Archive of Our Own ^beta

Author's webpage: http://sunflower.com/~lms/stories/slash.html

Toss and Turn.

Jim sorted laundry into piles on the bathroom floor. The jeans-filled dryer and shirt-filled washer filled the loft with comforting, soap-scented warmth.

His socks were nearly a pile to themselves; he'd gone a bit too long between loads of laundry. Another pile was just his boxer shorts and Blair's dark socks, the juxtaposition of which sent tiny quivers up his spine. He hoped he wasn't developing a foot fetish.

"Sandburg!" he called, leaning out of the bathroom. "Why do you have so many argyle socks?"

"Um, I dunno. Why do you have so many white ones?" Blair looked up from his work with a grin.

"They're practical."

"Mine are stylish."

"Argyle socks are not stylish. What are you, a golf pro?"

"Speak for yourself, my friend. I have had many a lovely lady compliment me on my wardrobe."

Jim snorted through his nose and leaned back into the bathroom. A brigade of argyle socks, mingling in unholy congress with his soft cotton jersey boxer shorts. Maybe it was just a Sandburg fetish. He could live with that.

Blair was humming cheerfully in the other room as Jim continued sorting. There was a whole pile of white T-shirts and undershirts, size large; tight on Jim, loose on Blair. Jim's had the neck seams ripped and re-sewn to get rid of the irritating tag.

The dryer buzzed next to his ear, startling Jim head-first against the tub.

"Dammit!"

"You okay?" Blair called.

"Yeah! Just lost a few years off my life, no big deal."

"Be careful with those. I'm using them," Blair said with a laugh.

The rain picked up as Jim lugged the load of jeans into the living room to fold. Blair sat at the kitchen table with a cloth spread out and both their guns disassembled on it. His hair was caught back in a crooked ponytail, with loose strands tucked behind his ears and curling around his face. His legs sprawled across the chair, bare feet braced against the floor, un-tucked flannel shirt tightening and loosening against his skin as he cleaned and oiled the guns.

Jim turned the jeans onto the coffee table and started folding. He watched Blair's shoulders as they moved under his shirt, admiring the line of his back. Blair was still humming in his throat, the sound mixing with the thrum of the washer and the sheeting rain on the skylights.

Blair glanced behind him and smiled. "See something you like?"

"Is that my shirt, Chief?" Jim shook out the jeans in his hands, letting his face show Blair he wasn't serious.

"Might be. Is that mine?"

"No. The tag's been removed."

"I do that too, you know." Blair slid sideways in his chair, brush in one hand and barrel in the other.

"No, you cut the tag out. That still leaves the base of the tag intact. I rip the seams and take the tag out entirely. And sometimes you slip and cut holes in the neck. There's a reason I don't let you near my clothes, Sandburg."

"Well I can take it off if you prefer," Blair said with a grin, gesturing toward his chest.

Jim shook his head. "Keep it on," he said magnanimously. He set the folded jeans on Blair's pile on the couch and picked up the next pair. There was a new oil stain on the knee, obtained while tackling a perp in a parking lot.

"Work ate another pair of jeans. Oil stain."

"Man, not again! You tore that pair of trousers last week."

"I saved those, actually. The rip was along the seam so I stitched it up. You can hardly tell."

"When did you do that?"

"On stakeout with Joel."

"You did not."

"I'm a modern guy, Sandburg. If I want to sew in my own car, I will!"

"Hey, I didn't mean to question your enlightenment there, macho man," Blair laughed.

Jim punched his fist into his hand, and Blair grinned wider.

Jim finished folding the jeans and dropped Blair's stack on the kitchen chair next to him. As he headed upstairs with his own, Blair finally broke out singing the song he'd been humming all day. "Once I ran to you... now I'll run from you, this tainted love you've given, I gave you all a boy could give you. Take my tears and that's not nearly all!"

Off-key, Sandburg, Jim thought as he placed the stack of jeans on the shelves. Smirking, he moved to straighten up the piles of T-shirts and sweaters.

"Don't touch me, please, I cannot stand the way you tease! I love you though you hurt me so--now I'm going to pack my things and go!" Jim blinked at the lyrics. What the hell? Was this what was on Blair's mind all day? But Blair was grinning and bopping gently in his chair when Jim came back down the stairs.

"Uh, Chief? You trying to tell me something here?"

Blair blinked at him. "What?"

"It's just that you've been humming that song all day."

"Oh, the song? No... I'm just flashing back to my undergraduate days. That song was in all the clubs when I started at Rainier. I had a boyfriend who was obsessed with Marc Almond. What, did you think I was trying to drop a hint?"

Jim shrugged, feeling sheepish. Blair stood and slung an arm around Jim's waist, pulling him close. "One thing I am not is passive-aggressive, man." He thumped Jim's chest with his shoulder.

"Sure, Chief." But he couldn't quite look at Blair, trying to put a name to his unease.

Blair's arm was warm against him through flannel and cotton, his hand strong against his hip. His breath steamed hot on Jim's neck, but his kisses were soft on Jim's jaw; and he smelled of gun oil.

"Does all this bother you?" Jim asked abruptly, meaning the guns on the table, the Academy, the unfinished degree.

"No."

Jim caught his eyes then, searching for a lie and finding none.

"I had my chance to back out with Stoddard's expedition, Jim. I chose then. Everything else came naturally." Blair smiled, broad and brilliant. "Once I chose you, everything else made sense."

"You sure?" He still had a hard time believing it, even now.

"Completely."

He brought his hands up, brushing back the loose strands of hair from Blair's face. Blair's skin was roughening with beard even this early in the afternoon, the texture engaging his fingers. The motion of his mouth rippled tiny muscles against Jim's hands as Jim moved closer and kissed him.

And Blair still smelled of gun oil, but also of coffee and butter and raw-wood musk and the peculiar fake vanilla that scented his shampoo. "I love the way you smell," Jim whispered.

"I love the way you feel," Blair said. He stroked Jim's shoulder, squeezing his biceps lightly.

The washer spun down. "I need to finish the laundry."

"Oo, romantic."

"Romance is where you find it, Sandburg. You know I love you, because I wash your socks."

Blair beamed. "Hey. You know, you may have something there. So what does your theory say about scrubbing the toilet?"

"If you love me, you scrub the toilet," Jim answered.

"You are such a dick," Blair said. "Give me the brush."

End.