"So what about—what about sunburn?"
They were finishing a sixpack of Red Hook and Blair was psyched: they'd been talking about Jim's senses since eight o'clock, just after dinner, when they'd sat down with their first beers of the evening. He was aware that his notes were getting scrawlier the more he drank, but he knew he'd still be able to read them tomorrow. He'd taken field notes under the influence of stronger things.
"Sunburn?" Jim looked disgusted, which involved a surprising amount of nose-wrinkling for a guy so butch. Not that Blair would ever have told him that. "What, you mean, do I get them?"
"No, Jim; what do they *feel* like."
"Like sunburn. Jesus. What do you expect?"
"No, c'mon, you gotta give me details."
Jim sighed. "Like somebody's gone over my skin with the rough side of a cheese grater."
"Excellent!" Blair was scribbling.
"No, it is not 'excellent,' Sandburg, it hurts like hell."
"Oh—no, no, Jim, I meant the description. Good stuff. What about...peeing, does that feel different?"
Jim put his empty bottle down harder than he needed to. Slammed it, almost. "Christ, Sandburg, you do *not* need to go there. Next you're going to be asking me about sex."
Aha. The perfect opener. "Well, actually, I *am* kind of curious..."
"You want to know what sex feels like."
Nod. Blair hoped he didn't look too eager; sometimes the best way to keep Jim talking was to give him space to do it in.
"What do you think it feels like? Just like it feels for you, only more."
Blair grimaced before he could stop himself.
Of course, Jim noticed. His voice went quieter, as if he knew the tables had suddenly turned. "What? What was that face for?"
"Nothing." Blair took a gulp of beer.
"That wasn't nothing. C'mon, Chief, spill it. I've been talking all night. It's your turn."
Well, fair was fair. If Jim trusted him enough to engage in what was obviously a painful opening-up, he could return the favor.
"Okay, you've been baring yourself for me—figuratively speaking, I mean—so I guess I can bare myself for you. I'm, ah." He coughed. "I'm-not-real-into-sex." He ran the words together. Maybe Jim wouldn't notice. Or wouldn't care.
No such luck. "Not. Real. Into. Sex?" Jim repeated the words syllable by syllable, like they were Greek.
"I just...don't like it."
From the look on Jim's face, Blair might have surmised he'd grown horns.
"Sandburg. There *are* no men who don't like sex."
Blair shrugged. "You're looking at one."
"What, you've...never liked it?"
Blair tipped his bottle back, slightly surprised to discover that it was empty. "Ah...no. I mean, I've tried. Believe me, I've tried." He laughed a little.
"And you've never felt anything?"
Blair shook his head. "Not really. It's...okay, I guess. I mean, it isn't horrible. I'm not scarred by the experience or anything. It just isn't...I mean, I'm not... it's just not as good as I thought, you know, from hearing people talk. I just figured it would be better. It's sort of dissatisfying. I guess I must just be one of those people who isn't into partner sex."
Jim stood and walked into the kitchen, returning with two cold beers. "You sure date a lot for someone who doesn't like to fuck."
Blair felt himself blush. "Actually, that's kind of *why* I date so much. I mean, I keep thinking the next one's going to work. And I like kissing a lot. And I like your, you know, basic touching , right?" Jim nodded, looking a little wary. "So things always start out great. But eventually she notices that she's, ah, having a lot more fun than I am. Or, worse, she doesn't notice. And that's when we break up and I start dating someone else."
Blair could see Jim working up to saying something. He felt embarrassed already. Couldn't quite believe he'd just admitted this stuff. It sounded so...*girly*. Jeez—men weren't supposed to be worried about sex being *more*, they were supposed to just get as much of it as they could. Had he just blown Jim's opinion of him?
To his surprise, when Jim finally spoke, his voice was tentative and his eyes were kind. "Is it that you...can't?"
"Can't? Can't—oh, *can't*." Understanding flooded in and Blair felt his face heating again. "Oh, no, that's not it. I mean, it's okay when it's just me. Myself." He made a vague gesture towards his own body, then stopped, feeling awkward. "It's just with someone else that I...don't enjoy it."
Jim's silence compelled Blair to keep talking, to fill the empty space with sound.
"It's like I can't relax enough to get to where it's fun."
Jim still didn't respond.
"You know, not all sex has to be about climbing the orgasm pyramid, Jim." Lecturing felt safer than emotional disclosure, so he went with it. "Sometimes partner sex can just be about the pleasure of being with a partner, even if you don't come yourself. I mean, maybe that's even better, because, you know, it takes the pressure off."
Jim took a long swig of his beer. "Has it occurred to you," he asked slowly, "that maybe it's *women* you're not into, and you might enjoy sex with men?"
"Yeah, actually." Finishing that fourth beer was looking like a good idea, so Blair took another long pull. "Tried that. Three or four times, just to make sure. You know, different guys, different kinds of —" He stopped, realizing this was probably far more information than Jim Ellison had ever imagined wanting. "Well, anyway. Still didn't do much for me." He put the bottle down and shrugged. "Whatever, man."
There was a pause as Jim downed what was left in his bottle and put the bottle down on the table next to the other empties. They stood in a neat row, brown glass soldiers with paper uniforms.
Some part of him had expected Jim to react to his tacit admission of bisexuality, but Jim didn't speak. He wasn't sure what he expected Jim to say, anyway. It's not like he was going to be stunned, given that he'd all but suggested it himself. And yet...his lack of response was a downer, somehow. Drew the conversation to a halt.
Which was probably where it needed to be. This was all, Blair told himself, way too personal. He stood and gathered the bottles up to carry them to the kitchen. When he returned, Jim was turning out the lights and checking the chain on the door, as usual.
"'Night," Blair offered, not wanting the evening to end with silence.
"Sleep tight, Sandburg."
Jim went up the stairs; Blair went into his room. He waited twenty minutes, until he was sure Jim was asleep, before taking himself in hand.
On Mondays, Blair taught in the morning and had office hours in the late afternoon. He was more tired than usual—they'd spent most of the weekend on stakeout, which was nowhere *near* as exciting in real life as it was in the movies, and he still hadn't quite recovered from the sleep debt—so he'd been hoping maybe nobody would come and he'd be able to doze on his desk. Or, better yet, leave early.
But this week his office was packed. Midterm papers were due in a week and suddenly everyone in his section of 101 was realizing that they were late to start their research, which meant they were all asking for help or for extensions.
Plus, two of Carter's students had come to his office hours, instead of Carter's. Both female: one with very short blonde hair and an eyebrow ring, the other with red hair halfway down her back and freckles on her nose. Blair did his best to ignore the signals they were not-so-subtly sending. ("Oh, Professor Sandburg, you're just so much...easier to talk to than Professor Carter is." Give me, he thought, a fucking break.) He ate take-out at his desk while having phone-in office hours with the kid who'd broken his leg and didn't want to deal with negotiating the Hargrove stairs.
When he locked the door and headed for his car, it was past eight. And cold. Frost spiked the grass white, crunching underfoot. Time to switch to boots. Birks and wool socks weren't going to cut it anymore.
Then the damn Corvair wouldn't start. Blair sat on the cold leather seat for ten minutes, turning the key, pumping the gas, jamming the clutch down, turning the key again. No luck. Wouldn't even cough.
Back into Hargrove to unlock the office and call Jim.
The phone rang four times before the machine picked up.
"Hey! Ah, it's me...I'm on campus....Jim, are you there? Pick up....Look, the car won't start, I really wish you were there..." His voice trailed off. "Okay, never mind, I'll call a cab."
He felt pathetic, but he dialed Cascade Cabs and requested a pickup. He headed outside and stood by the curb, hands in his armpits, trying not to shiver.
The cabbie was from Mexico, so Blair got to practice a few lines of rusty Spanish on the guy. That made him feel slightly better. He gave the guy a decent tip and headed across the parking lot—and suddenly felt worse again. Jim's truck was there. With frost on the windshield, which meant it had been there at least an hour. Why the fuck hadn't Jim picked up the phone?
Because Jim wasn't home, it turned out, even if his truck was. Blair dropped his backpack in the door to his room and changed into sweats. Tired. Really fucking tired.
He was pouring a shot of whiskey into a cup of microwaved coffee when Jim came in. Face a little flushed, cold air reverberating from his leather jacket.
"Hey, man."
"Hey." Jim hung the jacket and bent to unlace his boots.
"Where've you been?"
"Brown's birthday. We went out for a few."
"Sorry I didn't know about it," Blair said. Jim sat down on the couch. "Hey, you want one of these?"
Jim sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. "That coffee's from breakfast."
"Yeah, but the whiskey helps."
Jim shrugged. "Thanks, but I think I've had enough."
"Suit yourself." Oh, god, that was good: hot, sharp, just what he wanted. He crossed to the sofa to join Jim, who was looking at him a little expectantly.
There was a pause.
"So, you guys have a good time?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah," Jim said. Then, in a different tone—more direct—"Look, Sandburg, I've been thinking."
"Mm?" Blair tried to shut down the accumulated irritation of office hours, a dead car, and four days' worth of exhaustion. It had been a fucking long day, but it sounded like Jim was about to say something important, and he didn't want to miss it.
"I think we should try a little test."
"At this hour?" Blair looked down at his watch. He wondered if something were wrong. "What's up, are your senses—"
"Not me," Jim corrected. "You. A test on you."
Blair felt baffled. Had they made some kind of logical leap he couldn't identify? "It's late, Jim."
"C'mon. I let you do all kinds of tests on me; it's only fair for you to reciprocate."
That *did* seem logical. "Okay," Blair said. For a moment Jim just looked at him, again, which made him vaguely uncomfortable.
"Lie down," Jim said, standing at the edge of the couch. Warily, Blair did. "It's just a test, Chief. Relax."
And Jim folded to his knees beside the couch and rubbed Blair's temples for a minute, which, after the day he'd had, felt really fucking good. Slow strokes, just the right amount of pressure. Blair closed his eyes. Whatever kind of test this was, it could just keep going all night, as far as he was concerned.
Sort of funny to hear Jim saying, "It's only a test, relax." He'd said those words to Jim at least a hundred times already. And griped, most of those times, when Jim didn't comply. Okay, he'd be a model subject. He'd take deep breaths and calm his heartbeat down.
Jim removed his glasses; he heard the click as they touched the table. Then the fingers returned and pressed a gentle line over his cheekbones, coming together at the bridge of his nose and lifting away. Smiling with his eyes closed made him feel a little silly, but he let that go. Definitely wanted to encourage this facial massage thing.
But Jim's fingers didn't come back. Blair opened his eyes just in time to see him bending to inhale right over Blair's chest. Eyes closed, face still, as if he were concentrating on something, taking long, slow breaths.
After a few seconds Blair couldn't stand it. "What do you smell?"
Jim leaned up and opened his eyes. "Sweat, detergent, the black bean burrito with cilantro you had for dinner. Now shut up; we're not testing me, here." He went back to the slow inhaling, this time making a closer pass over Blair's shirt, face almost touching the flannel. The third time he actually rubbed against Blair's chest, just for an instant. Like a big cat.
Blair's breathing was starting to quicken. A perfectly normal response to being under scrutiny, right?
Jim braced himself over Blair's body and leaned up towards his face now, pressing his nose into Blair's hair, then ghosting his lips over Blair's forehead.
"I don't know what you're —" Blair started.
Jim's eyes were wry and exasperated. "I'm going to have to shut you up, aren't I?"
It was a good kiss, as kisses went. A focused kiss. A suddenly-someone's-tongue-was-in-Blair's-mouth kind of kiss. A lightbulb went on. This had to be connected to their conversation from last night. Where the hell was Jim going with this?
For an instant he almost panicked, but he quashed the impulse. This was Jim. He trusted Jim. With his life, even, a responsibility to which Jim had already proved himself equal. Whatever Jim was doing, it was going to be okay: he could let go, he could let it be.
Except he couldn't quite let it be. He was flushed when they broke, and breathless, but he couldn't keep himself from talking. "I told you I liked kissing. You're not proving anything."
"Shut *up*, Sandburg," Jim said, again, and sealed his mouth over Blair's. This time his fingers were busy unbuttoning Blair's shirt, and they ghosted lightly over his exposed chest, stopping to rub his nipples very gently. Some dim part of Blair's mind wondered how he'd gotten himself into this; most of him was busy gasping. Air seemed surprisingly hard to come by all of a sudden.
Jim moved to his throat, sucking at the tender flesh there. Blair closed his eyes.
"I can feel the blood moving under your skin," Jim murmured, and Blair shivered. "That's what's making these marks, you know."
"Marks?" he repeated, stupidly.
"Marks," Jim said, in a tone of of profound satisfaction, and bent to suckle at the place where Blair's neck met shoulder. Blair squirmed, caught between the vulnerability and the pleasure. "We're still testing, so *relax*," Jim murmured into Blair's ear before pulling away to stroke a hand over his erection with perfect, hard pressure.
God, he was hard. And Jim was running his hand over him, back and forth, and Blair bit back a moan.
"Breathe," came the reminder, and Blair obediently took a breath, which he expelled with surprise when Jim's large warm hand slipped past the waistband of Blair's sweatpants and pulled them carefully down to his knees.
A gentle stream of air blew past him and Blair gasped. Then Jim bent to lick a straight line along the length of Blair's cock. Blair whimpered.
"Can't do *this* by yourself, can you?" Jim asked, rhetorically, and the breath the words sent past Blair's tender cock was impossible torment.
"Noooo," Blair managed.
"Or this," Jim said, his voice dry, as if he were about to suggest a new brand of beer. He slicked a finger in his mouth and ran it gently over the vein in Blair's balls, back towards the pucker of his ass, rubbing it lightly as he bent to lick another burning streak from root to tip.
Blair groaned.
Jim licked a while longer, toying with him as if he were a slowly melting ice cream cone, and then moved back up Blair's body to kiss him. Blair could taste his own tang in Jim's mouth, a mouth which was already becoming familiar. He knew he liked kissing; he'd always liked kissing. But kissing Jim wasn't like kissing anybody else. He seemed to bring his entire attention to the task at hand.
As if following Blair's train of thought, Jim brought his hand to encircle Blair's cock and stroked the wet flesh, down and back. Blair struggled under his weight, suddenly desperately close to coming, wanting it more than anything. Jim's kiss grew dirtier, his tongue more aggressive, linked with the insistent tempo of his cupped hand. Blair moaned into his mouth. Jim bit his tongue and tightened his hand at the same moment, just so, just there, and Blair was off, dick pulsing unbearably, breath coming so fast he almost couldn't get enough oxygen. Jim had pulled away from his mouth, was murmuring in his ear.
"That's it, yeah, that's it," he said, again. "That's it." Blair was still gasping, stunned, eyes wet from the sheer force of it. "Don't hyperventilate, Chief," Jim said, softly, and Blair did his best to comply.
As he calmed he became aware that Jim was hard against his thigh. He pushed up, experimentally, and Jim pushed back, biting very gently at his ear.
"You want me to—" he murmured.
"Scoot," Jim said, pushing and pulling to reorient them until they were lying side by side. Jim's legs were around his; Blair's legs were held together by the sweatpants, still bunched at the base of his thighs.
"Like this," Jim said, moving his hand down and showing him how to push, how gentle and how hard. Jim's dick was hot, even through his khakis, and Blair found himself imagining what it would feel like to touch it without clothes in the way.
He moved to kiss Jim, and Jim sighed into his mouth, and Blair grew more confident, stroking the top of Jim's dick with his thumb through the cloth. The kiss was hot and sweet. Better. Better than the kisses he was used to.
He was lost in that thought when suddenly Jim stiffened beneath his hands, and he felt a throbbing, and a wetness seeping through the cloth. The fact that he had just made Jim—Jim, his fucking *research subject*, not to mention his roommate and maybe his best friend—come like that made him almost giddy.
Shivers were still flurrying through his body, but he tried to sound casual. "So, Jim," he said. His lips twitched. "I've been dying to ask. What's sex like for a sentinel?"
Jim gusted a laugh. "What's that, Sandburg? Your version of 'was it good for you, baby?'"
"Well, was it?" Blair said, grinning openly now.
Jim didn't answer. He tightened his arms around Blair and kissed his temple.
They lay together for a while, not speaking, just rubbing together occasionally in something alarmingly like nuzzling.
"Your tests are a lot more fun than mine are," Blair said, finally.
Jim chuckled; the sound moved through Blair like far-away kettledrums. "Yeah, well. Now that I've given you some ideas, I'm sure you can come up with something more enjoyable than strobe lights and disco balls."
"Fuck yes," Blair said, fervently.
"That could be fun." Archly.
Blair felt himself flush. That hadn't been what he'd meant.
Then again, maybe Jim was right. Maybe it *would* be fun.
"I think it's time for all good researchers to be in their beds," Jim said, after a moment. They disentangled and sat on the sofa for a moment, a little awkwardly.
"Wow," Blair said, finally.
Jim grinned. "Sleep well, Chief," he said, and a glint arose in his eye. "Tomorrow's another day."
The End