
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/83285.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Sentinel
  Relationship:
      Jim_Ellison/Blair_Sandburg, Blair_Sandburg/Original_Male_Character
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-04-27 Words: 11309
****** Past, Present, Future ******
by lamardeuse
Summary
     On the eve of his graduation from the Academy, Blair thinks back to
     other homes he's known.
Notes
     Written for Kungfunurse and the 2006 Moonridge auction.
See the end of the work for more notes
I

Naomi's hand is comforting in Blair's hair as she speaks, her voice melodious
and dripping with regret, and Blair knows she's not coming. But then he'd known
for a while.
“You'll have many graduations, sweetie. The Maharishi – well, he anticipates
ascension to the astral plane soon, and – ”
To be honest, Blair stops listening at that point, because he's heard it
before. His mother has never been much for traditional observances. No matter
how much she might want to go on about her latest spiritual advisor's visit
being a once-in-a-lifetime event, Blair knows it's just a coverup for the fact
that she sees most bourgeois North American rituals as unimportant, silly, even
a little sinister.
It doesn't help that Blair's graduation from high school is a major sign that
both of them are getting older.
Naomi had wanted to send him to the Cascade Alternative High School when they
first moved here, but Blair had worried that colleges would look askance at
that, so the good old Warren G. Harding P.H.S. it was. Always able to make
friends in unlikely places, Blair steered himself through the murky, jock-
filled waters of public high school with very little trouble, and went from
freshman to senior in only three years. Now he's just turned sixteen and all
set to go to Rainier in the fall, and he's not interested in looking back. Once
he gets that piece of paper, he's done, finished, finito. On to the next stage
in his life.
It doesn't matter that she won't be there next week, he tells himself. After
all, it's not like Naomi's involved herself very much in his education, at
least recently. The teachers at Harding – affectionately nicknamed Hardon High
by the students –  were fair but old-fashioned, and Naomi never got along with
them. In fact, she argued with them so much that Blair begged her to stop
attending parent conferences; since he always got straight A's and was the
model student it was never that big of a deal anyway. He could tell she was
disappointed in his relationship to the power structure – he approached his
teachers with the philosophy of keep smiling and turn in work so good they
can't take points off for your hair, and it worked. Naomi wanted him to stage
sit-ins in the goddamned cafeteria, to run for class president on a GLBT
ticket, but he knew from the beginning that high school was not going to be his
battleground. He had his eyes on the future, and they did not include being cut
down in the prime of life by a bunch of middle-aged public servants with one
eye on the 1950's and the other on their fat pensions.
It doesn't matter that she won't be there next week, he thinks again, trying to
be philosophical. They can't be the two musketeers for the rest of their lives.

Everything changes, sweetie. Naomi's voice in his head when he's – what? Three,
four? Anyway, it's one of his earliest memories, the two of them lying on top
of a mud hut in Baja and watching meteors drop out of the sky, falling to their
deaths. Nothing lasts forever. And that's okay.

 
 
 
 
II

Three days before Blair's due to graduate from the Academy, he gets a tearful
call from his mother telling him she's not going to be there. Jim tries not to
eavesdrop, but when he hears the distress in Blair's voice as he speaks to her
on the phone, he can't help but stretch his hearing out to pick up the other
end of the conversation.
“You can't say I'll have many more graduations; this might be the last one.”
Jim can hear Naomi suck in a breath. “Please don't say that. You're going to
get your doctorate. I know you will.”
A sigh from Blair. “I don't think that's going to happen. Anyway, it's not
important anymore.”
Jim ignores the stabbing sensation in his gut as Naomi says, “But it was your
destiny, sweetie!”
Blair actually chuckles, the sound hollow. “Nothing lasts forever, right?”
It's not the first time it occurs to Jim that Blair might not want this. He's
thought about it pretty much from day one, when they came home from the station
and Blair went straight to bed and slept for fourteen solid hours, or from day
two, when Simon told them Blair would have to go through the full roster of
academy courses instead of just the weapons training. After that, he's thought
about it nearly every damned day, because while Blair had taken to his classes
readily enough, even the hand-to-hand combat, there's a little nagging voice in
the back of Jim's brain that keeps asking why the hell Blair is sticking with
this. No matter how much he thinks about it, he can't come up with any good
answers.
As for Naomi and her disappointment and her guilt trips, that's a snap to
figure out. All parents want a child molded in their own image, and Blair no
longer fits that image. In some ways, it was easier for Jim; he was never the
son his father had wanted, so he stopped trying a long time ago. He doesn't
think it's hit Blair that he's not measuring up anymore.
“I'm sorry I can't make it,” Naomi says finally, and Blair's voice only cracks
a little when he answers.
“Yeah, me too, Mom. Me, too.”

 
 
 
 
III

His name is Peter and he's a basketball player, the only other white guy on the
team. He's pale and freckled and a good eight inches taller than Blair, all
long lines and lean, ropy muscle. It's not that Blair doesn't find the black
players attractive – he does – but to a man they're hopelessly straight, and
treat him more like a favorite mascot than anything else. Blair doesn't mind
excessively, because even being a second string point guard affords him certain
coolness points, plus he gets to attend all the practices and hang out after
games. His basketball's improved, and his social life is off the charts.
Peter's on the A-team, and he's good, and he could get way more action than
he's getting now, which as far as Blair can tell is none. He seems to be
unaware of the fact that any of the half dozen or so girls who faithfully
attend the games would be more than happy to go out with him. Blair tries to
drop some gentle hints, but Peter doesn't pick up on them, and then one day
after a game they're all wolfing down burgers at their favorite hangout on
Harbor Street and Peter looks across the table at him and smiles, slowly and
speculatively. Blair feels incredibly stupid for about five seconds, and then
he smiles back.
Blair's fifteen but it's not the first time he's ever done anything, just the
first time with someone with matching equipment. Peter's sixteen and doesn't
seem much more experienced than he is, because when they get back to Blair's
place he fumbles with Blair's clothes for a while, hands fluttering nervously
when they brush bare skin, and asks about a hundred times if Blair's mother is
coming back anytime soon.
“She won't be home for hours, man. Now, just – can we – ” and Peter suddenly
gets with the program, shoving Blair's t-shirt up over his head and starting on
his jeans before Blair can draw breath to say anything else. Blair makes a
concerted effort to catch up and soon has Peter down to his boxer shorts, which
are – wow – this really astonishing shade of lime. If Peter's mother buys his
underwear, she totally knows he's gay.
Blair may be young, but he's started to fill out in the last year – all that
basketball has paid off in more ways than one – and while he'll probably never
be tall, his voice has deepened, his jaw has squared off, and hair has been
sprouting in all kinds of interesting places. The few assholes who liked to
call him faghave stopped – their new favorite epithet is hippie, not that Blair
gives a shit about either label, but it's an interesting change from an
anthropological standpoint. Societies love to deal in stereotypes; sometimes he
thinks it's the glue that binds them together.
Peter, however –  tall and lithe and covered in skin as translucent as
porcelain –  is definitely worthy of beautiful, though Blair knows enough not
to tell him so. Instead, he leans forward to kiss him, hoping that will say it
for him.
But Peter jerks away before Blair can connect. “I, uh – ” he stammers, licking
his lips nervously, “I don't do that.”
Blair wants to say, You're sixteen years old; how the hell do you know what you
do? but he doesn't; instead he nods and steps back. “Fine, no problem. You do
this, though, right?” and he cups his hand over the front of Peter's violently
pastel boxers. Peter groans and licks his lips again and nods frantically, then
does the same to Blair, and bingo, they're finally making progress here.
And that would be when the front door of the apartment slams and Naomi calls,
“Blair? Blair, sweetie, are you home?”
They barely manage to get back into their pants before Naomi's knocking on the
door; Blair's muffled, “Just a minute!” comes out through the neck hole in his
t-shirt as he wrestles it over his head. He sprints to the door and opens it
just as Peter finishes buttoning his shirt, and he knows it's going to be
obvious to her that they've been making out.
Or rather, not making out. Whatever.
Naomi takes in the scene with her usual wide smile before it turns subtly
knowing. Blair manages the introductions, and Naomi apologizes to both of them
for coming back early. “I was just stopping by to change for the concert,” she
explains. “I'll be out of your hair in a jiffy.” With a final smile at Peter
and a brief caress of Blair's cheek, she disappears as quickly as she's come.
When her bedroom door shuts, Peter snatches up his backpack and makes to leave.
Blair grabs his arm. “Hey, man, didn't you hear her? She's going right out
again. We can pick up where we left off.”
Peter turns back to look at him as if he's just grown an extra head. “Are you
nuts?” he whispers, pointing an accusing finger down the hall. “She knows!”
Blair shrugs. “Well, yeah. My mother isn't exactly averse to the idea of sexual
experimentation; she thinks it's a healthy part of human personal development.”
He waves a hand. “Anyway. The point is, we don't have to stop.”
“I can't do this,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I can't do this knowing your
mother thinks it's cool. Jesus Christ, Blair.”
Blair frowns. “So if nobody knew, or if my mother was screaming and kicking us
out, that would be a big turn-on for you?”
Peter huffs out a breath, and Blair lets him go. When he reaches the door, he
turns around and says, “Look, I'll see you next practice, okay?” like they
haven't been groping each other's dicks not five minutes before.
“Yeah, sure,” Blair mutters to Peter's retreating back. “See you around.” When
he hears the front door open and close, he shuts his own door and sits cross-
legged on the bed, seeking his center, trying to clear his mind and achieve a
higher, more objective view of the situation.
It's tough to be a detached observer of human frailties and conditions when
your balls are blue, he decides after a few frustrated minutes, unbuttoning his
jeans and clearing his mind in the most basic way possible. When it's over, he
lies staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, remembering the arc of dying
meteors and taking comfort in the knowledge that his adolescence, like
everything else, will eventually be history.

 
 
 
 
IV

“So is this what you call shacking up?” Megan asks, her hand sweeping to take
in the mountain cottage Rafe and Henri have bought together. The assembled
crowd laughs, and Rafe makes a face at her.
“How many times do we have to tell you,” Henri explains patiently, slinging an
arm around her shoulders, “that he gets it half the year, I get it half the
year. It's like a time share.”
“Starsky and Hutch bought a house together,” Simon points out.
Jim takes another swig of his beer as Megan shrugs, obviously unimpressed. “Oh,
please,” she says, “everyone knows that Starsky and Hutch were boffing like
bunnies.” She looks around at the others for confirmation, and Jim sees the
women nodding as the guys just look stricken.
Rafe holds a hand to his heart. “She's sullying my childhood, man. Make her
stop.” The laughter is dominated by the higher registers, and gradually most of
the guys either drift off toward the lake or over to the barbecue, where they
make grunting noises over the blackening meat.
Blair isn't in either of those groups, choosing to stand off to one side at the
opposite end of the deck from the barbecue, gazing out into the deepest part of
the woods. He's been down since the call from his mother yesterday, and Jim
doesn't know how to bring it up to him. If he does, he'll have to admit he was
eavesdropping, and Jim doesn't want to do anything that might make him run.
He's never been more sure in his life that Blair is poised for flight; his
whole posture even now suggests he's about to bolt off into the wilderness,
never to be heard from again.
Last night he had that dream again, the one where Blair was the wolf, only
instead of shooting him with an arrow, Jim was a panther chasing him through
the jungle. He was practically flying,his paws barely hitting the forest floor,
and he could feel the muscles bunching and releasing under his pelt, the minor
corrections instinctive as he dodged tree trunks and sailed over fallen logs.
When he finally caught up to him, he leapt onto Blair's back and rolled with
him, finally emerging on top, staring down at the wolf as he transformed back
into the man.
Blair's hair was wild and his cheeks were flushed and his face and neck were
sheened with sweat. Jim leaned down to lick salt from the skin over his
jugular, and found that he, too, was back to normal, whatever the fuck that
was. Still, that didn't stop him from lapping at every inch of Blair he could
reach while still holding onto him.
“Christ, Jim,” Blair gasped, squirming and pushing futilely against Jim's hold.
“You've got to let me go. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Jim rasped, pressing his nose into Blair's armpit and scenting him like
he was in heat. “Yeah, I know. Just – give me a little bit more. Just a little
bit more.”
“I can't,” Blair choked, still shoving at him. “I can't, Jim, I can't, I can't
– ”
Jim woke up with his heart hammering against his ribs and his lips moving
soundlessly: you can you can you can you can...
He sees Megan walk up to Blair, sees her nudge him with an elbow, stirring him
from his reverie. She leans in and speaks to him, and Jim can tell from her
profile that she's concerned. It's tough to tell from Blair's expression what
his reactions are; usually, he's an open book, but today his face gives nothing
away. They've taught him well at the Academy. Interrogation techniques 101,
first lesson: don't let the perp see what's in your head.
Jim looks away. It's the same expression Blair had last night in the dream.
Like he'd already packed up and left, and only his body was left behind, a
shell for Jim to rut against.
He hears a commotion over at the other end of the deck and turns. Henri is
chasing Rafe around the barbecue, yelling, “Aw, Hutch baby! Kiss me!” to the
howls of the men and the yelping protests of Rafe.
Jim thinks they wouldn't understand and then they would and then decides he
doesn't give a damn either way.

 
 
 
 
V

When Blair is six they move again. He was too young to remember the details of
the first couple of moves, but his body is suffused with a kind of restlessness
that makes him watchful and afraid in the middle of the night, not of anything
as mundane as monsters under the bed, but of upheaval, the very surface of the
earth yawning like a hungry mouth and swallowing his tiny room.
“Can't we stay?” he asks, plaintively, because this time he has clear, real
memories of everything that happened to him here. The land around the commune
is gently rolling and verdant in the summer and he and the other boys and girls
spend hours out in the fresh air, running and laughing and tumbling through
fields filled with the sharp scent of wild, warm grass. The winter was mild,
but since Blair has never seen a white Christmas, he doesn't miss it. He only
knows that he loves this place, and never wants to leave.
Naomi squats down to his level and shakes her head. “I'm sorry, Blair. I can't
explain to you all the reasons we're leaving, but I can tell you it's best for
us to go.”
“Don't you love me anymore?” The words are out before he can censor them, and
once they're spoken he feels stupid, a baby. Even at this age, Blair hates to
say or do anything that might be labeled as childish; he's as comfortable
around adults as he is around other kids, and he already prides himself on
being able to talk about important things like disarmament and the plight of
migrant workers.
Naomi sucks in a breath at that, and Blair sees tears form in the corners of
her eyes. “You know that I love you, I love you more than anything in this
world, sweetie,” she says, catching his small body in her arms and holding him
tightly. Blair hears the words, but nothing can change the fact that she's
making him leave the best home he's ever known, and it's the first time he
understands that people can lie without believing they have, because deep down
he can't really love her the way her words tell him.
“We're still the two musketeers, aren't we?” she asks, still wrapped around
him, and her voice is too small and uncertain for him to say what he really
wants to say. No matter how much he wants to at this moment, he can't bring
himself to hurt her, to pull the earth out from under her feet the way she's
just done to him.
“Yeah, Mom,” he answers, hands rising to return her hug as best he can. “We'll
always be the two musketeers.”

 
 
 
 
VI

Jim raises his hand to knock on Blair's door, but some impulse stills his hand
before it can connect. Instead, he finds himself turning the knob and pushing
the door open just enough for him to peer inside. The morning light is pouring
in the windows and spilling over his bed, but Blair is still snoring softly,
his hair a fluffy, unruly cloud around him on the pillow.
Jim knows he should turn away, close the door behind him and go put the coffee
on. Instead, his feet take him further into the room, closer to the bed, until
he's standing over Blair and staring down at him, his heartbeat so loud in his
ears he wouldn't hear a cannon go off right beside him.
He wants – he wants to say he doesn't know what he wants, but that's a lie. The
feeling starts in his gut as a slow, sweet ache, and he knows what it is,
recognizes it as easily as the face that greets him in the mirror every
morning. It's terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, like freefall, like
white water rafting, like realizing you've placed your heart in another
person's hands and don't have a hope in hell of getting it back.
He's leaning down, one hand outstretched to touch, when Blair snorts and flails
himself awake.
“Wha – Jim?” Blair blinks and shoves himself up on his elbows. “Something the
matter?”
“Uh – no, no,” Jim returns, shaking his head to clear it. “Just – I thought I'd
put on some coffee. You want light or dark?”
Blair frowns slightly, and Jim realizes he's processing that incredibly lame
excuse. “Uh – light, I guess,” he says slowly, and Jim resists the urge to bang
his head against the nearest solid surface, because Blair has to know he didn't
come in here just to ask him about his goddamned coffee preference. “Jim, are
you sure you're okay? ”
“I'm fine,” Jim manages, teeth clamping around the words that want to get out.
I don't want you to do this for me. I'll survive without you. If you don't want
to go through with it, for Christ's sake, just say so.
He keeps the words inside because he knows every one of them is a lie, and
because the last thing he wants to hear right now is the truth. “I'll – go put
that coffee on,” he murmurs, turning away from Blair's now frankly speculative
expression.

 
 
 
 
VII

When Blair is eleven Naomi lives with this guy who asks her to marry him.
Blair has seen a lot of men – and a couple of women – move in and out of
Naomi's life. She's not promiscuous, usually staying with one person for
several months at a time, but by this age Blair has determined a pattern in her
relationships: she tends to be drawn to people who can offer some experience
that will broaden her horizons, usually in non-conventional directions. Hence
the Renaissance lute player, the Tibetan political activist, the performance
tattoo artist.
Graham is an anomaly, an editor for an organic farmers' magazine who is – well,
pretty much normal, by most people's standards. He owns a ten-acre farm in the
San Fernando Valley, which provides produce for local vegetarian restaurants
and inspiration for his articles. He has grown up on the land he works and he
intends to die there. He is all about stability, permanence, forever.
This would be why he gets down on one knee over dessert one Sunday night, Naomi
horrorstruck as he presents his grandmother's ring, Blair looking on with wide,
shocked eyes.
You putz, he thinks but doesn't say. You've gone and ruined it.
“It's just – so bourgeois,” Naomi cries, as Blair hands her another Kleenex.
She dabs at her eyes, and when she speaks there's a mixture of anger, hurt and
confusion in her tone. “I mean – I thought he understood me. Understood the way
I want to live my life.”
Blair's heard Naomi rail against marriage as institutionalized prostitution cum
slavery often enough for him to know where this conversation is headed. He
looks out over the meadow, where Graham's cow is happily eating clover, raising
its head every now and then to watch them as they sit beneath the massive oak
tree at the edge of the property. “Maybe he thought he would be the one,” Blair
says, shrugging.
Naomi blinks at him. “'The one'?” she asks, shaking her head. “What one?”
Blair leans back against the trunk, letting its solidity seep into his bones,
trying to experience as much of this place as he can. They won't be here much
longer. “The one you'd want to spend the rest of your life with.”
Naomi stares at him, then laughs that light musical laugh that of all her
unique qualities is the most distinctive thing about his mother. “Oh, Blair.
You've been watching too many of those old movies.” It's true: Graham loves
classic films, and in the four months they've been here, he's shared dozens
with Blair, who enjoys the simplicity of a happily-ever-after ending even as he
doubts such a thing exists. “There is no 'one' person for me, for anyone.
That's a Victorian myth propagated by the patriarchy.”
Blair doesn't say anything, because deluded by the patriarchy or not, Graham is
a nice guy, possibly the nicest guy Blair's ever met, and definitely the nicest
guy Naomi's ever been with. He's fallen head over heels in love with her, and
he's too nice to realize that the minute that happened, he was doomed. Last
night he asked Blair how he might like to live here forever, and Blair had to
bite his tongue to stop himself from telling Graham to keep his mouth shut,
because as soon as he proposed to Naomi, she would run. It's not up to him to
manage his mother's love life, or to offer advice to guys who don't have the
sense to see her for who she really is.
Naomi Sandburg is a free spirit shackled to the ideal of freedom, dedicated to
the rejection of commitment. Blair doubts that anyone could love her enough to
keep her from running. In fact, the opposite is true: too much love is a prison
from which Naomi will do anything to escape.
Blair loves her just enough to keep her close, but he's had a decade of
practice, of learning the boundaries of his complicated, beautiful mother.
Graham never had a chance.

 
 
 
 
VIII

“You realize this is the longest I've ever lived in one place?”
Jim shakes his head at the non sequitur, delivered as it is in the middle of
the halftime recap as they sit in front of the TV on Sunday watching the Jags
game. “I thought you told me you'd lived in Cascade for over half your life,”
he said.
Blair waves a hand. “I'm talking about actual place of residence, here. I've
been pretty nomadic – moving from apartment to apartment, spending at least a
couple of months every year in Borneo or Mexico or – ”
“ – other countries with names ending in 'o'.”
Blair shoots him a look. “Yeah, smart alec. Anyway, I'm just saying that living
here is some kind of record, like one for my personal Guinness book, you know?”
“So what do you want, a fucking medal?” Jim startles them both with the harsh
question, and his face flushes as Blair stares at him.
“No,” Blair says carefully. “It was just an observation, Jim.”
“Yeah, I – uh, sorry,” Jim says lamely, and after a minute Blair nods and turns
back to the screen. The thing is, Jim's been doing a lot of thinking about
Blair and the subject of permanence over the last few months as Blair has gone
through the Academy, and he's reached certain conclusions on the subject, none
of which he's willing to share with Blair. Jim understands that the life of an
anthropology grad student allowed Blair a sort of stable instability; he was
off around the world every summer, there was a steady stream of young,
attractive people to choose from, he could always take off to another part of
the world whenever he found himself getting tied down or stale. At the police
station everyone knows everyone else's business and there's a wide range of
ages and shapes, not all of them pleasing. It's the same old same old, day in
and day out, and every night he comes home to the same person.
There are times when Jim's sure he's crazy for wanting to hold him here, and
then there are times when he's dying to ask, Why did you? and Does this mean? 
This is one of the latter times; Christ, he's practically bursting with things
he wants to say, and he's never been a man who's had trouble keeping his own
counsel. Something about Blair has always made him want to speak, made the
words come out whether he wants them to or not.
“Do you think – ” he starts, and Blair turns his head, eyebrows raised
expectantly. He clears his throat and tries again. “I mean,Ithink – ” Jesus,
could he be any more of an idiot? He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Blair turns toward him, hoisting one leg up on the couch and slinging one arm
across the back. “Go ahead,” he encourages softly, his attention fully engaged
for what seems like the first time in weeks, and Jim's helpless to do anything
but spill his guts right there in the living room.
“I think – some things can be forever.” He sounds like a fucking Hallmark card,
and Blair gazes at him for a long moment, his expression registering so many
conflicting emotions that Jim doesn't have a hope in hell of untangling the
mess. Christ, he has enough trouble sorting out his own chaos; what is he
supposed to do with this?
“Jim, are you – ” Blair begins, reaching toward him, and Jim's off the couch
before he even knows he's moved.
“I gotta get up early tomorrow,” he says gruffly. “Good night, Sandburg.”
When Jim glances back, Blair's hand is still frozen halfway to the place where
Jim used to be. “Yeah,” he says hollowly, not looking at him. “Good night,
Jim.”

 
 
 
 
IX

When Victoria, his third college girlfriend, lasts more than four months,
Blair's convinced he's in love with her. She's pretty but not gorgeous,
gregarious but not a social butterfly, sweet but not a pushover; in other
words, a solid, dependable choice. There's no way she's going to flake out on
him; she's in this for the long haul.
He knows she's getting serious when she invites him to her parents' place for
Thanksgiving, and that is – well, kind of like paying a visit to another planet
for the afternoon. Vicki's mother is one of those Donna Reed types and her
father watches the football game on mute out of the corner of his eye the whole
way through dinner. He also wears an Arnold Palmer cardigan and talks about
Reagan in glowing terms while eyeing Blair's hair, as if it's going to fly off
his head and envelop him in some kind of evil Communist plot.
“Sorry,” Vicki says afterwards, wincing, “they can be a little – well,
annoying.”
“The turkey was good, though.” Butterball, her mom had said proudly, the way
Naomi used to invoke Cheor Malcolm,and he suddenly has a vision of Vicki in a
flower print dress and a beehive hairdo presenting him with one of those
fluorescent Jell-O molds with the fruit cocktail lodged in it, and maybe it's
then that he realizes the relationship is ultimately doomed.
They're a day away from their six month anniversary when Blair gets the call
about the New Guinea trip. He goes to her place the next night all set to tell
her about it, but gets cold feet when she opens the door, the small bachelor
apartment crammed with flickering candles. She's cooked him a Pad Thai that
makes his eyes water, and it takes him two hours to get up the balls to tell
her.
Two hours, fifteen minutes and a few tears later, he's standing on the other
side of her closed door. For the first time in his life he's the one who's made
the decision to leave.
He's become his mother, and that scares the shit out of him.

 
 
 
 
X
Jim gets up early that morning and goes to work, even though his shift doesn't
start until ten. When he clocks out he picks up his dress uniform for
tomorrow's graduation ceremony from the dry-cleaner's, drives aimlessly around
town for a while, then returns home weary and out of sorts around eight.
Blair's lying with his sock feet propped up on the couch, reading that new
biography of Margaret Mead he's been talking about. Something inside Jim
softens and yields to the inevitable at the  familiar sight of Sandburg here,
in his space. Their space, now, though he isn't under any illusions that Blair
understands that.
He knows he can't keep Blair, but God, how he wants to believe he can.
“Hey, Jim,” Blair says, glancing up and smiling at him. “I made seafood
lasagna. There's a piece for you on the top shelf, salad's on the bottom.”
Jim swallows around the foolish lump in his throat. “I – uh, thanks,” he says,
kicking off his shoes and hanging the uniform on the coat hook on the wall.
Blair's gaze flickers over the bag.
“Dress blues?” he asks, too casually.
“Yeah,” Jim says. “Big day tomorrow.”
“You, um,” Blair begins, and the fact that he's obviously at a loss makes
something cold and hollow form in Jim's chest. “Is anybody from the station
going to be there?”
Jim hesitates; he's not sure what the right answer is here, so he tries to keep
it light instead of saying, of course they're going to fucking be there;
they're you're family. Blair, he remembers, has grown up with differing
expectations. “Just about everybody you've ever worked with, Sandburg. Not too
many.”
Blair actually looks thunderstruck; Jim watches him absorb this, and his voice
is rough when he says, “Wow. That's – that's fine. I mean, that's nice of
them.” He chuckles briefly. “No pressure, then.”
Jim feels as though he's been kicked in the stomach. “I – look, if you don't
want them to be there, just – ”
Blair's up off the couch before he can finish the sentence, coming toward him,
and shit, Jim can't do this; he backs up like a skittish horse. Blair halts,
sensing his unease. “No, I'm – it's not that, I'm grateful they're going to be
there. Really. I'm – yeah.” He nods, a slow smile spreading over his face. “It
– uh, it means a lot to know they're going to be there, actually.”
Jim clenches his fists at his sides, because Blair looks so fucking beautiful
in that moment that he wants to crawl inside him and never come out. “Blair,
you – ” He takes a deep breath and blurts it out before he can tell himself not
to. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Blair's smile disappears in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Jim's jaw clenches. “I mean what I'm saying,” he says. “Are you sure you want
to be a cop?”
Blair stares at him, then surprises him by bursting out laughing. “Wow, Jim.
You're asking me this now?”
Well, now he feels like an idiot. “Yeah, I'm asking you now,” he snaps. “Why
don't you answer the question?”
Blair spreads his hands in a pacification gesture that just pisses Jim off even
more. “I guess I'm trying to figure out why you would think I'd suddenly change
my mind the day before my graduation.”
“Because of the way you've been moping around for the past few days!” Jim
shouts, exasperated. “Because you've been acting like you're going to a wake
tomorrow.” Because I don't know if you've ever really wanted this, he wants to
say but doesn't.
Blair stands for a moment, frozen and stunned, then nods slowly. “Yeah, I, uh,
I guess I have, now that you mention it.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“I've been – stuck in my own head lately, taking a trip down memory lane.”
“Good memories or bad?” Jim asks tentatively.
Blair shrugs. “Neither, really.”
Jim makes a helpless gesture. “Then – ”
“Okay, so I've been thinking about it,” Blair admits suddenly. “I've been
thinking about the fact that I grew up with someone who taught me that to stay
in one place for too long, intellectually or literally, was about the worst
thing you could ever do. I'm moving into a new phase of life, fine, it's all
fresh and exciting to me right now. But what happens in five years, or ten?
Will I still want to be doing this? Will I even be capable of doing this? I
don't want to commit to this – to you – and then walk away. That's not fair to
you.”
“Well, maybe I shouldn't have asked you to do this in the first place,” Jim
says, because since it's all going to hell anyway he might as well speed it
along. “Maybe I was just being selfish.”
Blair blinks at him. “Wait a minute. What are you saying, exactly? ”
“I'm saying I don't want you to look back on this moment five years from now
and wonder why the hell you said yes,” Jim grits, taking a step forward. “I'm
saying I was thinking about me more than I was thinking about you when I made
the offer. I wanted you to have a reason to stay.”
Blair shakes his head slowly. “You – you didn't ask me because you thought I'd
make a good cop?”
Jim gapes at him for a few moments; he's standing here with his guts hanging
out and Blair isn't even noticing. “I think you'll make a terrific cop,” he
says weakly. “That's not – ”
“I mean objectively,” Blair interrupts.
“I can't be objective,” Jim protests. Shit, he's getting dragged under and he
can't even call out to Blair for a lifeline, because Blair is the one shoving
his head under the water.
Blair smiles. “Well, that wasn't exactly a fair question, since objectivity in
any endeavor is basically meaningless. You have to be aware of the prejudices
and preconceptions you're bringing to the table.”
Jim stands there like a dick for a couple of seconds, then takes three steps
forward, curves his fingers around Blair's chin and kisses him.
“That's one of my prejudices,” he says when he pulls back. “Thought you should
know.”
“Oh,” Blair manages, eyes glazed. “Okay. Thanks.”
Jim turns, because he needs to get out of here now. “I, um,” Blair says; Jim
turns back but can't quite meet Blair's eyes, focusing on his right earlobe
instead.
“What?” Jim murmurs.
“I know it's a corny line, but how long have you, uh – felt this way?”
“For a while,” Jim says.
“How long?” Blair repeats, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.
Jim crosses his arms. “I don't know, Sandburg, I didn't write the damned day
down in my diary.” Which is the truth only insofar as he doesn't own a diary,
because he remembers the moment like it had happened yesterday instead of more
than eight months ago. It was a Tuesday, and he was chopping Chinese lettuce
and fat orange peppers for one of Blair's monster stir-frys, and he thought,
This is what I want, and I want it forever. There is no way in hell, however,
he is saying this aloud. “I shouldn't have told you,” he mutters instead.
“Why not?”
“Because this isn't about what I want. I'm not your mother, Sandburg.”
And right then Jim realizes he's fucked up in a major way, because Blair's gaze
grows distant and untouchable, like he's already boarding the plane to
somewhere Jim isn't.
“Yeah, but maybe I am,” he murmurs.
Before Jim can come up with a response to that, Blair is already out the door.

 
 
 
 
XI

Blair wakes up feeling like several hundred strangers have been busily stomping
on his skull all night. To say it's the crappiest he's ever felt is probably
accurate, only this is so far from any previous level of crappy he's attained
that it seems to deserve its own category.
He can see a hell of a lot more than he could before, but there's a glowing
fringe of gold obscuring the edges of his vision, making whatever's dead in the
center seem limned by an unearthly halo. He slowly turns his head to survey the
room, and nearly vaults out of his skin when he focuses on Jim's worried face
only a couple of feet from his own, eyes squinted myopically. He shuts his own
eyes in self-preservation for a moment, but Jim's concerned voice pursues him
in his retreat.
“Blair? Hey, you okay, buddy? You awake?” A tentative brush of fingers against
Blair's cheek makes him crack his eyes open again; Jim's still there, and this
time Blair can see the worry and – God, desperation – in Jim's expression.
“M'fine,” Blair manages to croak, his voice rusty from disuse. Man, how long
has he been out? He searches his memory, and he's flooded by vague, flashing
impressions: stark, unreasoning fear, feet pounding down the stairs trying to
escape, the smell of gasoline and rubber, the weight of Jim's revolver in his
hands...
Jesus Christ. “Did – hurt anybody?” he rasps. Frustrated at his patchy memory,
he struggles to sit up, only to be stopped by the firm pressure of Jim's hand
against his chest.
“Shh, calm down, nothing happened, everybody's fine,” Jim murmurs, and suddenly
Blair's blindsided by another memory, of being cocooned in Jim's arms, strong
and solid, of feeling as though he could happily spend an eternity in that safe
haven. It's a feeling that should frighten him, but all he can summon is a
sharp ache, a desperate longing to be back there right now.
It's the last of the Golden talking, he knows that, but it doesn't stop his
hand from reaching up to entwine with Jim's where it rests over his heart. He
feels Jim's fingers stiffen for a moment, then slide between his own, two
pieces of a puzzle coming together at last, and God, his heart is racing for an
entirely different reason now.
“I thought I'd – God, don't do that again, okay?” Jim's voice is small and
close to breaking, and Blair squeezes his fingers as hard as he can.
“Can't get rid o'me – that easily,” he says. Jim chuckles, but he's still
holding on when Blair drifts off to sleep again.

 
 
 
 
XII

Jim spends a restless night on the couch, and when he wakes up there's still no
sign of Sandburg. He tries Blair's cell phone a dozen times and gets routed to
the answering machine every time. He doesn't leave a message, but he does enjoy
cursing liberally after he hangs up.
At nine-fifteen, he straightens his tie one last time in the mirror and walks
out the door. Forty minutes later he's sitting in the auditorium at the civic
centre surrounded by his brothers and sisters in blue, a fake smile plastered
to his face as he scans the stage and the chairs down in front for a sign of
Blair.
Megan follows the line of his gaze. “I haven't seen him either,” she murmurs
out of the side of her mouth.
“He'll be here,” Jim says stubbornly, even though he's never been less sure of
anything in his life.
“Did you have a fight?” Megan asks. “Is something wrong?”
Jim shakes his head. Nothing serious. I just told him I was in love with him,
and he ran like hell.Aloud, he says, “No. Everything's fine.”
He can feel Megan's too-perceptive gaze boring into the side of his face.
“That's good,” she murmurs, “because he seemed a little – conflicted – on the
weekend up at Rafe and Henri's.”
Jim clenches his jaw. “Did he – say anything to you?” he asks, knowing his tone
is anything but casual.
“Not really. I told him something, though.” She leans in again, and Jim feels
her breath tickling his ear as she whispers, “I told him that if he was afraid,
he should get out now.”
Jim turns toward her, a wave of anger slamming into him. “He's not afraid to do
the job,” he growls.
Megan only regards him serenely, unfazed by his fury. “I wasn't talking about
the job,” she says calmly.
Jim stares at her, poleaxed, because Jesus, she can't be talking about what he
thinks she's talking about, can she?
Megan's expression softens at what he's sure is the panic evident on his face.
“I'm sure he'll be here,” she says reassuringly, but Jim is not at all
reassured, and after a moment she turns away.
The ceremony begins, and the waves of polite applause – in addition to the odd
whoop – wash over Jim as the names are read off. Like all good ceremonies,
they're going in alphabetical order, which means Jim gets to spend a good
twenty minutes with his guts in a slowly tightening knot as they steadily plow
through to the S's. By the time they get to Ryerson, he feels like he wants to
puke.
And then: “Blair Sandburg,” the voice booms out over the hall, leaving an echo
in its wake that swiftly fades to somber silence.
Jim closes his eyes. Calm the fuck down, it's not like you didn't know this was
coming, he tells himself, but it doesn't do any good. Blair is gone and Jim's
the one who held the door open for him. He's got no one to blame but himself,
for trying to hold Blair too close to him, trying to anchor him to his own
corny, hopelessly middle-class dreams of home and family.
The irony is that Jim had pretty much given up on those dreams until Blair came
into his life.
Suddenly Megan is gripping his wrist, her nails digging into his skin. “Jim,
Jim!” she cries. “He's here!”
Jim opens his eyes in time to see Blair bounding up the steps, taking them two
at a time. His hair's tied in a ponytail at the back, peeking out from under
his stupid, beautiful cap, and around him a couple of dozen cops erupt into
raucous, joyful cheers.
“Hey, Saaaaaaaaaandbuuuuuuurg!” Rafe calls, between his cupped palms. Beside
him, Henri shoots him an exasperated look, then punches the air with his fist
and lets out a low, whooping catcall. Joel is clapping like a maniac, and Simon
is grinning so widely Jim is worried his face will split in half.
Jim is too stunned to clap; instead, he sits glued to his seat, reeling with
the abrupt change in his fortunes. Stubbornly, his inner voice reminds him that
this doesn't necessarily mean anything, that just because Blair has decided to
see this particular ritual through to its conclusion, that doesn't mean he's
signing up for the rest of it. And he's just decided he can live with that when
he sees Blair's gaze rise as he's accepting his diploma, home in on him like
radar until he's staring straight into Jim's eyes, and suddenly every other
person in the crowded auditorium disappears, and Jim can't hear anything but
the steady hum of his own blood coursing through his veins.
And then Blair grins and winks at him and Jim slams back into awareness,
gripping the arms of the chair as the cacophony around him comes surging back.
Within moments he's cheering the loudest, not caring that his ears will pay for
it later.

 
 
 
 
XIII

They drive home separately but meet in the parking garage under the loft, drawn
together like a magnet to lodestone. Blair lets the pull reel him in, bring him
closer to Jim, Jim's gaze on him the whole time, making his skin tingle.
For about the thousandth time in the last twenty-four hours, he wonders how he
could've been so damned blind.
“So, uh, you remember what you said last night about not being objective?” he
murmurs, returning the heat in Jim's gaze with some of his own.
Jim only raises his eyebrows, and damn if that silent treatment doesn't turn
Blair all the way on. “That, ah, that might be a shared prejudice,” Blair says
roughly.
Jim shuts his eyes briefly as his mouth opens on a soundless gasp, and Jesus,
if this is the way Jim reacts to words, what'll happen when they actually –
Then Jim lays a hand, hot and heavy, on Blair's neck, right where it joins his
shoulder, and the air leaves Blair's lungs in a whoosh.He stands there
motionless as Jim moves closer, helpless under the weight of his gaze and the
spread of his fingers.
“Blair,” Jim murmurs, breath tickling Blair's lips, “are you sure – ”
“Yeah, yeah,” Blair says, a little impatient because he wants the kissing to
start right now, and who knew Jim was the world's biggest tease? He tries to
arch up to capture Jim's mouth, but Jim straightens a split second before he
can connect.
“Not a good idea,” Jim growls, and Blair jerks back to look at him.
“What are you talking about? This is the best idea since they invented halftime
shows.”
Jim leans in again, looming over him, and suddenly Blair's back is against a
concrete pillar, and wow, that's way more exciting than he would have thought
it'd be.
“Not a good idea to start groping each other in the parking garage, Sandburg,”
Jim murmurs, brushing his lips against Blair's ear and making him shudder.
“'Cause once I start, it's gonna be a long time before I stop.”
Blair groans and grabs a fistful of Jim's jacket, more to hold himself upright
than to hold Jim close. “Okay,” he manages weakly. “Good point,” and then
they're moving toward the elevator, Blair half-stumbling, legs shaky from a
powerful cocktail of lust and adrenaline.
In the space of one afternoon, he's participated in a life-changing ritual,
embarked on a new career path, and now he's apparently going to have sex with
Jim. Which on the surface of it should be terrifying, because sex with Jim is
so much more than sex: it's commitment, it's permanence, it's fucking
forever.If he binds himself to Jim this way, something tells him he won't have
a hope in hell of getting loose.
But instead of terrifying him, the thought keeps him warm the whole way up in
the elevator, where Jim stays as far away from Blair as possible and Blair can
feel the pressure of their combined desire as a palpable thing inside the tiny
space, practically threatening to blow out the walls.
They make it into the apartment, and after Jim closes the door and they turn to
look at one another there's this weird moment of perfect stillness where
neither of them seems to know what to do next. Right before Blair steps toward
him, Jim murmurs, “Eight months.” Blair's confused at first before he realizes
what it means, and then his heart stops beating for a few seconds.
“Jesus, Jim,” he breathes, and then Jim's on him, hands bracketing his face as
he dives in for a kiss that's two hundred and forty days of pent-up frustration
and lust and God, love, and Blair's helpless to do anything but take it, but
that's okay because this is quite possibly the biggest gift he's ever received
in his life.
All too soon Jim pulls back, whispers hoarsely, “Are you staying?” while still
holding Blair's face between his hands. Blair's too dazed to answer, and before
he can manage to make his brain work Jim's speaking again. “Never mind, I don't
care. Just – I'll take tonight, if that's all I – ”
All at once, Blair's skin feels too small. “Jim. Hey, listen,” he begins, but
then Jim's kissing him again and talking gets kind of tough after that. He
wants to ease Jim's fears, but once Jim unbuttons his uniform jacket and dress
shirt and shoves it down his arms, trapping them, he kind of forgets his own
name for a while. When he remembers what he's supposed to be doing, he's pretty
busy groaning as Jim's hands glide over his chest, his belly, his nipples,
fingers sure and strong.
He tries to take back control, but Jim's got both hands firmly on the wheel,
and when Blair makes an attempt to undress Jim, he's gently but firmly
rebuffed. “You want to see me naked, Sandburg,” Jim growls into his mouth, “all
you gotta do is ask.”
Blair's nothing if not accommodating. “I want to see you naked,” he murmurs
against Jim's parted lips, but it comes out sounding more intimate than
playful, like he wants nothing more than to see Jim Ellison stripped bare,
exposed down to his soul. It's a bit of a shock when Blair swiftly realizes
that's exactlywhat he wants.
Jim seems to pick up on the double meaning, too, because his eyes narrow and he
takes a step back, like a panther poised for flight. Blair holds his breath as
the uncertainty reveals itself on Jim's face, and then those pale blue eyes
grow determined and shuttered again, and his mouth curls in a small smile as he
reaches for his shirt buttons.
Blair watches the slow striptease, transfixed, but he can tell there's
something else underlying Jim's movements, a faint hint of fear in the
calculated way he reveals his skin to Blair. It's not a striptease so much as
the exposure of armor, the revelation of the layer of insulation that keeps the
world at arm's length, that keeps the man inside safe and untouched. He's
trying to protect himself from Blair,and the realization chills Blair to the
bone.
Jim steps out of his boxers and stands before him, naked and hard, not a single
bit of softness anywhere, especially not around the eyes, and spreads his
hands. “You like what you see?” he says, and it's a gruff challenge, like his
stance. Just try and leave me, his body seems to be saying, but there's no
confidence behind the dare, only defiance and a whiff of desperation.
It occurs to him that Jim's probably been waiting for him to leave since that
first week, and he's never really stopped, not even after their lives became so
intertwined that Blair stopped even thinking about finding his own place, let
alone haring off halfway across the world. But then, it's not like Blair ever
gave him the impression he wouldn't do just that, and it's not like Blair
wasn't fooling himself for years that he might.
He spent most of last night and this morning thinking about this, about them.
Thinking about the past, and the present, and the future, and how they weave
together and loop back on one another until it's impossible to separate them.
Their shared past is everywhere, in this place, and he loves every reminder of
that – the photo album full of memories, the Cree fishing spear that yielded
not one fish because neither of them was coordinated enough to use it, the
autographed basketball that would be the object of a custody battle if they
ever broke up.
They didn't know it, but they were working on forever practically from the
beginning.
And that's why he takes three steps forward, closing the distance between them,
and takes Jim's hands in his as he gazes up into his eyes. “I don't like what I
see,” he murmurs. “I love what I see.”
Blair watches as Jim cycles through disbelief through wariness to tentative
hope, watches as he leans in and kisses him slowly, tasting him, feeling him,
seeking the truth with his senses. If anyone can do it, Jim can, so Blair
allows himself to be experienced, and soon enough he can feel Jim find his
answer, a shudder passing through Jim's body as though he's shaking the armor
loose from his skin.
Blair looked out over the faces this morning and felt proud, felt like he
belongedhere, with these people. Tonight, he looks into Jim's face and knows
he's found the one person he wants to spend the rest of his life with.
Jim's kisses soon turn hungry, but that edge of desperation is gone, and Blair
concentrates on giving back as much as he can, trying to tell Jim without words
how much he wants this. I'm staying, he says with his hands on Jim's hips; I'm
staying, he says with the way he holds Jim's gaze, steady and unwavering; I'm
staying, he says with his mouth as he slides to the floor.
“Jesus, Blair, wait – ” but Blair's not in the mood for waiting, and he licks a
warm, wet swath up the underside of Jim's cock, then takes it in his hand and
wraps his lips around the head. “Oh, God, that's – ” Jim's hands reach for
Blair, caressing his hair as Blair begins to suck.
Within minutes, whatever reserves of control Jim possessed are depleted to the
breaking point, and the next time Blair takes him in, he thrusts helplessly
into Blair's mouth. He draws back almost immediately, but Blair won't let him
off that easily; he follows him, taking him in almost to the root, and Jim
bites out a choked-off groan and pumps again, once, twice. Blair digs his
fingers into Jim's hipbones and encourages his shallow, uncoordinated strokes
until they're fluid and deep.
“Not like this,” Blair hears Jim murmur above him, and then he's stepping back
and away and Blair makes a sound of protest. Strong hands wrap around his upper
arms and haul him to his feet, and Jim's mouth finds his, the contact brief and
intense. “C'mon,” he says, heading for the stairs, and the fact that he doesn't
turn back to assure himself Blair's behind him makes Blair smile as he sets to
work on the buttons of his uniform trousers.
Blair's a little behind because of the whole getting naked thing, so he takes
the stairs two at a time, building up momentum so that when he and Jim come
together again it's a little like a flying tackle. Jim lands dead center of the
bed with a surprised ooofand Blair's right there, straddling Jim's taut,
aroused body, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be at that moment.
Until, that is, Jim gets with the program, rolls him over and straddles him.
“Okay, that works, too,” Blair admits, getting a lot turned on when Jim treats
him to a feral grin. Jim  then leans down and starts – Christ, the only way to
describe it is scentingbehavior, like he's a wild animal checking to make sure
his mate is in heat. Boy, Blair is in heat all right, and if Jim doesn't quit
sniffing and start –
Jim bites lightly on the cords of Blair's neck, then licks his way lightning-
quick straight to Blair's nipples. Blair shouts and arches, surprised by the
move and more aroused than he can remember being since he was eighteen and far
too horny for his own good. He shouts some more when Jim shifts above him and
wraps his hand around his dick, and tries to get enough movement into his hips
to help, but Jim only tightens his knees on either side of Blair's body,
holding him still. His yell swiftly turns into a frustrated grunt; Jim looks up
at him, shakes his head.
“Let me,” he murmurs, “just this time, let me,” and Blair gasps and nods
jerkily, as much because Jim's implying there'll be a next time as because he's
really hot when he's in control. Blair would never have thought that Jim's
stay-in-the-truck mode would be a turn-on when applied to the bedroom, but
right at this moment he's willing to let Jim do just about whatever he wants,
up to but not including the introduction of barnyard animals, as long as he
keeps talking in that husky, half-broken voice.
Jim begins to pump Blair's cock in a slow, sensuous rhythm and Blair lies there
and takes it, and this passive thing has its advantages, because this way he
can concentrate on everything Jim is doing to him, every stage of his mounting
arousal. He stares up at Jim, panting, as Jim watches him, his gaze a caress in
itself. He feels it slide over his face, his chest, his belly, his cock, then
back up again, and he groans, hands twisting in the sheets.
“What do you want?” Jim asks, and the tone of his voice belies his alpha male
tactics. He's still uncertain, like he can't quite believe this is really
happening, like he thinks Blair's going to disappear right out from under him.
“Anything,” Blair gasps, “anything,” and Jim nods and his hands leave Blair's
body as he leans sideways. Blair turns his head to see him rummaging in a
drawer, and watches as Jim pulls a tube and a condom packet out of it.
Oh. Okay. Blair thinks about telling Jim he's never actually gotten that far
with another guy, but thinks better of it because it'll make Jim stop, and
Blair doesn't want to stop. If Jim wants to take this final step, Blair's up
for it.
Jim rips the condom packet between his teeth, then takes hold of Blair's cock
and begins to roll the condom slowly down the length. Blair lifts his head,
astonished. “You – ” he begins, then feels the world tilt sideways. Holy shit,
Jim wants –
“Yeah,” Jim says, slicking the condom up with quick, brisk efficiency, his own
cock so hard with anticipation it's practically lying flat against his belly.
The second he finishes his task, he's bracing himself on his knees, and without
preamble starts to lower himself onto Blair's cock. Blair feels the first snug
pressure of Jim's ass against the head, and reaches down to spread Jim's
cheeks, easing the way as best he can.
Jim hisses air between his teeth as he takes Blair inside, and Blair watches
him anxiously for any signs of pain. His Sentinel senses have got to be on fire
right now, and he opens his mouth to advise Jim to dial it down, but before he
can he sees the lines in Jim's forehead ease and realizes he's done just that.
In the meantime, he's about three seconds from going off like a teenager, so he
practices a little mind control of his own, closing his eyes and concentrating
on taking the edge off. When he opens them again, he sees Jim looking down at
him with an expression that's half fondness and half exasperation. “What?”
“Nothing, Sandburg,” Jim says, smirking, “just wondering if you were paying
attention.”
“I'm paying attention,” Blair shoots back, the effect kind of ruined by the way
his voice cracks in the middle, “just wondering when you're going to get this
show on the road.”
Heat flares in Jim's gaze then, so intense that Blair almost comes just from
that, and then he's lifting up, thigh muscles bunching under Blair's hands
right before he slams down again. Blair makes a noise that's really, really
undignified for a human, and then Jim's rising and falling, fucking himself on
Blair, and the sight and the sound and God, the feelof him sends Blair over the
edge in an embarrassingly short time. Right before everything turns gray he
reaches blindly for Jim's own cock and lets Jim rut into his fist until he
comes with a roar, body clenching around Blair's cock in a powerful, ancient
rhythm.
As much a neat freak as ever, Jim grabs for some Kleenex and wipes them both
down, then settles Blair against him in a possessive embrace that Blair doesn't
mind one bit. And it's then that he realizes that he's not his mother after
all, because this, lying here cocooned by a sleepy, satisfied, happy Jim,
doesn't feel like a prison cell or an outdated illusion. It feels like the only
place Blair wants to be.
He never had a chance, and he's okay with that.
 
 
 
 

Epilogue

 
Six Years Later

By the time their latest investigation wraps – a case involving a ring of
slimeballs that sells drugs to kids on the Southtown playgrounds – they're
beyond ready for a little R&R. Jim suggests a camping trip to the mountains,
but Blair points out their last three weekends off involved camping.
“I worry that our relationship will grow stale,” Blair says, deadpan, and Jim
resists the urge to whack him upside the head.
“Then what do you propose, my beloved Creamsicle?” Jim shoots back.
Blair holds it in until his cheeks bulge like Dizzy, and then he bursts out
laughing. “Funny you should put it exactly that way,” he says when he can
gather breath, and Jim's stomach plummets for his shoes.
Less than twenty-four hours later they're standing in a small chapel on
Vancouver Island while they exchange vows. Blair, as it turns out, had this
planned for months, but was waiting for the right moment.
“So why now?” Jim asks later, when they're stretched out on a soft as sin king-
sized bed in a luxurious cabin with a sweeping view of the Pacific. Over the
years he's gotten a lot more comfortable with asking questions like that; it
helps that he's got Blair's body under his hands as they lie on their sides
trading lazy, unhurried caresses.
“I don't know,” Blair answers, leaning in to kiss along Jim's collarbone.
“Maybe it was finding those gray hairs a few weeks ago. Maybe it was those
great pancakes you cooked Sunday.”
“Sandburg, I'm always cooking you those damned pancakes.”
“Yeah,” Blair says, starting on his neck. “Maybe that's why.”
“Blair,” Jim growls. Blair nips his jaw before drawing back.
“Maybe it was time to show you I was committed,” Blair murmurs, not quite
looking at him.
Jim sucks in a breath, startled. Reaching out to cup Blair's cheek, he rasps,
“Did I ever make you think I needed that?”
“No,” Blair says, wrapping his hand around Jim's and squeezing it tightly. “But
the ceremonies that mark our passage through life, our connections to one
another – they're important. It's something I always knew as an anthropologist
but never really put into practice in my own life. I wanted us to have that
ceremony.”
Jim can't help snorting at that. “Once we cross back over the border, that
ceremony is meaningless.”
“It means something to us,” Blair says fiercely. “That's all that matters.”
Jim looks down at their entwined hands, at the wide Haida silver rings they
bought in Nanaimo, Blair's engraved with the thunderbird and his with the
killer whale, and smiles. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” he says softly. His
gaze rises to the man he swore a few hours ago to love, honor and cherish, and
his smile widens to a no-doubt goofy grin.
“Holy shit, Sandburg, we just got married,” he says, laughing.
“Here's to the honeymoon,” Blair says heartily, rolling Jim onto his back and
kissing him as close to senseless as he'll ever get.

 
 
 
 
Eighteen Years Ago

Blair didn't get a bar mitzvah; mom hadn't practiced in years, and the family
she was close to had pretty much gone the same way. What he got was a rite of
passage of a kind, but one bearing the stamp of Naomi's unique spirit.
They hitchhiked to Mexico and made it to Teotihuacàn just as the dawn light was
hitting the steps of the pyramid. As they climbed, the light followed them,
almost seeming to bear them aloft, until they were looking out over the valley,
life stretching around them on all sides.
Blair's breath caught in his throat; he wanted to thank her, but for once he
didn't have the words, and she didn't seem to need them. He felt her hand grip
his strongly, and in that moment they were the two musketeers again; no matter
where the future would take them, Blair suspected they always would be to some
extent. His mother had her flaws, but she had given him gifts few other
children received of their mothers, and he would always be grateful that he was
the one consequence she decided to take on.
Later, they roamed through the city, Naomi allowing Blair to take the lead. He
found himself reaching out to touch one of the painted murals, the stone warm
under his fingertips.
“This is your destiny, sweetie,” Naomi said softly. “This is it, isn't it?”
Blair's fingertip outlined the figure of the jaguar, felt the history and the
power in it, and for the first time he felt as though he had something he could
hold in his hands, something that was his and his alone.
Something that would last him a lifetime.
“Yeah,” he answered, smiling. “Yeah, this is it.”
End Notes
     First published December 2006.
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