The Cruelest Month

Every day Sandburg went straight for the kitchen table, picked through the mail, muttered a curse, and got himself a beer.

Some days, aftewards, he flopped down on the couch. Some days he made dinner. Once he hung out in the kitchen while Jim cooked.

As the days went by, the curses seemed more vehement. Less good-natured. One day, Jim finally asked.

"They haven't sent my 1099."

"They...?"

As the word left his mouth, Jim realized who Sandburg meant: Rainier. Apparently Sandburg could see the understanding dawn, because he smiled, an angry twist that bore no resemblance to his usual expression, and went on to get his beer.

"They don't have a leg to stand on," Jim said later.

Sandburg glanced at him and shrugged. "They know I don't want to call." Then he unmuted the television and returned his attention to the game.

Then one day he came home, headed for the mail, and muttered a different curse. This time when he got the beer, he took an envelope with him.

Sandburg retreated after the pizza came. He left his door open, which Jim liked; if they were both in the house with doors open, Jim could preserve the illusion that they were still spending as much time together as they used to. He sat with his book and listened to the papers rustling.

Not long later, the pen scratches stopped. Jim angled his head slightly and zoomed vision in to read, in the reflection of Sandburg's darkened monitor, why Sandburg wasn't working.

The pen was poised over the line which read "Occupation."

---

Near midnight, Sandburg emerged, rolling his arms back and cracking his neck. "God, I hate this shit." When he stretched, his t-shirt rode up slightly, exposing a crescent of skin.

Jim reminded himself not to stare.

"We could've sent them to Hal," he offered. "We still can. There's time."

Sandburg shrugged. "I'm almost done." He sat down on the couch beside Jim and let his head fall back. "But man, my neck is killing me."

Apropos of nothing, a moment later, he muttered "I need to get laid."

Jim glanced at him: faded sweatshirt, plaid pyjama pants, wool socks. "You planning to go out? In that?" Amusement in his tone, hiding the jealousy of whoever Sandburg might meet.

Sandburg grinned. "Nah, I'm too lazy. Which effectively limits my options, I realize."

"Hey, is it my fault you're a purist?"

Sandburg turned his head and stared as if Jim had grown horns.

"What?"

"I'm not a purist," Sandburg said, slowly. "At least, if you mean 'purist' the way I think you do."

It was like a roller-coaster ride, the way his stomach dropped and heart soared.

A minute passed. "You're not straight," Jim said, cautiously.

Sandburg shook his head.

"I thought..." Jim's voice trailed off as the implications of this new understanding dawned.

Sandburg let his head fall back onto the couch, which was shaking slightly because Sandburg was chuckling. Then he was full-out laughing. "Are we really that dumb?"

Jim grinned; the whole world seemed lighter. "I guess we must be."

The silence was different now. Not accusatory, but promising. Sandburg's heartrate was ratcheting up. And something in the air was tantalizing. Made Jim's mouth water. When he glanced over, Sandburg shifted to take Jim's face in his hands. Strong hands.

"It's the thirteenth," Jim said, a last feeble protest. "Don't you need’—"

"Fuck the taxes," Sandburg rasped, and then their mouths met, and April wasn't the cruelest month at all.

The End

Boys Who Wear Glasses

I figured it out a few days after we caught Ellery, my second week of being Vecchio.

Sure, I'd already noticed Fraser was hot. Hadn't been getting much of a vibe from him, though. Until I asked if he found me attractive’—you know, just needling the guy a little’—and there was something new in his voice. Sounded a little awkward, a little strained. Turned my crank. Took me the longest damn time to figure out what made him sound different: I had my freaking glasses on.

You can bet your ass I took advantage of that, later. Used 'em like bait, the first time.

Once he figured out it was okay to be interested’—that clue phone rang midway through the first kiss’—I didn't need help catching his eye. Thank God; my glasses suck. After all the teasing and shit I had to deal with in school, I do not want any reason to wear them except when I have to aim. Fortunately Fraser has some kind of survival thing which means he doesn't think about sex while we're in danger. By the time his libido comes back online, the glasses are back in my pocket. Where they belong.

---

So it's April 13th and I'm on the sofa, working on two sets of taxes. Because of course Vecchio can't fill this shit out from wherever the hell he's undercover, and all my paychecks have his name on 'em, so I have to fill out Vecchio taxes’—but I can't just stop filing my own taxes, either. Walsh swears to God the IRS isn't going to give me shit about my unexplained lack of income, but I'm still not happy. Twice the paperwork. Which makes my head hurt. So I have to whip out the glasses.

Fraser's in the kitchen finishing the dishes. Why we can't eat takeout on paper plates is beyond me.

I don't hear the water shut off, that's how far up my ass my head is. The IRS don't write in English.

Next thing I know his mouth is on the back of my neck. Gentle, at first, but then the teeth come out.

"Hey," I say. "I'm working." And he pulls away, and part of me's a little sorry, but I've gotta get these things finished, we can fuck later.

I've managed to read another sentence and a half when his body pushes my knees apart. He's kneeling on the floor. Hands on my thighs. Breathing through my jeans, right onto my dick, which wakes up pretty much instantly. To hell with the taxes, Fraser's sucking me through my pants.

I drop the papers and they slide off his back all over the floor. He doesn't seem to notice. He's popping the buttons on my fly, tugging, and I'm lifting my hips, and then I'm in his mouth. Holy Jesus. Every single time it blows my mind, there has never been anything this good, nothing, ever, like Benton Fraser's mouth around my dick.

It doesn't take me long. He slides onto the sofa next to me, and I manage to work his jeans open, and I'm reaching for my glasses to put them on the table so I can really grind my face into his crotch. And he stops me. A little hoarse, like always when he knows he's about to get a blowjob. "No," he says. "Leave them on."

So I do. When he comes, he actually makes some noise. Groans my name so loud Dief probably hears.

Y'know, maybe the glasses aren't so bad.

The End