Work Text:
Never Goin' Anywhere
by Pink Dragon
Author's disclaimer: Not mine.
Never Goin' Anywhere
It started out innocently enough. Little pats on the back, or a knuckle-rub on my head. A squeeze to my shoulder. And I pretty much did the same to him, except for the head-rubbing part. But over the last few months, it accelerated, this 'touching' thing, to being more like caresses than touches. For both of us. And somewhere along the way we fell in love. And now we're lying here, in Jim's big bed, wrapped around each other like napping kittens. Sated, drowsy, post-orgasmic kittens. Who'da thunk? Well, let me start from the beginning.
First, there was the whole dissertation fiasco. Let's not go there, except I think that's when it started accelerating. The 'touching' thing, I mean. We always touched each other, almost from the beginning. But it accelerated after I dissed my dis, so to speak. This is kinda how it went.
Five months ago:
"Hey, Jim?" He looks over the top of the Saturday morning paper at me, sitting across the table.
"Yeah?"
"I was wondering if you'd, like, go to the range with me and help me with some target practice." Now that I'm in the Academy, and heading toward being a cop, I've gotta learn to handle a gun. Not my favorite part of the Academy, and I'm having trouble with it. I'm just not very good at it yet and my instructor suggested a little extra practice on my own.
"Sure, Chief. When you wanna go?" He smiles at me, and I can tell he's pleased that I've asked for his help.
"Can we go this morning?" I'm wiping toast crumbs off the counter now, and putting away the jam and butter. Jim won't eat margarine. He says the chemicals in margarine have got to be even worse for you than the cholesterol in butter. Plus he says it tastes funny. So we buy butter.
"Sure. I'll go get ready." He's up from the table immediately and heading up the stairs even though he's only half way through the sports section. This makes me smile.
Half an hour later, we're at the practice range, with ear protection on, Jim's weapon loaded and ready to go, two extra clips on the counter in front of me. He stands behind me, adjusting my stance a bit, changing my grip just slightly. And he leaves his hand on my shoulder way longer than necessary. I let him, cause I could use the comfort right now, when I'm about to hurl hot bits of metal at a human-shaped target. He doesn't take his hand away.
"Okay, Blair, two shots, then adjust your aim, then two more shots, and aim again, till the clip is empty." So that's what I do, and when the clip is empty, and the target has way more holes in it than I hope I ever have to put in a human being, his hand is gripping my shoulder and I'm shaking.
We go through 15 targets, and re-fill the clips with ammo over and over, and he makes lots of little adjustments to my stance and my grip, all with his hand on my back, making little comforting circles with his fingertips. I need it.
And that was when his little pats-on-the-back became rubs-on-the-back. Whenever we pass each other in the bathroom door, or working in the kitchen, or wherever, he'll put his hand on my shoulder, or my arm, or my head, and give it a gentle little rub. And always at bedtime, he'll touch me, somewhere, and rub a little, and then he'll smile at me, and of course, I smile back. That lasted for about a month.
Four months ago:
We're at the practice range again, more target practice. We go at least once a week; I need that much practice. I'm getting better at it, but this is a tough one, cause Jim tricks me, and scares the shit out of me. About half way through the hour or so we usually work, as I start firing from a fresh clip, he starts reeling the target towards us, fast. Really fast. Just like someone running at us. I fucking freak out, adrenaline shooting into my bloodstream, but I fire twice, adjust my aim, just like he taught me to, and fire two more shots, and adjust my aim again, and fire again, till the clip is empty and the target is right in front of my weapon.
Then I'm screaming, shaking and gasping for air, adrenaline sending me into orbit. I drop the weapon on the counter in front of me, turn around and put both hands on Jim's chest and shove him as hard as I can. "You fucker!" I yell. "You fucking son of a bitch!" He stumbles back a couple of feet, but then he's right back next to me a second later. I fist my hands in the front of his shirt and he pulls me against his chest, wraps his arms around me and holds me there, while I wait for the shaking to stop and my heartbeat to come back to normal. I know what he just did, and why he did it. No point learning to shoot if you can't hit a moving target. The bad guys aren't gonna just stand there and let you take aim at your leisure. "Shit, Jim," I whisper, my forehead resting on his shoulder. "Shit."
"Yeah, Chief. Shit," he whispers back, hugging me hard. "You did good. You did real good, Blair." I pull far enough away to look up at him, with my mouth hanging open in surprise and he says, "Look at the target, Chief." So I turn around and look. There's one big raggedy hole in the center of the target. Every shot I fired was within four inches of the bulls-eye.
"Shit, Jim," I whisper. Some time in the last month I got good at this, really good. I turn around and look at him, and he pulls me back against his chest, and just holds me there till I stop shaking.
And that's the day the little rubs turn into something resembling a 'pet'. He pets me now, running his hand up and down my arm, or down my back, or over my hair, petting me. And I do the same to him. When I'm drying dishes, and he's done washing them, he'll move behind me and stand there for a moment, rubbing his hands up and down my arms, over my shoulders. When I'm curled up on the sofa immersed in the latest chapter of 'Police Practice and Procedure' he'll pull my feet into his lap and rub them. If I'm on the computer, my laptop on the dining table, he'll move behind me and rub my shoulders, digging his thumbs into my trapezius muscles, and down over all those knots along my spine. I've woken up on the sofa several times, late at night, to find him stroking my hair, over and over, trying to wake me gently, to send me to bed, smiling at me sweetly and call me Sleeping Beauty. And the petting happens all the time, every day. I touch him the same way, gently, lovingly. And he leans into my touch just like I lean into his.
Three months ago:
I hear the key turning in the lock, and the front door opens, and Jim's home. He's getting home a little late, and I'm fixing supper a little early. "Hey, man," I say, smiling at him from the kitchen. "Dinner's almost done. You're right on time." He's smiling back at me.
"Smells good, Chief. What is it?" he asks, coming up behind me. I'm standing at the stove stirring a simmering pot of chicken pieces and tomatoes, onions, garlic and herbs.
"Chicken cacciatore," I answer. He puts his hands on my shoulders and his chest against my back. And stays there. Holding me. I lean back against him, and he still stays there, fingers gently massaging my neck. "Mmmm," I say. It feels really nice.
"How much longer till it's done?" he asks quietly, still making little circles with his fingers.
"You've got time to shower, if you want to," I answer, and put one hand over his and give it a little rub.
"Okay, sounds good," he says. Then, still snuggled right against my back he wraps one arm around my chest and hugs me, tight, for long, tender moments, his cheek against my hair. I stop stirring the chicken, close my eyes, and try to remember how to breathe.
That was the first of our nightly hugs. Now, whenever one of gets home, we come together, a little tentative, a little shy, and he'll put an arm around me, or I'll put one around him, and we greet each other with a hug. We've never said a word about it, it just became a normal part of our routine, to greet each other with a quick little hug, a touch, and a smile. Perfectly normal.
Two months ago:
I banged my head on the floor today during self-defense training. It was just an accident, we got too close to the edge of the mat and my training partner went down, hard, and took me with him. I whacked my head pretty hard. He apologized like crazy. Kept asking me if I was okay. Now I've got a killer headache. I'm resting, lying on the sofa, with a couple of aspirin working on it on the inside, and an ice pack working on it on the outside. I hear Jim coming in the door, but all I can handle is a wave of my hand over the back of the sofa. "Hey," he says. "You okay?"
"Nasty headache. I hit the floor in self-defense class today. Banged my head," I answer. He comes around the end of the sofa and sits down on the edge, next to me, face full of concern. He takes my hand, and just holds it, and puts his other hand on my cheek. Gives my hand and my cheek a little rub. I tangle my fingers with his.
"Lemme see, Chief," he whispers. So I take the ice pack off the bruise and let him look at it. He examines it for a few seconds, and then he leans over and brushes his lips against the purple knot. Still holding my hand and my cheek. He pulls back a little and looks at me. "Ouch," he says softly, smiling at me sympathetically.
"Yeah, man, ouch," I say back, giving him a little smile of my own. And we sit there for a while, him telling me about his day. Repeating a really bad joke he heard from Simon. And we talk and laugh together, holding hands and smiling at each other.
"Hungry?" he asks, finally.
"I could eat."
"How about some soup and a sandwich?"
"Sounds good, if you're cooking."
"I'm cooking, Chief. Just lay there and rest and I'll let you know when it's ready."
"Kay." And I put the ice pack back on my head, and he leans down and brushes another kiss against my hair. And that was the day the daily hug turned into a daily hug-and-kiss. Not on the mouth, not yet. He puts an arm around my shoulders or my neck or my waist, and kisses me on the head, or the shoulder, or the hand. And sometimes it's me who kisses him.
One month ago:
I pull the Volvo into my parking space in the lot next to our building and say, "Hey, Jim. Come help with the groceries." He's home from work, his truck is parked in its spot. He's in the loft, but being a Sentinel, he'll be waiting and listening for the Guide. He'll hear me and come to help. I grin to myself. If you've got it, use it. He comes around the corner of the building practically before I've stopped talking to him. He was already on his way. "Hey, man," I say, smiling at him. He grins back at me.
"How many bags, today, Chief? How many different kinds of sprouts?"
"Eleven bags, 3 kinds of sprouts, man." He takes eight bags, and leaves me three. Typical. "How was work? Catch any bad guys?"
"Eleven murderers, sixteen con artists, seven graffiti artists and three nude performance artists," he answers. I laugh at that.
"Bad day for artists, man!"
"Yep. The world is a lot less artistic today than it was yesterday," he says, solemnly.
"You're a riot, Jim."
"No, Chief. The riot was Tuesday."
"Jeeze. A laugh a minute." I grin at him and push the door to the building open and hold it for him. He walks in past me and goes over to the elevator and presses the button with his elbow. We stand there waiting for the elevator, grinning at each other. Waiting to get in the loft before we get our daily hug.
Since I've only got three bags, I unlock the door to the loft and hold it open for him. He walks in, takes the bags to the kitchen with me right behind him. We dump them all on the countertop, making sure nothing's going to fall off, and turn to look at each other. "Missed you today, Chief," he says softly.
"Missed you too, man," I answer back, smiling at him. He opens his arms and moves toward me, and I step into his arms, wrapping mine around his waist. He puts one arm around my back, and buries the other hand in my hair. I lay my face against his shoulder and he lays his against the side of my head. I rub little circles on his back with one hand, and he strokes my back, up and down, slow and gentle. And we stand there, holding each other in the kitchen, for several long, sweet minutes, reconnecting after our day spent apart. Getting back in touch, back in sync. I can feel him relaxing more and more as we stand there, and I am, too.
That was the day the quick hug-and-kiss became a slow, sweet, loving embrace, with soft kisses to my hair, or my shoulder, or the back of my neck. That was the day I started to want him. THAT way.
Yesterday:
I've been in Seattle for two days to help set up a traveling exhibit of South American artifacts. I have a friend who works at the museum who thought of me when they needed extra help and it just happened to work out with my schedule at the Academy. I can make a little money and not miss any school. Plus I get to see the artifacts up close and personal, handle them, really examine them. What a kick this is! But I miss Jim. Really miss him. I had no idea it would be this hard, being away from him. We've finished the exhibit, it's late and I'm back in my hotel room, dusty and tired but totally wound up. "Hey, it's me," I say, when he picks up the phone.
"Hey, Chief, how's it going there?" he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.
"Real good, man. It's so totally cool to get to see this stuff. It feels good to keep my hand in, sort of." He knows I miss the anthro stuff. He understands.
"That's good, Blair. Are you finished up yet?"
"Yeah, we finished today. The exhibit is so awesome. I really wish you could see it." I'm laying on the bed in my hotel room, in the dark. It feels intimate, like he's lying there next to me, talking. "There are some silver pieces that are just amazing. I don't know how they worked some of these things so intricately with the primitive tools they had. It's really something."
"Yeah? I thought it was just pottery stuff," he says.
"No, man, there's all kinds of stuff. Pottery, sure, but there's silver, and little stones and pieces of bone carved into animal fetishes or tools or toys, some baskets, even some pieces of woven fabric. All kinds of stuff. I really wish you could have come with me."
"I would have liked that too, Chief. I've missed you," he says softly.
"I miss you too, man," I whisper back, hugging the phone close to my ear and closing my eyes, to concentrate on his voice.
"You coming home tomorrow?"
"Yeah. We're all meeting for breakfast, then we'll go to the grand opening at 10:00, then I'll head home. I should be there by the time you get home from work."
"Are you gonna go back and help them pack up when the exhibit's over?"
"Yeah, Erica said they could use all the help they can get. They got a private grant to cover the expenses of setting up and dismantling the exhibit, so I'll get paid again. They've got plenty of money."
"Maybe I can come with you when you go back?"
"Hey, man, that'd be great! You'd like that?"
"Sure, I'd like that. Maybe we can spend a few days in Seattle. Take a little vacation after you finish the packing up."
"That'd be great man. Then you can see the exhibit before we tear it down." I'm grinning ear to ear now. This is so cool.
"Sounds good, Chief. I'll clear the time off with Simon tomorrow and get us hotel reservations there, for a few days. That sound okay?"
"Yeah, man. I'd like that," I whisper to him.
"Me too, Chief. You sound beat. Why don't you get to bed and get some rest? I don't want you driving home tired tomorrow."
"Okay. G'night, Jim," I say softly.
"Night, Blair. Love you," he whispers back.
And without even thinking about it, I say it back. "Love you too, Jim. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow," he echoes back, and hangs up the phone. I sit there holding the phone for a moment, thinking about what just happened. He told me he loves me. And I told him. It felt absolutely, perfectly right. And tomorrow I'm going home.
Today:
The grand opening goes great, the mayor's there, and a state senator, and a whole bunch of other publicity hounds. Lots of face time on the news. And as soon as I can, I say my good-byes to Erica, tell her I'll be back to help pack up, and I hit the Volvo at a dead run and head toward Cascade at five miles an hour over the speed limit.
I sit on the balcony and wait for Jim to get home from work. I'm sipping on a big bottle of chilled water and watching for the truck. He gets home early, really early. As soon as I see the truck come around the corner I go in, put the water bottle in the fridge, open the front door, and lean my butt on the back of the sofa and wait for him to get off the elevator. It finally dings, the door whooshes open, and he's striding into the loft, almost running, shoving the door shut behind him. He's got this shit-eating grin on his face, and so do I, and he walks straight over, stands right in front of me and says, "hey...." Real soft. Smiling at me a little shyly, and he's blushing. I think I am, too.
"Hey..." I say back, softly, grin still in place. I push off the back of the sofa and we walk into each other's arms. And we hold each other, tight, my face in it's usual place, against his shoulder, his in it's usual place, against my hair. And we stand there like that for a long, sweet time. I missed his touch, and his smell. God, I can't believe how good he smells. So I just stand there and hold him, rub my face against him, rub my hands over his back, and take in his scent, and the feel of his arms around me, and the feel of his body against mine, and it's so good. So fucking good. "Ah, Jim..." I whisper. "I missed you, man. I'm never goin' anywhere again."
"Jesus, Blair," he whispers back, and hugs me tighter. "I missed you so much...." His mouth is against my ear, and then he kisses my neck, warm and wet, with tongue. Right behind my ear, right where I love to be kissed. And then he licks me. And I moan, jesus, he made me moan. He pulls back, quickly, and puts his hands on either side of my face, holding me still, and he looks at me for about three seconds, fierce and tender at the same time, watching me, waiting. And then his mouth comes down on mine, and he's kissing me, really, finally, kissing me, his lips warm and soft against mine. So I kiss him back, hot and slow, deep and sweet and wet, our tongues gliding against each other, breathing each other's breath. And I'm hard.
"God, Jim..." I whisper against his mouth. "So good, man. So good to finally kiss you...."
"I love you, Blair...." he whispers back, his lips brushing against mine. I pull back an inch, so I can see his face.
"I love you too, Jim...." I say, softly, smiling at him.
And he holds my face, and kisses my nose; whispers "love you...." Then he kisses my cheek, and says, "missed you...." Kisses my other cheek, says again, "love you.... Then my eyelids, and my forehead, and my eyebrows, 'love yous' and 'missed yous' repeated softly in between each kiss. Aw, god, I think he loves me. And he finally, finally, gets back to my mouth, and kisses me again, sucking gently on my tongue. And now, it's not enough, to have my tongue in his mouth. I want more. Lots more.
I start pulling his shirt out of his slacks, and rubbing my hands on his bare back. Up and down, touching all that soft, soft skin, and hard, hard muscle. And he moans into my mouth. I move my hands down and cup his ass, pull him against me, hard. And he is, hard, I mean. And he thrusts against my hip and I thrust back against his thigh. And he gasps into my mouth, and pulls away. Looks at me, love and lust and hunger and heat all on his face at once. "Blair..." he says softly.
"Yeah?"
"You're never goin' anywhere again, right?" And I know what he means, what he's asking.
"No, Jim. I'm never goin' anywhere again," I tell him. Tenderly, softly, sincerely. So he knows, really knows, that I'm never going to leave. And he smiles the most brilliant smile I've ever seen.
"Come upstairs with me?"
"Yeah, I'll come upstairs with you," I answer, smiling back at him. And he takes my hand, fingers laced through mine. And we go upstairs, together. His bed's turned down, ready, and he grins when he sees me notice it. I grin back at him. Pull him close and start unbuttoning his shirt. I kiss each bit of bare skin, and he shivers against my mouth. I finally get his shirt off and toss it on the floor. I pull my tee-shirt over my head, toss it on the floor, too, and start on his pants. He's kicking off his shoes as I'm unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks, and he's working on my jeans. I kick my sneakers off just in time to keep from getting permanently tangled up as he slides my jeans and shorts down over my hips. I kick them off, and get his pants and boxers off, and we're both finally naked.
We stand there, a foot apart, looking each other up and down, slowly, for the first time. And God, he looks so fucking good. Soft, pale skin, long legs, big, wide shoulders, his cock's long and slender and hard, all his muscles flexing and moving as he pants shallowly, while he looks at me. "Jesus, Blair..." he whispers.
After a few seconds we're finally done looking, and our eyes meet, and we both grin like idiots, and walk into each other's arms.
He squeezes me, hard, then pulls me toward the bed. He sort of jumps backwards, into the middle of the the bed, laughing, pulling me after him. I'm laughing too, and I land half on top of him and he pulls me close to him, on his side now. And we're face to face, chest to chest, legs tangled together, hands sliding gently over soft skin, still grinning at each other. "Hey there," he says softly, tangling his fingers in my hair.
"Hey back," I answer, smiling at him.
"Are we good, here?" he asks, softly.
"We're real good, here," I whisper. And I lean toward him, and kiss him. He moans into my mouth, tightens his fingers in my hair and kisses me hard. I run my hand down his spine, and cup his ass, pull him against me as I thrust against him.
"Ah, God, Blair..." he whispers, "touch me, please touch me...." So I wrap my hand around his cock, stroking him slowly and he finally pulls his hand out of my hair and wraps it around my cock. And we stroke each other, our hands holding our cocks together, fingers and cocks bumping and brushing together, thrusting together, our tongues stroking each other's, first mine in his mouth, then his in mine. And way too soon, we're coming together, legs and arms, fingers and hands and tongues tangled together, semen pulsing over our fingers and onto our stomachs, panting and gasping into each other's mouths. "You're never goin' anywhere again, Blair..." he whispers against my mouth.
"Hey, man, I'm leaving every day, if this is what I get when I come home," I say, grinning at him, still panting, trying to catch my breath.
"This is what you'll get every day, any day, Blair..." he says, smiling back. "Love you," he whispers.
"Love you, too," I whisper back.
And this is where this story started, with us lying in Jim's big bed, happy, and sated, and sleepy, tangled together like we'll never come apart. He reaches down and grabs a towel that just happens to be lying at the foot of the bed, hmmm, and cleans us up a little. Then he pulls my head gently toward his shoulder, and wraps his arms around me, stroking my back slowly. And we doze like that for a while, like those napping kittens, tangled together. And I'm never goin' anywhere again.