I Love You

by Francesca

"Jim?"

"What?"

"I think I love you, man."

"I love you too, Sandburg."

"No, no — Jim?"

"What?"

"Drop the wrench, man. No, I'm serious. I think — could you just stop with the wrenching already?"

"Sandburg, I gotta finish this."

"You're not hearing me here."

"I hear you fine."

"What'd I say then?"

"I'm not listening. Hand me those pliers, will you?"

"Jim, I said 'I love you.""

"And I love you, too. Now give me the fucking pliers."

"Will you just stop and listen to me for a sec?!"

"When you give me the pliers."

"Goddammit — here. Here, okay? — "

"No, not those, the other ones, the big — riiiight. Yeah. Those. Great, that should do it..."

"Fine, will you just listen now?"

"I'm listening."

"You're working."

"I'm listening while I work. I can do both. Super senses, right?"

"I hate you."

"Thought you loved me."

"Hah — so you're listening!"

"I said I was listening, you little — "

"Yeah, but I mean, you're not really getting it, here. I mean, I love you, man."

"And I love you too — grab that rag, would you?"

"Here! Here! God almighty, stop with the banging!! For a minute, okay?"

"Okay! Okay! What??"

"I LOVE YOU, ASSHOLE!!"

"YES? AND?"

"And? There's no "and"! I LOVE you. Listen, Jim — LUUUUUUVE you. Like LOVE you."

"I feel like I'm in an echo chamber. I hear you! You love me."

"I love you."

"You luuuuuuve me."

"Right. Exactly."

"And so why isn't "I love you too" a reasonable fucking answer here?"

"Because I don't think you're getting the nuances. I mean, you've been known to miss a nuance or too. It's not just that I love you, it's like I luuuuuv you — "

"Christ, will you stop with the 'uuuuuuuh' already! It's giving me a headache!"

"All right, I'm sorry."

"Listen, why is it that you say "I love you" and I say "I love you too" and somehow I'm not getting the nuances?"

"Because they're not the same. You love me, but I luuu — ok, sorry. Let me put this another way."

"Please."

"My loving you has a sexual component, here."

"A what?"

"A sexual component. Ahhhh, see, you fucking missed the nuance, didn't you? Hey, cut it out, there's nothing funny about this — "

"You bet your ass it's funny!"

"Listen, sexual attraction is a really strange thing, okay? And I'm a sexual guy — human desire can fixate on a variety of objects — "

"Objects? What, like the toaster?"

"Can you just shut up and take this seriously for a minute? I'm trying to — "

"What about the wall, Sandburg? Can you 'fixate' on that wall?"

"Shut up! No, not like the wall — "

"Table legs?"

"Jim, those are inanimate objects. Whereas you — you're definitely an animate object. I'm not really saying that you're much smarter than the wall or a table leg — "

"Low blow, even for you — ."

" — but you are definitely much more animate, Jim. You run — and jump — and hang off freaking helicopters and — um — fix sinks."

"Or try to."

"Or try to, yes."

"When your fucking hair clogs them up."

"Well, yes."

"And then the water doesn't drain out. And the sink overflows."

"Look, I said I was sorry about that — "

"And then I have to take the sink apart. And reach into the trap. And pull out clumps of soggy, rotten, disintegrating — "

"All right, all right, I get the picture — "

" — Sandburg hair. And so let me ask you, Einstein, why exactly do you think I do this every six fucking months instead of throwing your scrawny ass out onto the street?"

"My ass is not scrawny — "

"Your big, fat ass then. Huh? Any answers, bright light? Hey, I'm waiting, here..."

"All right, all right, I get it. You love me."

"No, I luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu — "

"Okay, stop it, I feel dumb enough already, okay?"

"Okay. I'm ready for that rag now."

"Here. So — I mean — were you ever gonna say something?"

"Say what?"

"That...you know. That you...you know — "

"I know. I don't know."

"I mean, you could have said something."

"Yeah, I know."

"So why — -hey, watch — "

" — Jesus! — "

" — I got it! — "

" — Okay, wait — just hold it right there, just hold it, okay? — "

" — Gotcha! Holding! — "

" — Wait, here's the bucket — "

" — Okay — god, man, this stinks — "

"Tell me. I've got it — let go."

"You sure? — "

"I'm sure. Let go."

"Okay. Yikes, man."

"Well, hey, I got it off, right?"

"Yeah, you got it off, all right, Jim. Glad to know that banging was for something."

"Banging is always for something."

"Remind me never to let you work on my car."

"You should be so lucky."

"Face it, Jim: you're not the most subtle of mechanics. It's that throwback thing: Me bang on pipe with rock."

"I'm gonna bang you over the head with a rock in a minute."

"Well that's romantic — you've gone from loving me to wanting to kill me in, oh, four seconds or so."

"And how long does it usually take for your lovers to want to kill you?"

"At least two weeks."

"Well, I've always been ahead of the — uuuugh, god, this is so disgusting — "

"God, I'm sorry, Jim — "

"Give me the trash bag."

"Here — oh, yuck, man, I'm so so sorry — "

"You should be. Uck. Ok, do me a favor — tie this up, take it out, throw it down the chute, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Gimme."

"Here."

"Okay, I'll be right back..."

Blair grabbed the black trash bag and spun it round in his hand, tightening the neck of it.

He stopped in the kitchen for a twist tie, then took the bag down the hall to the chute, and dropped it in, letting the small door swing shut with a satisfying clang. He went back into the loft and washed his hands twice in the kitchen sink before going back into the bathroom. And somehow, the sight of Jim on the floor, struggling to fit the U-pipe back into place, with smears of awful looking black dirt on his thigh, across the back of his neck, across his cheek, stopped him cold in the doorway, and he felt a stab of emotion in his solar plexus — anxiety — shit, how weird was that? — anxiety and desire.

"Jim? Jim, man, don't take this the wrong way, okay?"

"What?"

"Just — I totally want you, man. I mean, I don't know, I can't explain it, but I really really fucking want you."

"You're a really weird guy, Sandburg."

"I know. I know..."

"I could get you a subscription to Plumber's Weekly if it would turn you on — "

"It's not the plumbing — I mean, it is — but it's — you know, you doing the plumbing. Like before, you know — I mean, it just hit me, and it's hitting me again, like right now — "

"Well, uh, thanks. I guess. That's very flattering."

"No, I'm serious, Jim, I just — "

"Not now, Chief, okay?"

"Yeah, but — "

"Lemme just finish this and clean up, okay? I'm filthy, here — "

"I kind of don't care."

"Yeah, but I do. Sentinel senses, okay?"

"Okay, okay — but I mean, you will, right? I mean, we're on, right? I mean you said — before — I mean, you implied — "

"Chief, I can only screw one thing at a time. At the moment, I'm working on this pipe."

"My plumbing's a lot more interesting."

"God, I can't believe you just said that."

"Well, I'm feeling sort of giddy, you know? First flush and all that."

"That remark is in spectacularly bad taste, all things considered — and no cracks about toilet humor, okay?"

"Cracks about toilet humor?"

"Don't make me come over there."

"All right, all right. Can I help, can I do something?"

"Yeah, you can shut up. No, wait, here — come here and hold this — the pipe, Sandburg, Jesus!"

"Oh, the pipe!"

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I don't know! Honest! I'm just like — wow! Cool! Jim's doing the plumbing!"

"You're fucking nuts, Chief!"

"I mean, it's just — it's somehow — I don't know — it's emblematic of something."

"Emblematic?"

"Yeah. Of something. Of you and me — of, like, our lives and — "

"Emblematic?"

"Yes. Like an emblem, right? Like a symbol — "

"What fucking language — ?"

" — of something really really important to me, that I didn't know was important until just right fucking now. Bang!"

"What, me cleaning up after your shit?"

"Yeah!! Well, maybe. Yeah. Sort of. I mean, yeah. Yeah. I mean: yeah."

"Do you mean 'yeah'?"

"Yeah. Seriously. I guess — I guess I did know, really. What you said before. That you love me. I guess I knew that. I just didn't know I knew, you know?"

"I know."

"I didn't know I knew. Not till today. But I did know it — I did know, you know, because you clean up after my shit all the time. Hell, is this done yet?"

"Almost."

"Can I let go?"

"Not yet."

"Cause I wanna kiss you, man. I'm just fucking nuts for you, right now."

"Huh. Imagine if I did fix your car. Cash and prizes."

"To be sure."

"What if I put up wallpaper?"

"I might just come right here."

"Wow."

"Man, why didn't you say something? You could have just said, you know?"

"No, I couldn't."

"Whaddya mean you couldn't? You sure could've."

"Sandburg, I couldn't. For a thousand reasons, okay?"

"Like what?"

"Well, it would have been sort of sleazy, you know?"

"Sleazy?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I mean, hell — I mean — "

"Do you mean?"

" — you were, like, twelve years old — "

"I was so fucking not!"

"You were. You still are, really. Like, totally, dude."

"You bastard."

"And I'm a cop. And, like, sort of your landlord."

"Can I let this go? I wanna slug you."

"Yeah, right. Try it, bucko."

"You daring me?"

"Double dog daring you."

"Oh yeah, right — and you're Mr. Mature."

"It's all relative — you can let go now."

"Thanks. So, what changed your mind, then?"

"Well...I mean, you asked me. Why, is this a bad time?"

"No! No, I just meant —

"Hell, you brought it up — you said — "

"Yeah. Yeah, I said. Meant it, too, Jim."

"And plus I'm not getting any younger, here. And you're not getting any older, apparently, so I figure I might as well just go for it."

"I don't even know if that's a compliment or an insult."

"It's both. Plus, you've put on a little weight, so I don't feel like I'd break you."

"You're pretty high on yourself, aren't you?"

"Not really, no. But hell, a cute young boyfriend might be just the ticket."

"So this is, like, a mid-life crisis?"

"Maybe. Wanna help me through it?"

"Yeah, man. God, yeah. God yeah..."

Blair grabbed the fabric of Jim's grimy red-plaid workshirt and pulled him in for an unexpected kiss; he couldn't help himself; he couldn't wait, because all of a sudden he felt like he'd been waiting three years even though he'd only hit on the concept of having sex with Jim forty-five minutes or so ago. Still, it felt like three years — hell, it felt like his whole fucking life, suddenly.

He felt giddy, feeling Jim's mouth against his, felt positively fucking giddy with the surprise of it, because it had all been right here, under his nose. Jim had been under his nose — or, more accurately, he had been under Jim's, but this was no time for nit-picking, because Jim was here, hot beautiful dirty sweaty here, and one of them had been under the other but whatever, cause Jim was one fucking fantastic kisser, a fantastic fucking kisser, and plus a man who would clean up after his shit besides, which no one had ever done before. He held on tightly and slid his tongue into Jim's mouth, and it was the lottery, the jackpot, it was a fucking half-day at school, man.

And Jim's looked sort of surprised and sort of horny and sort of pleased at his enthusiasm when Blair finally pulled his mouth away, and Blair grinned at him.

Jim slowly grinned back.

"Well, all right then. Just let me grab a shower, okay?"

"Okay. Okay. You want — I mean, should I — ?"

"Did I ever mention that watching you mop the floor drives me wild with passion?"

"Uh, no, Jim. Must have slipped your mind."

"Well it does. Really. You've no idea."

"Oh yeah? What if I scour the sink, too?"

"I might just come right here."

"Wow. Okay, dude — hit it. I'll be Mr. Clean."

Blair grabbed a towel off the rack and flicked it at Jim, who caught it easily in one hand and yanked it out of his grip. Blair leaned back against the tiled wall and crossed his arms, waiting; it took Jim a moment to get it, and then he smiled slowly and reached for the top button of his shirt.

And damn if, now that Jim'd gotten it, he wasn't enjoying it; damn if Jim didn't have the weirdest, coolest, most lopsided grin as he unbuttoned his red plaid workshirt and slid it off his muscular shoulders. Holy fucking wow! and his face must have been reflecting that thought, because he could see Jim seeing it, could see the pleased expression on Jim's face, and then (holy fuck, fucking wow) he could see Jim's nipples tightening right the fuck under his eyes. Blair inhaled deeply, and the breath came out as a moan.

"Man, what, I'm supposed to clean, now?"

Jim slid out of his shoes. "Yeah. You're supposed to clean now."

"This is cruel and unusual. I'm gonna appeal to the U.N. "

Jim grinned and reached for the button of his jeans.

Blair moaned again. "God, Jim..."

Jim undid the button and then looked down at himself and carefully drew down his zipper. Blair was glad that Jim wasn't looking at him, and damn glad for the support of the wall behind him, because he was dizzy, because all the blood had left his head, his blood had gone south for the winter — he was rock hard, painful hard, watching Jim strip like this.

He could see Jim's white briefs slung low around his hips as Jim slid his zipper down, and he could see the tight abs and the hollows around Jim's hipbones, the inviting little hollows where his hands would fit. And then Jim was shoving his jeans and underwear down around his legs, and god, he was beautiful, god, he was totally fucking beautiful, beautiful legs, beautiful cock, half hard already and hardening right the fuck under his eyes — and then Jim kicked his jeans into a corner and turned toward the shower with a grin.

"Sandburg. Clean."

God, beautiful ass.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Going, Jim."

Jim stepped into the tub and yanked the curtain closed, and Blair stared blankly at the white plastic for a moment, listening to the sudden, heavy hiss off the water, before shaking his head — and then his arms — furiously, trying to shake himself out of it. He took a couple of deep breaths and then picked up Jim's discarded clothing and stuffed it into the hamper.

He put Jim's abandoned tools neatly back into the tool chest, then flicked the locks shut. He picked up the tool box and the bucket and went down the hall to the utility closet; he carefully slid the box back into its place on an upper shelf before dumping the water out of the bucket and refilling it with clean water and cleaning solution.

Then Blair closed his fist around the mop and carried it and the bucket back to the bathroom, careful not to slosh the water onto the hardwood floor.

The mirrors were already starting to steam up when he returned; he could feel the humid air on his skin, feel the moisture dampening the back of his neck. He looked longingly toward the shower, he could hear the rhythmic shush of water flowing over Jim's body, as Jim moved, as Jim moved around in there, washing, Jim's body, god — and he pushed the thought out of his mind and resolutely shoved the mop into the bucket, wrung it out, and started to wipe the floor down.

He was intently engaged at this task when he heard Jim laughing, and his head shot up. Jim was leaning against the side of the shower, watching him through a small gap in the curtain. The water was still going and Jim was dripping wet — wet but much, much cleaner.

"You know, it was supposed to be a joke, Chief."

"Huh? What was?"

"Watching you mop. Driving me wild. But, you know, somehow it's not. I'm pretty wild, here."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Really. Drop the mop, Cinderella, and get over here."

Blair dropped the mop into the bucket and moved toward Jim, toward the shower. He stood there and looked up at Jim, who seemed even taller, standing in the tub. Jim reached out and took Blair's shirt collar in his hand; Blair shivered as water dripped off Jim's wrist onto his neck.

"So Jim: you gonna take me to the ball?"

"Yeah. Two if you're lucky."

"That makes you — what? My fairy godfather?"

Jim raised his hand and gave Blair a light, backhanded slap on the cheek.

"Don't make me come out there. Take off your clothes. Get in here."

Jim made an encouraging grab at his shirt but Blair instinctively pulled back; he saw Jim frown and felt that stab again, anxiety and desire, but now anxiety was on top and beating desire on the head with a rock. Because Jim — Jim — Jim was fucking beautiful, huge hot dripping wet and here, a poster boy for American masculinity, and he was just — suddenly — just — well — he was having the locker room flashback of his nightmares, where all the tall, WASP-y athletes were in the corner smacking each other with towels and you — well, you were the short smart Jewish kid. Which was just no fucking place to be.

And with women, you know, it didn't matter so much — hell, eventually it was a positive asset, because most of those WASPy athletic types were about as smart as a brick and had far less style. And women, it turned out, liked smarts and style — which he had in spades. Women were pretty discriminating and pretty forgiving, really, bless their hearts.

But guys — shit, guys were bastards, it was guys who thought that size mattered, and hell, what hope did he ever have at five foot seven?

Jim was frowning at him, and he blinked and raised his hand and touched Jim's smooth, wet side, trying to look apologetic, and appreciative, unable to explain why he had suddenly stalled, why he just couldn't strip out of his clothes the way Jim had.

"Shoes."

"What?"

"Shoes, Chief."

Shoes. Well, yeah, he could do that, he could take off his shoes, and that would give him a minute to think, to figure out how to work this — maybe he could get Jim upstairs, in his room, with the lights off, and in the dark they could —

Whoa, shit! and he yelped as Jim grabbed him and hauled him into the tub, and he howled with laughter as Jim shoved him under the spray, and his socks were soaked and the water was sluicing into his jeans, into his hair, into his shirt, making them heavy, and Jim was holding him under the water and Jim was laughing, and he sputtered and spit out water and shook his head, which was hard because his hair felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. And Jim was grinning like a maniac and Jim pushed him against the back wall of the shower and Jim was dripping, the water was dripping down his face, off his nose, and Blair looked up at him through the water and he could hear his own laughter echoing off the clean, white porcelain tile.

Jim poked him in the chest with a long finger.

"Quit it, Chief."

"Quit it? Quit what?"

"Whatever strange neurotic trip you're on. This is my fucking mid-life crisis, okay?"

Blair grinned — hell yeah, that was okay — and launched himself against Jim aggressively, sliding his heavy wet, arms around Jim's smooth, slim torso and capturing his mouth. And Jim was a one fucking fantastic kisser, Jim could, like, give lessons at it, which sort of surprised him, and he wondered briefly if it was a Sentinel thing, if being a Sentinel could account for Jim's kisses being so damn hot.

Jim pushed him back against the tile and was stripping him of the heavy, wet clothes with strong fingers, working the buttons of his shirt off through the water-logged fabric. Jim pulled the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms and let it fall into the tub with a thwack, then put his hands on Blair's shoulders, caressing them, caressing the biceps of his arms before letting his hands slide down Blair's chest. Jim was lazily stroking Blair's nipples with his thumbs, looking at him like he was some sort of strange present, a strange, wet present yet to be unwrapped — and then Jim's hands slid down his sides to the waist of his jeans and Jim was struggling with the goddamned buttonflies — which he was never fucking buying again, that was for sure.

Cause denim was enough of a bitch when wet, never mind the fucking buttonflies, and Jim was laughing softly to himself as he struggled to get the brass buttons through the swollen, waterlogged buttonholes.

"Sonofabitch."

"Wait, wait, lemme — "

"You just hadda, didn't you, Chief — -"

"Hey, they're in st — ow, man, careful! — there's valuable SHIT down there!"

"Where's the hell's my toolbox?"

"You bang on my pipe with a rock, man, I'm gonna clock you and no mistake..."

"I might need a hacksaw..."

"You dare and I'm filing."

"Filing?"

"Divorce."

"Been there, done that."

"Wait, just lemme try myself, okay? I mean, they're my pants, I've got the angle, you know?"

"This is kind of fun, though."

"Hey I can't — "

"I'm really sort of enjoying it."

" — if you keep — Jim! — "

"Chill out and let me handle it, Chief."

Finally Jim got the last button open and Blair could feel the heavy scrape of the sodden denim on his legs as Jim shoved his pants down. He had a momentary flicker of embarrassment, which vanished instantly when he saw the flash of wicked pleasure in Jim's eyes.

"You're right, Chief — your plumbing's very interesting."

"I told you."

"You did. God, you're so fucking lovely..."

"Jim — please — just do something — I — "

"Chill out, Chief. Just let me handle it."

And damn if Jim didn't handle it — the first touch of Jim's hand on his cock brought him right back up to full hardness. His wet head felt even heavier now so he let it fall back against the tiled wall, feeling Jim's hands move down his body as Jim slid to his knees in the shower, tugging the wet, crumpled jeans down over his feet, pulling his socks off.

And then Jim's hands found the hollows in his hips and Blair looked down to see Jim tug his hips forward and suck the tip of his cock into his mouth.

Good god...good god...and he was close to hyperventilating, watching Jim put his mouth on him, seeing the water sliding across Jim's broad, pale shoulders, feeling Jim's tongue caressing the underside of his cockhead, stimulating him there, then licking tenderly at the slit. Jim's hands were warm on his cold, wet hips, Jim's mouth was warm on him, and Blair felt his blood heat up, felt it coursing through his body, and he tilted his head forward into the shower, let the warm water spray onto his face.

He reached down and touched Jim's head, and then tugged gently; Jim got the message and slid up to his feet. Blair slid his arms around Jim's waist and kissed him hard, felt Jim moan into his mouth as their wet, naked bodies were pressed together, cocks sliding over wet skin. Jim was scrabbling at Blair's hair, tugging the wet curls away from his face and muttering darkly.

"Fucking hair. In the — yeah — feels like — feels so — "

"Shit...Jim..."

"Goddammit. Goddammit, Sandburg..."

"Jim, you feel so fucking good — "

"God, you taste — "

" — so good to me — "

" — so fucking good — "

" — God, Jim..."

"You want — "

"God, yes..."

" — me to — "

"God, Jim..."

" — suck you off — ?"

" — Jim — "

" — finish it — ?"

" — god — "

"Cause I will..."

"God — no — Jim — "

"Tell me — "

"Touch."

" — what you want — "

"Touch me — wanna touch you — "

" — what you like — "

"...jerk me off..."

"...yeah, chief..."

"..lemme touch you..."

And god, it was something to be able to touch, to be able to be this close, pressed up so close that you could feel the warm, sweet rush of breath on your face. And up close — hell, Jim wasn't so much bigger. Just smoother. Harder. Years of cop work making him hard where Blair's own body was softer. Slim wrists. Long fingers. Different complexion — Jim was pale, so pale, but he was made for the beach, fucking made for it, and he should be tanned. Should be — shouldn't have to work so hard. Beach. And he himself was sort of tan, darker anyway: olive skinned and tanned easily and made a point of sitting outside in the sun on campus whenever there was sun, when there was sun, when he could get sun —

Pale, smooth cock, hard in his hand, and he could make Jim moan by touching it. He moved his hand slowly. Pale, smooth cock, and Blair pressed himself forward, edged up, pressed up to him, closer, soft flesh against him, against Jim, cupping Jim's cock in his hand and pulling it toward himself, toward his belly, against his belly, his softer belly, stepping forward and pressing up against Jim, hand trapped between them, cocks trapped between them, stroking Jim's cock gently, stroking the side that wasn't pressed against him, that wasn't pressed into his belly.

Water was dripping from his hair, down his back, and Jim's hand was splayed across his back, stroking gently, diverting the beads of water from their downward course.

".. ch-chief.."

"...jim, kiss me..."

"...so fucking good, you fuck so good..."

"...I'll fuck you good..."

"...chief..."

"...fuck so so good..."

"...go slow — slow — slower...yeah..."

And Jim had closed his eyes and was moaning softly, breathing deeply, and Blair gently moved his lips against Jim's jaw, feeling the twitch of muscles there, feeling Jim's breath against his temple as he slowly fingered Jim's cockhead. Slow...he could do slow, though who could have known that Jim went for this kind of sensuous tease? And yet — that made sense — the senses — Jim would be sensuous, wouldn't he?

Jim's hand slid slowly down his back, cupped his ass, and then Blair felt Jim's other hand move there too and Jim was caressing him, hands gripping and clutching his cheeks, bumping him closer, softly, rhythmically, tugging him rhythmically closer so that their bodies caressed the hard cocks between them.

"...oh, jiiiim..."

Jim's mouth was on his forehead, on his cheek, on his mouth, and Jim's fingers tightened on his ass, tugging him closer, faster, with more urgency, so that Blair's cock was sliding up and down Jim's wet hip, and he groaned, and tightened his grip on Jim's cock —

— and then Jim's hands were on his shoulders and Jim was spinning him around, so that Blair's back was pressed against Jim's chest, and Jim's arm was slung low around Blair's shoulders and Jim's hand was on his cock and Jim was jerking him off, just like he had wanted, just like he had asked — begged —

— and he could feel Jim's cock bobbing against his ass, pressing against him, large and hard and sliding easily between his cheeks, and he pushed backward, teasing himself, teasing his opening against Jim's cock —

— and Jim made a low, contented sound from deep in his throat, and sped his strokes on Blair's erection.

"No — slower...slower please jim — "

God, and slow was so good; he had never known how good slow was, having always been desperately eager, desperately rushing it, as if whomever he was with might just disappear like a mirage. But Jim was no mirage, and Blair covered Jim's hand with his own, and gently coaxed those strong fingers back to the underside of his cockhead, that soft sweet spot Jim had touched with his tongue, and he felt Jim smiling against his neck and thrusting slow between his buttocks and rubbing his thumb along the lip, behind the head, into the small, sweet hollow, that so-sensitive square inch behind his —

— and he gasped

— and he gasped

— and Jim's arm tightened hard around him

— and Jim knew he was going to come, Jim knew, knew before he did, and Jim clutched him, held him close, held him up as he gasped and seized and splattered come across Jim's hand, up across his belly. He was weak, he was shuddering, and he felt Jim thrust, and thrust, and then the pulse of wetness against him, slick and smooth and slowly dripping down.

"...so good, chief..."

Jim's hand slid up his belly, trailing through the splatter of semen.

"God, yeah..."

"I mean: really good."

Jim pushed them forward, under the spray, and Blair sighed contentedly as the water washed the stickiness away.

"Yeah. Me, too."

He turned around so that he was face to face with Jim, and grinned up at him. "Suck me next time?"

"Yeah, sure. Will you do me?"

"Yeah, Jim. Course."

"Just checking. I mean, I don't really know what you — "

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Jim — for you? Everything. Anything."

"Wow."

"Whatever you want."

"Wow. That's — hell, this is gonna be one good mid-life crisis, here, Chief. Anything?"

"Anything."

"Wow. "

"It's not entirely altruistic, Jim. Not to break it to you."

"No, I know, but can I pretend?"

"You can pretend all you want."

"Cool. Chief, I'm turning blue here."

"Yeah, I noticed. Go ahead — lemme just wash my hair."

"Okay. I'll order food. You want what?"

"Chinese?"

"Chinese. Same as usual?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Jim stepped out of the tub, reached out for a towel, and swiped it roughly across his face and shoulders before wrapping it around his waist. Blair smiled and then yanked the curtain shut, reached for the shampoo.

"By the way, Chief, I hate that damn bath gel."

"You hate the bath gel?"

"Yeah. What's wrong with soap? I like soap."

"You're so conventional."

"Simple bar of soap."

"And I want an egg-roll."

"Okay, okay..."

"Maybe some sesame noodles."

"Roll. Noodles. Can you buy some normal soap?"

"Yeah, okay. Normal soap."

He finished lathering his hair and stuck his head under the spray, humming happily to himself. God, he was gonna be a prune. When the water seemed soap-free he reached out and shut the tap off: the bathroom seemed oddly quiet now.

He pulled back the shower curtain and grinned: Jim had left him a stack of towels, neatly piled on the toilet seat. He grabbed one for his hair, slung another round his shoulders, pulled a third around his waist, and stepped out of the tub.

He reached up and began toweling his hair vigorously, wanting to at least stop it from dripping. And then he hung up the towel neatly; reached out and pulled the shower curtain straight, the way Jim liked it.

Then he grabbed a tissue, bending down so he could pull the long, curly strands of hair out of the drain.

And then he smiled.

And thought, "What the hell."

And just didn't.

The End