's head back slightly. "You want me to?" he asked softly. "Fuck you?"

"Either way," Blair breathed into his mouth. "Just want to be with you," and then Blair was pushing him onto his back, tugging his boxers off, encouraging Jim to roll over, to lie face down on the bed.

Jim wrapped his arms around Blair's pillow and waited, watching as Blair stripped his own boxers off and climbed on top of him. Jim opened his legs so that Blair could kneel down between them, and Blair positioned himself and reached out to massage Jim's shoulders, to kiss his way down Jim's spine.

Jim moaned in anticipation as Blair kissed and sucked the skin at the small of his back, and then Blair was stroking his buttocks with gentle hands and whispering, "Open up." Jim took a deep breath and spread his legs wider apart. Blair hummed happily and bent his head down and began to kiss and suck at Jim's opening.

Jim lay there, gasping and shuddering, as Blair opened him up with his tongue. Blair went at him eagerly, happily, expertly, and Jim closed his eyes and tried to control himself, not wanting to come now, not wanting to be too numb to appreciate what would follow.

Finally Blair sat up and Jim heard the rustle of a condom tearing open and the rubber going over Blair's cock. Then a soft sigh, Blair lubing himself. Lube-slick fingers on his ass then, stroking him, then holding him open — and then suddenly Blair was laughing again, and Jim turned and saw Blair's hair wild around his face. God, he was so fucking beautiful...

"What?" Jim demanded, feeling desperate.

"Nothing." Blair's eyes were glittering in the darkness, and that look of mischievous amusement was back. "Just — shouldn't," he murmured, grinning helplessly. "Anthropologist," he murmured guiltily, swallowing his smile.. "Oh — fuck it," he said suddenly and thrust forward, shoving his cock into Jim's ass.

Jim was panting and shuddering with pleasure and he could hear Blair gasping raggedly above him. "Ohhh....sweet, " Blair was moaning, having broken out into an instant sweat, "...fucking sweet — the sweetest..."

Blair was fully in him now, deep in him, nearly splitting him apart, and Jim cried out as Blair bent to place a gently kiss on his back. And then suddenly Jim's gasps were laughter, he was laughing softly, uncontrollably.

"What — ?" Blair whispered breathlessly from behind him.

"Guide," Jim managed to say; he was grinning helplessly, desperately trying to breathe. "Watching your back," he sputtered, and above him Blair exploded with laughter.

"Not like this!" Blair nearly yelled.

"No, not like this," Jim agreed, closing his eyes and snuffling into Blair's pillow.

"Not like this, man!" Blair exclaimed joyously, and then he let his head fall back and he was thrusting in and out, fucking him hard now, and Jim clutched the sheets and moaned his approval.

"Tilt back," Jim muttered, "push up," and Blair did. The sound died on Jim's lips and he was just mouthing, "Sandburg..." because Blair's cockhead was rubbing against his prostate, massaging it violently, stimulating him till he was practically vibrating with the pleasure of it.

"Good?" Blair hissed, and Jim could barely speak.

"Yeah," he sobbed.

"Good... Good..." and Jim didn't know if Blair meant good for Jim or good for himself but it didn't much matter, because Blair was shuddering, and fucking him happily, strong hands holding him open, thumbs caressing just outside of where he was stretched wide, muscles straining, stuffed with Blair — and Jim just suddenly relaxed into his orgasm and let it wash over him, roll over him, flatten him.

And maybe Blair thought it was wrong to fuck his research subject, but it felt right to him, felt right to be pinned underneath Blair like this, to be open to him, to take pleasure from Blair's body, to let Blair take pleasure from his.

Blair suddenly buried his cock deep and held it there and let his head fall back and shuddered and came, cock jerking. He groaned and collapsed against Jim's back, clutching him and muttering, "Don't move — wanna stay here — wanna live here — "

Jim grinned into his pillow and said, "Sandburg, you just can't move into every available free space I've got," and Blair froze and then pulled his cock out suddenly, and fell over flat on his back, and howled with laughter.

And they just lay there, exhausted, laughing themselves weak. Jim turned his head to watch Blair who was laughing uncontrollably at the ceiling, and then Blair looked at him with blue eyes full of a desperate, mute emotion that Jim recognized. He reached out and rubbed Blair's stomach.

"I am sorry," Blair said sincerely.

"Don't be," Jim answered.

"Not sorry for you. Sorry for me. Sorry I lied and...wasted so much fucking time."

"I understand about that," Jim said, and he did.

"Some Neanderthal you turned out to be," Blair snorted.

"Well, you're not exactly what you advertised, either," Jim objected, and Sandburg had the good grace to look embarrassed.

"Throwback," Blair muttered, grinning.

Jim grinned back at him. "Trendoid," he retorted.

"Pig."

"Dork."

"Asshole."

"Wuss."

Blair frowned suddenly. "You're right, you know. We're exactly alike."

Jim nodded at the ceiling. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Blair echoed vaguely. "Yeah." And then Blair rolled over and stared at him and grinned. "Man! How frightening is that?"

The End